March 22, 2023

If I were to adhere to CyHi’s adage “No Dope on Sundays” I’m sure I’d be in a much better place than I am now. But it’s not the Sundays that get me, it’s usually the Fridays and Saturdays. On these days my vices take full control and my judgement goes out the window. On Sundays I either keep the bender going or reflect on the mess I caused. Either way, Sundays aren’t usually good days for me.

This past Sunday I found myself within the walls of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I had a rough week and texted my Mom asking her what time service started. She replied, “thinking about coming to church?”. I responded back with, “Yeah, something’s gotta give.”

I only go to church on holidays to appease my mother or when I’m down bad. The latter scenario also appeases my mother. It serves as a message of good faith to her, i.e. ‘yeah mom I fucked up again, but I’m still aware enough to know I need to come to church to fix whatever the hell is wrong with me’.

At my lowest these two occurrences happen at the same time. One Easter Sunday I entered church beyond hungover and made frequent bathroom breaks to get my mind right. Read between the lines there.

My mother volunteers at the book store in the church. I parked my car and headed straight there. People filed out of the main building. I envied the smiles on their faces. I envied the glow radiating from them. I envied how happy everyone looked. I envied the jubilant faces of the men with their wives on their arms and their children following close behind.

Once in the book store, I glanced over to my mother. She appeared occupied with someone at the register. A smile gleamed from her face and she radiated that same energy I envied. I browsed through the books on the shelf, picking up Ernie Johnson’s memoir. Two people within earshot talked about their sons “getting saved”. I’m unfamiliar with the exact meaning of that term, but whatever it means, I envy.

My mother’s shift ended and I followed her out to the lobby. She greeted me with a hug and told me I looked good. I knew she would tell me this, so earlier in the day I came up with the perfect snarky remark. As soon as she told me I completely forgot what I was supposed to say. I told her this and we laughed about it. Later I remembered I was supposed to say, “that’s a given.” And it is. I dressed to the nines that day as I do every time I go to church. For me, church is a lot like court when it comes to attire. Dressing well is a matter of respect. I’m always shocked when people dress musty as hell to court and they’re facing time. Young Thug once uttered, “Rock Louie ties, cause I got court this week.” Free him. Please.

Service starts with a live band and singers pouring their hearts out. This always gets me. There hasn’t been a service where I don’t get teary eyed and/or cry during the singing portion. Something about those hymns, everyone rejoicing and my mother’s arm around me makes me crack.

I gathered myself and the sermon started. This is usually the part where I dissociate. I zone out and rather than listen to what is being said, I think to myself how beautiful and deletable all these Jesus loving women look. A terrible thought, I know, in such a holy place but my god, Sunday service is more like the Kentucky Derby without the copious amounts of alcohol, drugs and horses.

It’s always been difficult for me to follow the gospel when I believe other things. I went to church often in my adolescence and initially believed what was spoken to me. I stopped going when I realized football and church commenced at the same time, 10am. Had I grown up on the East Coast where football starts at 1pm, who knows what my relationship with God would be like.

I lost my faith inside that broken home of mine. I wondered how there could be a God when I witnessed my mother’s face being bashed in by her partner. I wondered how there could be a God when bad things happened to good people. I wondered how there could be a God when so many people were suffering across the world.

A lot of people have many theories here. I myself believe there is evil all around us. I’ve seen evil take hold and control people and make them do uncharacteristic things. I’ve experienced this internally. If evil exists there then must be a being or deity harvesting that energy. We often refer to this creature as the Devil.

I believe there is good all around us as well. I’ve witnessed people do courageous and kind things in an altruistic manner. If good exists there there must be a being or deity harboring this energy, right? We often refer to this intangible aura as God.

But this is where my mind deviates from what is taught at church. The Virgin Mary, the son of God Jesus Christ, the crucifixion, the resurrection is all hogwash to me. In my mind, of course, I believe something created us. Whether that be one solid energy I call the universe, or extraterrestrial aliens or an incessant simulation, whatever you want to call this that we’re experiencing was crafted by something. This single thought of creation is where shit gets rough for people. Various religions have killed in the name of their god, simply because their god is different from someone else’s god.

My ideologies are simple when it comes to this, yet complex. I believe it’s equally as ignorant to believe in a god as it is to not believe in a god. I don’t know what brought us here. And I’m not going to speak ill about you because you follow a different belief.

Another belief of mine is as follows: whatever you believe is going to happen to you when you die is going to happen to you. I’m a firm believer in reincarnation. This life that we’re experiencing now can’t be the only one. That would be complete asinine and utterly sad if this is it. I’d like to think we possess one soul and that soul has infinite lifetimes.

I do believe my life would be a lot easier and manageable if I conformed to Christianity, Judaism, Islam or another religion. I’d feel like I had a community to engage with. I’d have teachings and readings to guide me when I fall off course. I’d have a safe place to feel loved without being judged. It’s noted in Ben Sherwood’s “The Survivor’s Club” that people who regularly attended church live for seven years longer than those who don’t. Those prepossessing Jesus loving women seem to be doing something right. And I’d love one on my arm. My mother may be seeing me more often after all.