If you asked me what church I attend, I could not answer you. At the moment, I attend none. Growing up, I did not have an easy life. For the longest time, however, I took my faith as serious as a child was capable of doing. I went to church every Sunday. It never mattered which church I went to, as long as I went. Sometimes I’d go to church on my own, sometimes with my best-friend Sabrina and her older sister Janelle. I had also attended church frequently with other families.
Why not my own? Well, simply put; God had no place in our home. I battled this often in my head and heart. I was shunned by my Pagan mother. I felt like an outcast in my own family. God had no place in our home. Even before she hopped to her Witch-craft, God had no place in our home. So I loved visiting him in his.
Over time, I lost that innocent faith in God. My rugged childhood. The abuse and torture. What did I do to deserve it? Even as little as a year ago I was asking this question.
But each year I grow older I long to feel God’s presence again. But, how do I get back into Church? How do I find the right church for me? All the years I had attended, it was based on other peoples preferences. It never mattered to me as long as I sat through it, read from the bible and listened to someone preach to me the word of God. A little Hispanic girl, sitting in an all Black Church based out of a random lot in a shopping center, yes, I have done that. It never mattered where I heard the word of God, just that I had.
I must point out, however, I was not the only non-black that sat in those fold up chairs inside of that church. Another woman, who at first glance you’d assume was homeless, did as well. Rarely had I ever sat close enough to her to see what she had dropped in the basket as it rotated around the room. My friends and I, though, always made sure to drop a donation. Kids, we were, but we’d save all week to donate on Sunday! The first time I’d ever sat near the woman I was shocked to see what she did drop into the basket. A $20 bill. Understand to a child, $20 was a lot. While we dropped handfuls of pennies and nickels, this seemingly homeless woman was dropping a LOT of money into that basket. From that day on, I thought she was rich. She had to be, humble and gentle, a rich white woman in rags among a church full of blacks. I was in awe over her.
So what is it that scares me now about a random church? When I was even younger, I had attended church with my Aunt. It was some progressive type church where the choir honed guitars and drums rather than a piano. They passed out pamphlet’s with stories of wickedness. Wickedness of man, the dangers of the devil. Satan was depicted as a businessman, or a wife or some other person guised to fool you into his bidding on some little comic strip. At the end of each Sunday, the usuals would take their places on knee at an alter and throw random words out of their mouths. Rolling their eyes around and quite frankly, looking like idiots. But, I was a child, one who felt she had no place in this world and all I wanted was to be dutiful to Christ and God. So I gained the courage to kneel beside my aunt one day and rolled random vowels around as the rest had. Only, my aunt turned to me and told me that I had to stop. “You don’t know how to speak in tongue.” Apparently, this is when the holy ghost had invaded their bodies and spoke through them… or some such nonsense. Outcast… outcast once again. I never attended church with her again. I may have been a child, but I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that nearly all the adults in that so-called church had been filled with a ghost who caused their eyes to go googly and their mouths to spew hums and dum-diddly-ums. Horseshit!
I did not know immediately. I was angered, confused and upset. But after those feelings subsided had I realized they were all fakes. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. Fakes! My aunt ended up pregnant eventually with a “bastard”. The church shunned her. Her bastard child was going to hell, they told her. She was distraught. Her bastard child had no chance in this world… nothing could ever save him from damnation, they told her. My grandmother comforted her and told her that the Lord loved her child as much as he loved any man. It took time, I feel, to mend her broken heart. But, I know she know has forgotten the cruelty shown by the false worshippers.
So what had happened here? My aunt was young. This church offered something new, something fun. Sometimes church is just boring. But that was never the case with this one. The rocked out, and preached in ways that made people giddy. Either they truly believed God was talking through them due to being crazy or they did not want to be left out, they all lied and faked that they had been imbued with a spirit, Jesus, or God himself. NONSENSE. But it was easy for any young person to get involved, because they made worship FUN. Just like Sunday school to me… When I’d get to listen to my teacher talk about stories from the bible, and we’d always receive FigNewtons for snack. We’d paint and draw. It was appealing to a child because they aimed it towards a child.
Admittedly I could never be sucked back into a situation like that. I learned my lesson through a lesson my aunt had learned. Sometimes I wish I could go back, sit in Sunday School Classes on Sundays and Bible Study on Wednesdays as a child. The child that was excited for the holidays because it meant making glittered crosses in class and the huge Christmas dinner where the church passed out toys to every child that had attended from under the huge Christmas Tree that stood in the middle of the giant auditorium. How easy it was for me to step outside my shell and ask questions and feel blessed for the answers that were so easy for the adults to address. My troubles at home always melted away the moment I set foot inside that church because I knew God had seen me. He loved me and as long as I was there, I was safe.
It’s not the same now. I don’t expect my troubles to wash themselves clean for the duration I am sat there. God cannot take away my school loans. That is my responsibility. He won’t come clean my tornado stricken home, either. Again, my duty. And the questions I have now are harder for any man to answer. I know that. Man cannot have the answer to all questions, else what is God worth? That is why we do not have the answers. We are no Gods. We are men, and soon enough we will all know the truth.
The last time I had attended church was with a friend a few years back. I was pregnant with my youngest living child at the time. I felt awkward and judged. It wasn’t that I was judged, I was not. The people were welcoming enough. My husband was deployed and they thanked him for his service and me for my duties as a wife. They introduced me to one another, each with a loving smile on their faces. I was ashamed. It was my guilt that was judging me, no other. No good church should judge a person based on their attendance. Whether it be the first time in ten years or the first time in a lifetime, a good church will welcome all. This church did that. I was truly welcomed… but, I found it hard to welcome myself. I am an outcast. These are good people who praise God often and this is the first time I have stepped foot in a church since I was 12.
I let the emotions of guilt and judgment get the better of me and did not go back. I avoided even the notion of attending church with my dear friend again. That only led to more guilt and I eventually splintered away from her all together. That has never caused her to leave me out of her emails, the ones she passes on every so often preaching about God and his will. Even if they are chainmail. I am still there to receive them all. I read them all. I never forward them, but I scroll down to the very last line… having read every word. I silently thank her for them. I am sure she just clicks a send to all, but regardless, wordlessly I thank her for including me.
God, grant me the strength to stop being a chicken and get back to church. It would do me good. It would do my family good.
Posted in God, My Opinions and Thoughts | No Comments »