I walk into the dimly lit room full of wooden benches lined end to end. The faint smell of rotting wood, mold, and horse manure clings to the air. I take my seat, adjusting my maxi skirt to cover my ankles and taking care to hide my bracelets and cartilage piercing under my sleeves and headband. I have previously removed the earrings from my lobes to avoid offending anybody. Old men covered in woollen sweaters and grey slacks fill in the left side of the room, as women in long dresses and head scarves fill the right with their children. This is the most conservative church service I have ever attended.
The pastor stands to greet the small gathering and the service starts with a few songs from the musty, red Romanian hymnals strewn about. As the first song is beginning, I hear a few voices crack as some of the older women begin to tear up. The time of prayer is met with howling as they lament and praise in loud voices all as one. Old men are lying prostrate on their faces before the Lord. Old women raise their hands toward God as the tears stream down their face. My team and I begin to share testimonies that send the women into all new bouts of weeping. Every song and every story is met with a chorus of blessings: “Dumnezeu sa binecuvânteze”. It’s all a little overwhelming.
But as I look at these women, faces overwhelmed and tear-stained, I see something truly beautiful. They get it. They know all-too-well the thing that is missing from so many American churches. Their passion and love for the Lord in undeniable. Their lives have been overwhelmed and overturned by their Creator and they cannot help but overflow with appreciation and awe of Him who saves. One woman approaches me after the service with a translator and tells me how much she appreciates hearing my story. How she sees the love of Christ shine through me as I speak. She shares a word from the Lord that He spoke to her during the service. She cries, kisses my hand, kisses my cheeks, and swallows me into one of the largest hugs I’ve ever had. These conservative, traditional people have so much more love and passion than many of the contemporary churches I’ve visited in America.
My question isn’t “why are these women like this?”, but “why are we not?” Since when did the reality and gravity of the cross become choked by societal conformity? The wailing woman should not be unconventional; rather, it should be the one who sits in church unaffected and unmoved by the power of the cross.
