As a child, I went to church every Sunday with my parents. It was a weekly routine that I gave little thought to. I didn't see God as a source of comfort and protection. Church was just a part of life.
My Christian life became more active when I was in high school. I followed in my older brother's footsteps and became a server. I wore a long white robe; actually, it was more like a dress, with a silver cross on a blood-red necklace. A white silk rope called a cincture was tied tight around my waist. It was held in place with a "mystical" knot that you can now look up on YouTube. The belt, I mean cincture, had to be positioned in a specific way to designate my ecclesiastical rank.
I never rose above server though my priest often encouraged me to consider a degree in theology, specifically Anglican. After all, our team was British; we prayed for the Queen every Sunday, so of course, we had to be the right brand. At that time, in our small town, the only competition was the Catholics and the Baptists.
There were two servers at each service with two very distinct duties. The first was the crucifer who processed the cross in and out of the service. I held the long oak staff high, with its impressive silver cross on top. The choir, the other server, and the priest all followed as I led them from the back of the church to the sanctuary at the front. I had to walk at a specific pace. It had to be dignified but not too slow. A little bit faster than a "look at me" wedding procession. The goal was to reach the front sanctuary at the start of the last verse of the processional hymn. It took practice, but I soon nailed the timing. I took my cue from the organist, who literally pulled out all the stops on the final verse.
In addition to leading the procession, I had to collect the money. Happily, I didn't have to go pew by pew; that would have been awkward for a sixteen-year-old boy. The sidesmen did the dirty work. Once they received as much as the congregation was willing to give, they brought the silver trays to the front of the sanctuary, where I would meet them like a gatekeeper. They piled their trays on top of mine, then I would turn around, walk up to the altar and hold it above my head. The priest, in turn, would raise his hands and bless the offering. I would then hand the loot back to the head sidesman, who would then take it to the back office to calculate the morning's haul. Every Sunday was the same routine.
The second server's duties were to assist with the eucharist. In the procession, you followed behind the choir and before the clergy. Once I reached my pew at the side of the altar, I took a rough count of how many parishioners were in attendance. I then relayed this information to the priest while he counted the wafers and measured the wine. He didn't like leftovers. Who could blame him? The wafers were dry and tasteless, while the wine was awful. Anything blessed had to be consumed, so any overestimation would leave the priest with an unfortunate brunch.
The biggest show was the midnight Christmas Eve service. That was when the church was packed to the rafters with the annual xmas crowd of prodigal sons and daughters. I remember being nervous while waiting in the "ready room" - the back office. Even more so when the head server told us point blank, "Tonight's the big one, boys, don't fuck up!" That really didn't help. Then the priest came in singing, "While shepherds wash their socks by night." Everyone was both excited and nervous. Although I have to admit the midnight Christmas Eve service was magical. It was the one time church felt truly special, where it felt connected to something more. The music was full of familiar carols. The goodwill and joy of the congregation were genuine. Everyone was happy. Even more so when delicate, magical snow floated down as we left the church.
For the first 18 years of my life, church was about routine and tradition. Prayer was not personal; it was scripted in the Book of Common Prayer. I never felt a spiritual connection, so when I was in crisis, I didn't even think to reach out to the church for help. And so when I made my first suicide attempt in Grade 13, I did so alone and didn't miss a single server shift.
After high school, I moved away and stopped attending church. Even if I was back home from university for the summer, I still didn't go, and I didn't feel I was missing anything. It was no longer part of my routine. If I was back home for Christmas, I tagged along with my parents to be part of the rafters but nothing on any level of frequency.
It wasn't until middle age, after I had been hospitalized for the second time in the same year, that I reached out to God, or rather, he reached out to me. I was feeling lonely and lost. I still loved my wife and two children, but I struggled with my si more than usual. One night, while surfing the Internet for nothing in particular, I found an ad for Alpha that promised to answer life's big questions. When I clicked on the link, it showed me a session about to start at a Pentecostal church that just happened to be within walking distance from my house. It all fell into place so quickly that it was hard not to see it as God's plan.
