I grew up in a small Baptist Church in Los Angeles. My parents had been members since 1975. It was truly a family affair: my mom’s mother and sisters joined shortly after my parents. A few years later, though, my grandmother and aunts disbanded to fellowship with other protestant congregations, and my father, well, he, as church-folk say, back-slid into a life devoid of anything remotely religious. I have very few memories of dad attending church with me, my mom, and my brother. Instead, he would remain at home, chatting on the phone with his friends, or he would go visit his friends and engage in lively conversation punctuated with fits of infectious laughter. Although he always seemed to be having more fun outside church than I was having inside church, my mother was quick to remind me and my brother that going to church was always the right, godly thing to do. “Living in the world [living in the world is a common term in the church that essentially means living a life of sin] will always appear to be attractive, but that’s the devil’s way of tricking you into a life of turmoil and misery,” she would tell us as she navigated our old clunky Cadillac down the streets of South Central, “Wide is the path that leads to destruction, but narrow is the path that leads to righteousness.”
At home, there existed a stark dichotomy between good and evil, godliness and ungodliness, righteousness and sin. My father loved all things secular: movies (rated R), music (Motown), television (In Living Color). My mother loved all things Christian: movies (rated G or PG), music (gospel), and television (Trinity Broadcasting Network). My parents barely tolerated each other’s different tastes, and would sometimes bicker in front of me and my brother, like the time when my father allowed my us to watch a horror movie, Child’s Play, on television. The corners of my mom’s mouth curved downward disapprovingly as she subtly rebuked dad, “They shouldn’t be watching this movie,” she said softly yet sternly in the dim living room still heavy with the aroma of bacon and syrup from breakfast. A wave of annoyance swept over dad’s face. “Well, then tell them to leave the room.” There I was, always caught in the middle of secular and sacred — a type of Purgatory where I would wait to learn my fate. Would I be cast to my bedroom and meddle with boredom, or would I stay in the living room and indulge in the devilish shenanigans of a murderous doll?
I began to ask questions privately, and I stashed them in the dark corners of my mind in boxes labeled Questions I Dare Not Ask Aloud. The box, however, of it’s own volition it seemed, slowly moved from out the shadows and positioned itself center-stage. The questions leaped out and ran amuck through my mind: Why are there so many denominations if we all believe in the same God and read the same Bible, and what makes our denomination right and everyone else’s wrong? If you can never lose your salvation after you’re saved, then why must you always strive to be so godly if you’re going to Heaven anyway? If God blesses those who live a godly life, then why are there so many Christians — exemplary Christians — who struggle financially or who struggle with their health? Why does God answer some people’s prayers and not other’s? Why are there so many non-Christians who are happy and healthy and successful when many people at our church, including us, are struggling to make ends meet?
I gathered the courage to begin asking these questions aloud to my mother and church family. They had an answer for everything — and Bible verses to back up each answer. “We cannot understand the depth of God’s wisdom; he has a purpose for everything. When we get to Heaven, we will understand, and we will be rewarded with beautiful crowns according to how we lived our lives on earth,” said one of church elders as he peered at me over the rim of his small, wire framed glasses. Although I never challenged these wise sages of the Christian faith, their answers never satisfied me. I thought it was unfair that some of us would be doomed to live lives plagued with disappointment and that we would have to wait until we died and, presumably, went to Heaven before God decides he’s going to bless us with bedazzled crowns. It sounded incredibly Marxist.
I learned to keep my mouth shut; to go with the flow; to nod my head and smile and behave like a good little Baptist girl that people expected me to be. I silently conceded that the religion I inherited — Christianity — was nebulous. Its nebulousness gave it a certain charm. Throughout history, people have tried to grasp it, package it in neat, small boxes smothered in glossy wrapping paper, and sell it to you at the price of your soul. But it can’t be packaged. It can’t be contained in a box. It’s too amorphous to assume a definite shape and form; too enigmatic to assume concrete rules and regulations.
Today, even though I’m not a member of a church, I still subscribe to the Christian faith. I believe in God and Jesus and the Bible, but, more importantly, I believe in my experiences with God and Jesus and the Bible. I believe that faith is a very personal experience that cannot be dictated or scripted by anyone other than me. This is what makes faith so powerful: my ability to engage it intimately.
So, having said all of that, my friend — Aaron — and I are embarking on a spiritual quest. Beginning this week, we will visit different religious services and meet people of different faiths. Inspired by Soul Pancake’s Have A Little Faith series, we have two main objectives: to understand different faiths, and to debunk any stereotypes we have about different faiths. Our first stop is a Buddhist temple. I’ll be journaling my experiences and sharing them with you on this site. In the meantime enjoy this video.
Add a Comment