I was giving thought to my internet presence earlier and decided to Google myself. I discovered some interesting bits of information of which I was unaware. Apparently I'm a Republican. And a Protestant. And I like investing. Someone who is not me has my full name registered on Twitter, but they've never tweeted. And there are a million records of me being on the honor roll in high school.
I also found a blog I attempted a couple years ago, with only two entries in it. I'll have to figure out how to delete it, but in the meantime... I wanted to bring over something I wrote.
Please understand before you read this that I mean no disrespect. My intent was not to mock anyone; I was simply seeing humor in what was, for me, an uncomfortable and somewhat frustrating situation. I do get that others take this seriously, and they are perfectly entitled to. I disagree with the beliefs outlined, but I do not condemn them.
This was written March 19, 2009. I titled it "Heather Goes to Church."
I am, definitively, an atheist. I was baptized Catholic, and forced to attend catechism for a short time when I was young. But after spending three consecutive Sundays in the back of the room crying, then having a Little Golden Book about Jesus shoved in my face, six-year-old me told my mother there was no way I was going back to that terrible place. My parents never made me participate in any organized religion after that. As I got older, I realized I just...didn't much care for it. I'm a sucker for logic, I don't find religion logical, and therefore I choose to ignore it. So my experience with church has been limited to weddings (two Catholic, one Unitarian/lesbian) and wondering why, in my corner of progressive New England, we've yet to put a gay club in an old church and call it "Hell" (though putting an Urban Outfitters in a church is about 75% of the way there, and we've done that).
My mother, a lapsed Catholic, now works at a retirement home run by Catholic nuns. And lately, I think she's being Jesusified by osmosis. Everything around her is "blessed" and "holy" and Biblical. And the people she deals with every day are, well...on their way out. Death is close to home now, and death plus Jesus equals religious re-awakening. So when my mother asked me a a while ago if I'd so much as entertain the idea of going to a church service, I think the "Are you fucking kidding me?" look on my face gave her the answer. She persisted, telling me how one of her co-workers swears she's seen healings take place at her church. And given my not-so-fantastic health over the past few months, she was not-so-secretly hoping I'd put my heathen ways aside and be open to a healing. It was a "hell no" then, and it was a "hell no" when she asked me at the beginning of this week. Alas, this time I was aware that if I didn't at least show up, I would never hear the end of it. Sometimes there are things we must do so as not to incur the wrath of our mothers.
We pulled into the parking lot, and a decent number of people were filing in for the 7 PM service. We waited for her coworker, but when 6:55 rolled around and we hadn't seen her arrive, we went inside anyway. In the concrete of the steps in front of the church was etched, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here"... er, no, that's Dante. Not the Bible. Whatever. That's pretty much what I saw. Either way, I snorted and said to my mother, on the sly, "Oh yeah, this is going to be good. You know I'm not going to be able to control my laughter, right?"
Once inside, we met with my mother's coworker, A. We used the bathroom, then went into the...place. You know, where they do the sermons. See? I don't even know what it's called. Though whatever the correct term is, it still wasn't quite that. It looked more like a college lecture hall. There was a stage, with stools and instruments lined up. Flowing white fabric, being illuminated in purple, was the backdrop, along with a triad of of wooden crosses. A large projection screen was above the stage, and the podium from where I assumed the pastor would speak was clear lucite. The floor was a rainbow berber carpet, with a sea of mauve upholstered chairs upon it. The ceiling was covered with hundreds of flags, which A. explained represented the countries the congregation had visited on missions. Given the modern appearance of the place, I was wondering if this may not be so torturous after all.
We sat with A. and her husband in the second row, much to my dismay. See, I was trying to be respectful. I knew I was going to stand out (I may as well have a sign on my forehead that says "heathen sinner"), so I didn't want to be front and center. Regardless of whether I agree with what's going in, I don't want to look like an asshole. But so much for that. A. introduced us to the youth pastor and his kids (who had great hair, as a sidenote). He seemed like a nice enough guy. Pretty soon, most of the room had filled up (probably a solid 200 people - on a Wednesday), and the youth pastor and the band got up on stage.
The congregation was asked to stand. I have an aversion to standing, but again...heathen sinner in the second row. So I stood. Little did I know the first forty-five minutes of the service were going to be standing. And swaying with eyes closed and hands outstretched. Not me, of course. But...just about everyone else. While the lyrics were displayed on the projection screen above, he sang a variety of gospel songs (none I'd ever heard - surprising, I know), all of which seemed to last inordinately longer than the average pop song. Probably because the chorus was repeated approximately fifteen times, and there are relatively few ways to say "God is great" while not stretching for rhyme. But I digress. I spent that period switching from foot to foot, scanning the crowd, and trying to fit the words, "Can I sit down? Is it time to sit down? I'd like to sit down," into the melody of the song.
