For about four months in sixth grade, I was in the school band. I played the clarinet. Badly. I was encouraged/forced to join the band because I didn’t participate in sports, and my parents felt it was important I be part of some sort of extracurricular. I eventually stopped going to band practice, and spent that period sitting in Mrs. LeVert’s classroom, writing stories. That was the real bitch of it all: I actually had an outside interest, it was just one that involved me sitting by myself and transcribing the voices in my head.After the failed band experiment, I was led to the school chorus, which was made up entirely of students who had displayed no ability with musical instruments or athletics.
Our first concert was held at the same church where my sister would marry a gay man just a few short years later.
During a medley of Disney’s movie hits, I fainted. Marie Osmond passing out on Dancing with the Stars may have led you to believe that everyone gracefully wilts to the floor when they lose consciousness. Not so. My thirteen-year old pudgy body fell face-forward in to a display of potted mums. It was broadcast on local cable access, so I was able to relive it several times.
Having exhausted all after-school activities with humiliating results, I turned my attention to the Methodist Church. I did Sunday School, Wednesday night fellowship, mission trips, youth retreats to exotic locales like Camp Lake Stephens and Biloxi, and pretty much anything else they were up to when the doors were open. First Methodist was MY church. I’d explored every inch of it and knew where everything was, so if I ever needed a snack I’d help myself to the grape juice and tasty wafers they kept in the downstairs kitchen for communion.
Having exhausted all after-school activities with humiliating results, I turned my attention to the Methodist Church. I did Sunday School, Wednesday night fellowship, mission trips, youth retreats to exotic locales like Camp Lake Stephens and Biloxi, and pretty much anything else they were up to when the doors were open. First Methodist was MY church. I’d explored every inch of it and knew where everything was, so if I ever needed a snack I’d help myself to the grape juice and tasty wafers they kept in the downstairs kitchen for communion.
Yes, I used to snack on the Body of Christ.
Church was the only place I really felt comfortable being myself. I believed in what I was told and found solace in the acceptance of God and The Church. As a teen I considered the possibility of one day becoming a pastor, if I could get over that passing-out-in-front-of-crowds thing. I loved the idea of spending my days helping people love and support each other. Aside from those stolen communion wafers, I’d thought I was on pretty good terms with God.
So color me surprised when I found out I’d grown up to be a sinner, or at least a tragic error. Don’t get me wrong- I was never actively dismissed from my hometown church, and still maintain close ties with a few people there. But I could never be fully embraced, because their doctrine made it quite clear that who I feel compelled to be is just plain wrong. My boyfriend Preppy had the same experience with his Southern Baptist congregation (where he was, I kid you not, the head of their puppet ministry), and we both made the same decision:
Church was the only place I really felt comfortable being myself. I believed in what I was told and found solace in the acceptance of God and The Church. As a teen I considered the possibility of one day becoming a pastor, if I could get over that passing-out-in-front-of-crowds thing. I loved the idea of spending my days helping people love and support each other. Aside from those stolen communion wafers, I’d thought I was on pretty good terms with God.
So color me surprised when I found out I’d grown up to be a sinner, or at least a tragic error. Don’t get me wrong- I was never actively dismissed from my hometown church, and still maintain close ties with a few people there. But I could never be fully embraced, because their doctrine made it quite clear that who I feel compelled to be is just plain wrong. My boyfriend Preppy had the same experience with his Southern Baptist congregation (where he was, I kid you not, the head of their puppet ministry), and we both made the same decision:
Love the sinner, hate the sin was not good enough. We walked away.
So for the last ten years, it’s just been God and me. It’s a more casual relationship, and much like the other people in my life I can go long periods without communicating. But since I proposed to Preppy, I’ve had church on the brain again.
“I want a real minister for our wedding,” I said the other night. “Not somebody ordained on the internet, I mean a real live person of the cloth who visits sick people in hospitals and stuff.”
“We can do that,” said Preppy. “I can Google gay-inclusive churches.”
Preppy just got a new laptop computer. Now he likes to Google everything.
“You know, if you find one that looks interesting, we could go to a service. Put on our Sunday best and check it out.”
“Aw, darlin. You wanna go back to church?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Old feelings begin to stir- that hope of belonging to a community again. It feels a little like a homecoming.
God, I hope I don’t pass out.
So for the last ten years, it’s just been God and me. It’s a more casual relationship, and much like the other people in my life I can go long periods without communicating. But since I proposed to Preppy, I’ve had church on the brain again.
“I want a real minister for our wedding,” I said the other night. “Not somebody ordained on the internet, I mean a real live person of the cloth who visits sick people in hospitals and stuff.”
“We can do that,” said Preppy. “I can Google gay-inclusive churches.”
Preppy just got a new laptop computer. Now he likes to Google everything.
“You know, if you find one that looks interesting, we could go to a service. Put on our Sunday best and check it out.”
“Aw, darlin. You wanna go back to church?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Old feelings begin to stir- that hope of belonging to a community again. It feels a little like a homecoming.
God, I hope I don’t pass out.