I contacted the church, and the Alpha pastor told me to come for dinner that night. This was all very spontaneous - very unlike me - and so without overthinking it, I went to church for the first time in 30 years (not counting weddings and funerals). When I walked in, I suddenly realized I was completely alone in a room full of smiling strangers. This was my worst nightmare. I realized what was happening. Alpha is a Christian recruitment tool. Each parishioner is supposed to bring someone with them who has yet to find Jesus. The idea being you have someone there you trust amid a sea of smiling faces. I am serious; everyone was smiling.
I was about to turn to go when the Alpha pastor called out, "Hey, John! Good to see you, brother."
I guess my square glasses and receding hairline made my email profile pic distinct. He walked straight over, shook my hand and pulled me in for a quick shoulder hug. I'm not a hugging person, but I no longer felt alone. He quickly introduced me to a few key people whose names I promptly forgot. We then sat down for a fantastic meal. The conversation was light and varied, and Jesus was seldom mentioned. This is the part of the program where they get you to drop your guard. Your defences are not as raised as they are when the HoJos (Jehovah's Witness) come to your house with their brochure in hand, where you can simply say no thank you and shut the door, or even better, as you see them working their way up your street, you can hide behind the couch and not answer the doorbell at all.
Alpha was a much more sophisticated recruitment strategy. It starts as a social event - dinner - in the church itself. Sure, we said grace before eating, but it wasn't any over-the-top evangelizing. At my table, we had entirely normal chit-chat: weather, sports, and occupations. Everything was positive, which in itself was infectious. Once dinner was over and we had our coffee and homemade dessert squares (Those Pentecostals were smart, the squares themselves were reason enough to come back the following week.), we went into the sanctuary. I was utterly amazed. It looked more like a theatre than a church. There was a balcony, a stage complete with a drum set, and three giant screens above. The sound system was clear and impressive.
And so I watched the first episode of Alpha in all its glory. The production was professional. The hosts, Jemma and Toby, were young, attractive and likable - perfect spokespeople for any product, whether it be a car, a new energy drink or a religion. The priest, Nicky, was charismatic and the spiritual anchor of the presentation. The whole video was slick and exciting as they travelled the globe asking regular people about their views on life and their search for answers. It was a soft sell. No dogma was preached. Openness to trying to understand the unknown was. I was amazed at the quality. As a kid, church was always run on a shoestring budget. You certainly didn't eat gourmet meals or watch professional-grade movies in the sanctuary. Right away, Alpha was different from church; it was contemporary in the best way.
The program started with a bang, promising to explore the big questions: Why am I here? Where am I heading? Is there more to life than this? The hook was effective, and I committed to all eleven sessions of Alpha. I liked the open-ended nature of the conversation. After each episode, we were put into small groups to discuss what we saw. There was no doctrine or debate. It was relaxed. Each of us would respond to a prompt. Half of the participants were church members, so their contributions gave a Christian perspective, but everyone was allowed to talk without judgment. At the end, the leader of our small group asked if he could conclude with a prayer. No one objected, so he said a prayer that included each of us by name. When he spoke my name, it was unexpectedly reassuring.
I completed the Alpha course and started attending Sunday Service. It was not at all the "Book of Common Prayer." It was like a concert with a live band. They didn't play Abide by Me, but rather modern Christian rock like Glorious Day. The sermons included video clips, pictures and power points, even a basketball net at one time when parishioners were encouraged to come forward with a chance to win Raptors' tickets. Each service was both entertaining and thought-provoking. And afterwards, there was a coffee bar in the lobby, complete with tables and chairs, all to encourage fellowship. I got to know some people and began to feel I belonged.
Their Christmas Eve services were truly spectacular. The nativity story was a feast of light and music. For Easter, they had inflatable jumpy castles and an egg hunt with over 50,000 eggs. Everything seemed larger than life. At every turn, I was amazed by their commitment and budgets.
I even went away on a one-day retreat. They started with a quote from Mark 10:50 "What do you want me to do for you?" We were then encouraged to write down our answers in our life journals. I wrote, "I want to feel worthwhile. I want a peaceful mind, one that turns away from suicide. I want life to be my greatest accomplishment, not death."
Over the next year, I found hope and fellowship at church and grew to expect so much more. At the height of my faith, I wrote one of my most optimistic poems:
For most of my life
I've walked with my head down,
looking at my feet
and the shadows I cast.