At this point, my mother and I both notice the woman standing directly in front of us. She's dressed modestly in a blazer, an ankle-length skirt, and black flats. The church has, at the front door, an umbrella holder full of colorful flags. This woman had chosen a bright blue one, and was waving it rhythmically while the band played. Not far into the second song, she did something decidedly different. She shook. Frantically, from side to side. Full body shaking, like she was about to bust into a grand mal seizure. And she continued to do it, harder each time. I thought she might suffer a concussion from all the brain-rattling, honestly. To her left, I watched the positional progression of a guy, probably only slightly younger than I. He started out standing and swaying like everyone else. Then he was on his knees and swaying. Very soon, he was flat on the floor, face down, his forehead pressed against the floor in a way that I can't imagine was comfortable. To the right of me, two women were kneeling, with their eyes open, staring straight up and looking as if they were close to tears. This was all too much for me.
Finally we sit, which is good because my feet are tired, and also the chance I'll get seasick from all the swaying has decreased. The senior pastor approaches the lucite box with his Bible and begins the sermon. He's talking about the book of Jude. And since I'm no Biblical scholar, I have no idea what Jude's deal is. I know Jude as a character from a Beatles song. Or, conversely, a charming British actor. So, sure, Mr. Pastor. Tell me about Jude. Apparently the theme for the sermon is "Jesus vs. the Lord." "People love Jesus," he says. "But they don't like the sovereign Lord." He goes into a speech on etymology, telling us the roots of the words "sovereign" and "Lord." I'm amused by mentions of the Greek root "despotes." Then I glance over my shoulder to the Bible my mother has borrowed from A., and am amused by seeing the word "snatch" in the book of Jude. Am I multifaceted or what? Anyway.
People these days think they are in control of their lives, he says. Which is entirely false, as the Lord is in control, and our purpose on this planet is to exalt him - not to please ourselves. He claims Christians love Jesus for his sacrifice, but do not accept the role of the Lord because they cannot bear to give their life to him. People must accept that their actions reflect their feelings on the Lord, for if they are true Christians, they aim to live more like him, and do only that which will bring them closer to God - contained within the Bible. Therefore it's important to prove that living by the word of God is not "legalism," but "liberty." So you're telling me "liberty" is doing what someone else, no matter who we're talking about, says? Huh. I knew the church made things up, but now they're redefining words. (Upon independent research, further reading on this concept found here. In case anyone wants a dose of the crazy.)
Mr. Pastor and his fellow Pastorettes went to a luncheon recently, hosted by a local college professor, where the discussion centered around the conflict between modern culture and conservative Christian values. "And at this luncheon," he says, pacing around the makeshift pulpit, "there were men with their husbands, and women with their wives. All claiming to be good Christians." Audible gasps came from the crowd. Heads shook disapprovingly in unison. My eyes widened and my mouth fell open. He continued, "But of course they asked, with regard to homosexuality, 'Who does it hurt?' Who does it hurt? It hurts the Lord. It hurts his feelings. This is not how he created you. It breaks his heart." From there began the "hate the sin, but never the sinner" discussion. To which I replied, while sitting directly behind the youth pastor, "That is such a crock." I promptly received a swift elbow from my mother. I told her we should have sat in the back.
He goes on to talk about what it is to live according to the word of God (paraphrased, of course; the memory ain't what it used to be). "If anything has a hold on you, whether it be homosexuality or fornication, drinking or smoking... If anything controls you, if there's anything you are unable to break away from... You are not living according to God's word. The Lord is in control. And as long as you continue that behavior, you are offending the Lord." I smirk, bemused as I look around and consider the idea that none of the people in this room had sex before marriage, have had an alcoholic drink, or have smoked a cigarette. I begin to snicker as I spot at least five men in the crowd who are setting off the bells and whistles of my gaydar. Hypocrisy, how I love thee.
He sums up Jude, who, I imagine, was not from whom the Beatles took inspiration. Then he begins to speak about a training session held this past weekend at the church, with an emphasis on prayer for healing. He describes what went on, and what was learned, and took testimony from those who claim to have been healed. He announces that, once again, the congregation would worship. But this time, if you wished to be healed, you should come to the left side of the stage, and a prayer leader would pray for you. He launches into a quick tutorial of how to catch someone who may fall backward upon being "touched by the Lord." I scowl, wondering precisely how useful he thinks this will be. I know people do that. I've seen it on TV. But here? Now? Surely you jest, Mr. Pastor.
But he wasn't kidding. The music began, and people funneled to the left side of the stage. At this point, they'd removed the first row of chairs, meaning my mother and I were standing directly behind what was going on. Prayer leaders, with their laminated name badges, approached and asked the people to the left what their ailment was, then began to pray over them. And one by one, people fell backward. Children. Middle-aged men. Old women. Anyone, everyone. The prayer is finished, and they fall in a heap on the ground, laying motionless for minutes at a time. They slowly get to their feet and stumble back to their chairs. And it continues. A. approaches me and asks if I'd like to go up there; she and her husband will pray for me. Taken slightly off-guard, I somehow find it in me to spit out a respectful reply. "No thank you," I say. "I appreciate it, but no thank you."
I then turned to my mother and told her I needed to leave. I took the car keys from her and sprinted to the parking lot. I got in the car, found some evil heathen music, and turned it up as loud as the radio would go. About ten minutes later, my mother emerged. I told her she owed me. Big time.
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