Church Notes

I have at times paused for a split second before stepping into church to take a deep breath and moisturized my lips, padded my short afro, straightened the crease on my shirt — put on a mask. Perhaps it is something to do with the occasion, the ritual of a Sunday Service that necessitates the performance on my part. Dress nicely (although I do like dressing nicely in general), smile, say my pleasantries, take notes (that I often don't go back to) and once it's all over and I'm out of those door, I can finally stop holding my breathe.

Why this instinct? Perhaps it is the all the shadows that I haven't confronted, or maybe it's the need to please, or rather that church, being among others is in itself a mirror held up to me and my efforts that often fall short. Fitting into an ideal? What is church anyway other than an idea that I've been having splintering opinions about? The one on the podium gesticulates ideas while not trying to be too specific on himself or others. General ideas and themes spew and I'm starting to draft opinions on what's happening in my mind. I seem to be able to have my clearest thoughts, unperturbed by the world out there whenever the preacher seems to be saying truths I could've read on my own. Half-truths at times because they ignore the cultural contexts surrounding them. And yet — there's a pretentious nature to the ceremony. Something off about doing all of this gathering all on a Sunday. To me at least it means I can go back home later, put on some undies, take a nap and get lost in my own medley of todos. Rinse. Repeat. And again on Sunday get free coffee, try to blend in amidst people whose lives I have no idea what goes on in them. Left gazing into my own self, I fail to see the urgency of the ritual when so much around is broken. Why am I so eager to walk into those church doors when hurting? I tune out at times and project my momentary escapism with myself as unfair suspicion on their part. What do they not see in me? I see but a mass that cannot be enough, cannot fill this void in the person.

I crane my neck over the couple seated in front of me and really listen to the exposition being presented — truisms that I find often uncontextualized to what I'm feeling. But what I am feeling really is myself wanting some grandiose rapture and transformation to overcome this stoic smile plastered all over my face and to fall to my knees and seek the Lord who brought me to this place. I turn inward and not outward. I scribble a thought on the margins of my MoMA notebook — some things I think I would like want to come back to. Abortion. Deceit. Pornography. Rage. Jealousy. All such things and more that I've been complicit to.

And yes — I avoid confrontation. I abhor that feeling of being told I'm in the wrong. My pride self would rather eat itself alive than accept some spiritual milk. So what is it about this man I am that is inclined to think this way? Where is the respite? Can I become myself at the churches I've attended over the year. With the slightest evocation of my shortcomings, I slip away to somewhere else and the whole process kickstarts all over again until I stopped going all of a sudden and Sunday was just another day I could make progress on the pint of ice cream in the freezer. If I gain nothing from the experience of church, then I feel at a loss. But hasn't the institution represented a sense of self-expression that I have given into. The fact that the individual can find full expression in the church. For a while, the church has just been another platform to gain some eyeballs, put myself at the center (again) and smile to someone else even if I have no idea what's going on behind their (my) own veil.

But perhaps it doesn't have to and I can look at the mirror again and be shown where to begin.