An Inside Job

            I stood beside her out of necessity, not want. The sanctuary was overflowing with believers. Each one stood chanting ‘Amen’ after ‘Amen’ after ‘Amen’. I found the only available nook to slide into while trying so hard not to disturb the ceremony. Apparently, I disturbed Phyllis. She didn’t smile at me. She just looked at me like my haircut was some plot by the devil to sabotage the service. I might not have missed much, being so late, but at this kind of church even a moment might pass you by. The sermon was driven, full of energy and appealed to every fear known to man. This wasn’t some Catholic refuge or Episcopalian asylum. This was a Pentecostal Church, bound deeply to the Word of God. Into the fire I walked, well knowing at any moment they might discover my ruse. The crowd stood in awe, with raised hands and unintelligently moaning. My neighbour took to the part but in what seemed like a reserved nature. Her journey with the Spirit didn’t stop her from looking at me like I was a criminal. I suppose the way I was dressed may well have convinced her. Still, she never said a word to me.

            The 1980s made many the victim of fashion. My ripped jeans, acid washed, and my giant earring look ridiculous in my mind now. Back when I had hair, it rose to a peak and stood frozen by my own will and half a can of hairspray. As I look at myself and how I must have seemed back then, I cringe. In desperation, I did anything I could to garner attention. I did not know it at the time but the angst I felt, the overpowering sense of defeat was more of a chemical imbalance than some flaw in my psyche. I could barely breathe back in those days. Everything was a challenge for me. Holding it all together is what led me to God. I believed at this time that He actually listened to those who cry out in need. When my parents discovered Pentecostalism, I had to be dragged into the experience. It wasn’t a safe place but it was easy to make it a secret place. I used it to hide just like the God I was trying so hard to find. When I sat down beside Phyllis, I was the picture of lost. I just didn’t let anyone know I was floundering.

            When the service ended and all the salutations had been tossed, I chatted with my friends for about half an hour. When the minister approached me., I was unaware that there was a problem. Unfortunately, some members of the congregation found my attire unsuitable for their church. I was ushered into the back office and to my surprise there sat Phyllis, in all her glory. She sure was smiling at me now. I was asked not to come back unless appropriately dressed. When I inquired what exactly that means, he simply instructed me that he was not at all amused. The words flowed out of me like puke on a Friday night. Quite magnanimously, and like a true smart ass, I pointed out one of his own sermons that I had to sit through. I thought God cared about our “fruits of the Spirit not our fruit of the loom,” I happily inserted.  I suppose when you walk into a den of lions you should be prepared to get bit. When you enter into such a place looking more like Boy George than a firm believer, someone may really want to hurt you.

“A good man, is a good man, whether in this church, or out of it.”

(Brigham Young, American missionary)

            I have seen the inside of many churches in my time. From the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, California to St. Paul’s in the heart of Stratford, Ontario. I eulogized my first partner in the sanctuary of the latter. I have worshipped in them, sang in them and cried in them. There are so many that I could not even count them if I tried. While I spent the good part of my late teens babbling about at the Strathroy Pentecostal Church, I never ever felt like God was there with me. He may have been with everyone else, but I never found Him. It often occurred to me that He was probably off somewhere having Himself a good laugh. Of all the Churches and temples I have walked into over the years, there are only three where I actually felt a presence. You can tell when it’s God.

            Growing up in the suburbs of Toronto, even God was just down the street. For an impressionable child, he lived at 85 Parkwoods Village Drive near Victoria Park Avenue, in North York. The Parkwoods United Church boasted a triangular-shaped sanctuary, with high stained glass and wooden frames. You couldn’t help but discover its uniqueness every time you drove by. I still notice it to this day. Parkwoods was the first Church of my childhood. My earliest ideas regarding Christianity formed in the Sunday School rooms in its basement. Within its walls I was first exposed to Jesus and praying and a loving God. I believed every word, every instruction. Each time I would walk into the quaint space, I could sense there was something with me. I could feel it near me, all around me. I was a sensitive child, so perhaps this was nothing more than some otherland I used as a kid to explain things. I may have been just a kid but for me, I really believed that I could feel God (or at least Jesus). It has been rare since then.