Then one day,
I'm not exactly sure why,
You chose me.
One day,
for the first time
in my life,
You roll back my shoulders,
filled up my lungs
and held my head high.
What a difference
to see the world
from your perspective!
I never realized
what I was missing
until You directed my eyes
to the bright blue sky,
painted with sunlight
and dappled with clouds;
to the vibrant trees
and fragrant flowers;
to people's faces
full of life and laughter
and so much more.
My neck is still too weak
to hold my head up for long
but each day, I'm trying
and each day, my muscles
grow a little bit stronger.
Their commitment to me was genuine. One pastor even visited me a couple of times when I was in the hospital. My experience at church didn't prevent me from overdosing again. Suicide was still my closest companion. The pastor, though, showed me unconditional support I had never felt. His voice was so calming, so reassuring. I was grateful for his time. On his second visit, he brought me a bible divided into 365 daily readings. Another parishioner I knew from Alpha also visited me and left me with some magazines. I was genuinely impressed. They made me feel worthwhile and loved.
But when I got out of the hospital 6 weeks later, it all started to unravel. I read the bible cover to cover over the course of the year. And as I read, I found myself disillusioned. There were all sorts of superficial rules and many stories that did not seem just. What I was being told at church didn't seem to match with a lot of what I read.
I joined a home bible study group hoping to understand better. There were 7 of us. We congregate at one of the parishioners' houses. We sat around their dining room table and had coffee and cookies (unfortunately, not the Alpha squares). Each week we read a short passage and discussed what it meant. The setting, though, was not at all like Alpha. It contained much more Christian bombast. (More like a HoJo.) There was no discussion, only declarations of how just and right God was. One couple was particularly Islamophobic. I remember how they relished that day's news, talking about something "evil" those Muslims had done again. This didn't seem very Christian to me.
The final straw in the bible study was when one woman, who lived with depression and anxiety, asked for help. We all gathered around her, behind her chair and put our hands on her shoulders. I was expecting a standard prayer, "Oh Lord Jesus, please…" but instead, one of the women started talking in tongues. It was urgent gibberish, and the others quickly joined in with their own xylophonic fragments of speech. I wasn't sure what to do. This was more than awkward. I hadn't told them of my own struggles and was convinced there and then to keep them secret. This was not for me.
Then one day after church, I approached a private prayer leader to ask him to pray with me. I wanted that connection I had with the Alpha pastor. I told him I wanted to pray for strength to deal with my depression and suicide ideation. He told me I could not pray to God until I first apologized to him for having such thoughts. This didn't seem right. Do lung cancer patients have to first apologize for having smoked during their lifetime? My view of church suddenly seemed starkly different from theirs. I felt like an imposter. I didn't believe the way they did. I questioned my own beliefs, and this is what I found:
I believe
Jesus was a remarkable man
whose vision of the world
was radical in its kindness.
I believe
in the power of love and patience
in the face of hate and discrimination.
I believe
in understanding over ignorance
compassion over damnation.
I believe
in generosity
of both time and money
and of helping out wherever I can.
I believe
in the power of prayer
and that sense of divinity
that flows through us all
Is that enough to be a Christian?
My pastor says no.
I need to believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, who died upon the cross for our sins and was resurrected on the third day to sit on the right hand of God the Father for our salvation.
Turns out I am Christian, just not in the details.
Then COVID hit, church was cancelled, and I never went back. I enjoyed the community but needed more to offset my lack of faith. Perhaps I would think differently if my negative experiences hadn't happened. Even then, though, I never fully believed in the premise of Jesus, that he was the son of God and died for our sins. I enjoyed the fellowship; I just didn't believe in the fundamental premise of the religion. Alpha helped me with my self-esteem. It opened my mind to more possibilities than I often granted myself. It showed me how to share with others, listen and be heard, and feel worthwhile. It was a very positive experience and well worth anyone's time. As an added bonus, I didn't have to think about what was for dinner. In the end, though, I moved away from church and took up other strategies to foil my si.
As a side note, as an FYI, so to speak, I find it interesting that many of my therapists have had a Masters of Divinity under their list of qualifications. I have never had any of them force their beliefs on me, but I have a feeling if I asked to pray with them, they would have happily agreed.
