Arriving at Zion Hill

Zion Hill Missionary Baptist Church is the type of place you have to be searching for in order to come across it. It is not the showiest, most extravagant building and by no means lures in visitors from around the city. Located just off the corner where Gov. Nicholls St. meets N. Robertson, it lies right in the heart of Treme, one of the oldest, poorest, and most historic neighborhoods in New Orleans. It’s in fact one of the humblest little buildings I’ve ever stepped foot in, but inside it is bursting with passion.

            While researching online the best places for Christian worship in the area, I came across a list of “Best Authentic Experiences in New Orleans” that advised visitors of Zion Hill, “Don't expect fancy robes or masses of choir members, just rooms and rooms full of spirit.” Though I knew I was bound to stand out as the only nonparishoner in such a local church, I was sold by this description and decided to make the trip.

After a friend and I arrived and took a seat in the back pew, Reverend Joshua introduced himself and offered us breakfast which we gladly accepted before the service began. A processional hymn was sung by the choir, a group of twelve or so members, mainly middle-aged women dressed in red and black. Their voices resonated beautifully in the small sanctuary, and each selection throughout the service had a soulful feel that I would never expect from a Protestant church back home in Connecticut. Throughout the service the music never stopped for more than a moment or so, and even when the offering baskets went around there was an upbeat jazz interlude rocking the whole sanctuary. The emotional highlight of the service for me, the part that I would relive over and over again if I could, was a solo performed by Brother Andrew Miller, one of the younger members of the congregation. He stepped up to the microphone without introduction and opened his mouth to let out the most beautiful and heart wrenching notes that poured out like honey and hung in the air. His voice seemed to ring on forever but it still was too soon when he finally stepped off the stage, carrying his last note with him all the way through the door into the men’s bathroom with a hand over his face. As the door swung behind him and the music faded I suddenly understood why there were tissue boxes placed on shelves along the walls, and I watched as the people around me reached for them.

  After the service we followed a line of people back into the kitchen area where we were served lunch and cake, and chatted with a few members who were very interested to know how we heard about their church. When we saw it was raining outside, the Reverend’s wife kindly offered us a ride back to campus, which we gratefully accepted only as far as the streetcar stop, then said our goodbyes and promised we would visit again. I couldn’t believe the warmth and hospitality that I was receiving from people who were complete strangers and had very little to offer.