            My father was a hardworking man. He regularly had to keep one or two extra jobs just to feed his five children. This is the price you pay for urban living. Throughout the 1970s, he cared for several different Churches. We all assisted with his tasks. The one Church, from those days, that stands out in my mind is located across from the Bridlewood Mall in Scarborough, Toronto. St. Paul's L'Amoreaux Anglican Church  is medium in size with an accompanying cemetery. Both my Mom and myself fell foot first into different collapsed graves. This necropolis tried to eat us both. The sanctuary was always dark on the Saturdays when we would clean there. I used to spend my afternoon cutting grass and dusting the inner sanctum. I spent a lot of time alone with God during my experience. I thought I was doing something wrong. This God was not at all like the God I had been taught to believe in. It was the same God, I suppose, but the one I embraced behaved much better. I did not fear this God. He was all mine. I could feel him near me. I could almost hear Him singing with me. What harmony.

            In the late 1970s, we relocated from Toronto to Strathroy, Ontario. My father took a position with the Strathroy United Church, located where Front Street and Maria Street meet. The original building was built in 1879 and still stands as the largest Church in the area. I was baptized at 12 years old in this Church and I was confirmed in the Church at 14. I taught Sunday School here for over 10 years and ran the music department for a time. For over twenty years, I helped my father and mother clean this Church. I know every nook and every cranny. I could still walk through it blind. The majestic ceilings and enormous sanctuary required diligent attention. I spent less hours doing homework than dusting the huge wooden balcony. In all the times that I spent at the Church, I rarely felt the presence I was constantly looking for. I could never find Him in the Golden Jubilee room or the minister’s office. He was absent during services and I never felt him once in all the hours of choir practice on Thursday night. In the quiet, slowly dispersing, as I sang out loud, I could sense Him. I would often turn around, well knowing there was someone behind me. I would sing and in the moment, I could almost embrace it. When my thunder was done, it reigned like a tidal wave would. I just knew it was Him. These days, not so much. I rarely feel this close to God. I haven’t felt this way in years. I get tinges of Him but it has nothing to do with the Church.

            Experiencing God is an inside job. While God is supposed to dwell within us, sometimes we need to bring in outside sources. We rely on this exposure to validate our experiences with that which we consider divine. We can search and search for God and never find Him. The places where we are supposed to be close to God are usually the furthest away. Sometimes, He just won’t leave us the hell alone. It all can be so very push and pull. It is nice to find safe harbour. There are just some places that you can’t help but feel the presence of something greater than yourself. I felt it when I visited Big Sur. I could almost touch it the first time I walked into Glad Tidings, a fundamentalist congregation in London, Ontario. All in all, it always comes back to the experience versus the venue. It wasn’t ever about the building for me but the experiences that occurred within each one. I recognize that most people never feel a closeness to God. I also recognize that some people experience God in surplus, their cup overflows. I like to worship in moderation. I occasionally even consider returning to a Church, maybe even in my new hometown. After all, at Parkwoods it came naturally. I didn’t even have to try. At St. Paul’s, it was there for the taking. I didn’t even have to try. At Strathroy United, I could find it whenever I needed, I didn’t even have to try. Not once in those buildings did anyone attack me for what I was wearing or the length of my hair. I may have been different but I was still a child of the one true God. I was welcomed and allowed to explore my spirituality. I was never forced out the door for the colour of my t-shirt. God was supposed to be an inside job, not an outside requirement. After all, isn’t that why we  have Churches? Love one another and all that good stuff.

Photo

https://revolfaith.com/2012/11/16/what-does-the-holy-spirit-feel-like/

Sources

https://www.google.ca/maps/place/Parkwoods+United+Church/@43.7613599,-79.3257576,17z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x0:0x949acb882ad4d5ea!8m2!3d43.7613599!4d-79.3235689?hl=en

http://strathroyunitedchurch.ca/?page_id=980