I Went to Church Today in My Body
This is the set of writings that our friend Barak Bomani shared yesterday in church. It’s based off of Mark 14:3-11 when Jesus was anointed by the woman, envisioned through Barak’s experience meeting God at ALMA Backyard Farm in Compton on a recent Sunday morning.
I Went to Church Today (In my body)
I went to church today—
but not the one they built with fear and fundraising campaigns,
not the one with stained glass filtering out the fullness of the sun,
not the one where God is trapped
between announcements and offering baskets.
No choir.
No praise team rehearsing perfection.
No script handed to my spirit
telling it when to rise,
when to sit,
when to perform belief on cue.
No.
This church was loud and busy
Children chasing freedom across a field like it owed them nothing.
Soccer balls preaching joy without permission.
Elders tossing stories through the air
like sacred inheritance disguised as play.
The grass.
oh, the grass—
held bodies in surrender.
Yoga mats laid out like altars
where breath became prayer
and stillness became sermon.
I walked through rows of living things—
vegetation humming psalms without words,
soil remembering what we forgot.
I spoke to strangers
and somehow
they knew my name
without asking.
I ate tacos
paid for them too
because even commerce can be holy
when it isn’t trying to own your soul.
Introductions were not transactions.
They were invitations.
People weren’t networking.
They were noticing.
Kindness met me
at every corner
like it had been waiting all week
to be used.
Gratitude was the currency.
Joy was the language.
Presence was the only requirement.
And everybody
I mean everybody
was beautiful.
Not because they tried to be,
but because they were.
So I asked myself—
quietly at first,
then with a trembling boldness:
Is this church too?
Because at the local farm
I met Jesus
again
and again
and again.
Not robed in religion,
but wrapped in humanity.
And every encounter
was not a demand to believe—
but an invitation
to be.
If Church Is a Building: Call & Response
Leader: If church is a building—
People: we’ve made God too small.
Leader: If church is a performance—
People: we’ve forgotten how to feel.
Leader: If church is only on Sunday—
People: we’ve missed six days of God.
Leader: If worship is only words—
People: we’ve silenced our bodies.
Leader: But if God is in our breathing—
People: then we are already in prayer.
Leader: If God is in our loving—
People: then we are already in church.
Leader: If God is in our bodies—
People: then we are already whole.
Leader: Where is church?
People: Right here.
Leader: When is church?
People: Right now.
Leader: Who is church?
People: We are.
I Went to Church Today (And Was Anointed)
Then the music found me.
Rhythm and Blues—
ancestral echoes
moving through speakers
like memory.
And I caught myself…
enjoying it.
No guilt.
No second-guessing.
No theological filter.
Just unspeakable joy
moving through my body
like it belonged there.
So I closed my eyes.
And the sun—
oh, the sun—
preached a sermon on my skin.
Melanin turned into stained glass,
painting me
red
black
brown
holy.
My body—
finally not at war with itself—
rested in equilibrium.
And from somewhere deeper than doctrine
I whispered: shalom
Not as a word I learned—
but as a reality I felt.
Peace
that touched everything at once.
I smelled.
I listened.
I tasted.
I held.
All at the same time.
And for the first time in a long time—
nothing in me was trying to escape.
This.
This was worship.
Not detached.
Not disembodied.
Not delayed until heaven.
But here.
Now.
Alive.
My offering was my presence.
My praise was my participation.
My confession was my honesty.
And it happened
with people
I didn’t even know.
And maybe—
just maybe—
this is how the gospel has always worked:
Not in buildings,
but in bodies.
Not in performances,
but in presence.
Not in exclusion,
but in encounter.
Because I remember a woman—
unnamed by power
but unforgettable to God—
who didn’t ask permission
to worship.
She didn’t wait her turn
or sanitize her offering.
She brought her body
into the room.
Broke open what was costly.
Poured out fragrance
like truth.
Touched Jesus
with her hands,
and her heart
to anoint Him for his death
And the room called it too much.
Too emotional.
Too excessive.
Too embodied.
Alabaster Call & Response
Leader: They said it was too much—
People: but Jesus called it beautiful.
Leader: They said it was wasteful—
People: but love is never wasted.
Leader: They said she was out of line—
People: but she was right on time.
Leader: What she poured out—
People: became worship.
Leader: What we pour out—
People: becomes worship.
Jesus Called It Beautiful
But Jesus—
Jesus called it beautiful.
Because she understood something
they did not:
That worship
is not what you say.
It is what you pour.
It is what you risk.
It is what you embody.
And today—
in a field
with tacos
and laughter
and strangers becoming neighbors—
I realized
I was holding my own alabaster jar.
And instead of protecting it,
I poured.
So wherever I go now,
I make a decision:
to be in church.
Not because of where I am—
but because of how I must show up.
Because the church
is not a place I visit.
The church
is wherever
my body
chooses
to love.