Thoughts on Church From the Community Whore

It was a random Sunday at 3 am when I received some most unfortunate news. The kind that makes your skin crawl and your intestines knot as you curl up on the floor and try to pop out of existence like The Hungry Caterpillar. I did my best. But alas, it was impossible.

I shot straight up. I needed a change.

I sit down on my bedroom floor and mix my ingredients. One part powder, two parts developer. I’m quickly reminded why they mention using a mask – I could practically feel the bronchitis as I worked. After some brief back and forth (the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak) I get up and relocate to the bathroom. Bleaching your hair without checking what you’re doing is generally not a good idea. I am unwell, but not quite THAT unwell.

For the next hour, I alternate between the cool cracked cedar of my floor and the cool tiled linoleum of the bathroom. I tiptoe back and forth trying to not wake my roommates, lest I frighten them with the sight of a half human, half aluminium ghoul.

I eventually land on a neat shade of yellowish blonde. I consider toning. Google says not to bother.

I’ve had this bottle in my possession for months. It was purchased back in May after a different crisis. If I wanted to psychoanalyze myself, I’d say I have a need to separate my body from the one that experienced the pain. For now, let’s just say I was bored.

1 part conditioner, 2 parts pink.

30 minutes later I’m left with a pretty shade of rose gold that looks a little too close to salmon under the wrong lighting.

It was at this point I realized that simply colouring my hair may not be enough to soothe the war waging in my gut. My feelings and my digestive tract have always been intimately intertwined, unfortunately. When I’m upset, so is my tummy!

I recalled a local church that I’d been wanting to visit. Not for the reasons you’re thinking. Sorry mom and dad! I just like pretty buildings, choral music, and being around black people.

By the time I finished my hair it was 9 am. Church starts quarter after noon.

My mood is also intimately intertwined with my sleep. I had only been under for 3 hours and yet I was still up and at ’em. Maybe the bleach had leeched into my scalp and made it impossible to be tired, I don’t know. Someone should study that. Cause why am I always SO awake after a fresh bleach? Anyway.

My calendar had been mocking me for months. “Take Me To Church!” every Sunday since July. Summers here are rife with things to do, people to see. “There are cathedrals all over Montreal,” I said. “I’ll make my way there eventually.”

But something about the way the sun rose and with it, the pain, made me think hey! Today is the day!

So I put on my best slacks and blazer, laced my single pair of winter appropriate shoes, and slipped out the door.

About a million things ran through my mind on that metro ride. It’s been a decade since I last graced a pew. What will this be like? Will they sniff out a faker? A sinner? Will I burn the moment my foot dares to darken their doorstep? Can they smell the gay? Should I smoke weed before I go so I’m less nervous?

The congregation was modest, but not at all lacking. I think that’s the beauty in them; everybody really wants to be there. Unlike mega churches where many hope for a glimpse of Jesus— pardon, the pastor, swinging to the stage on a zip line. Nothing about it felt performative.

Service started off late. This was good, because I was also late. Thank God for black church!

We began with some hymns that I was surprised to find I still knew. I guessed that’s what happens when you learn to praise before you learn to speak.

There was a lot of standing up and then sitting down and then standing back up and being generally unsure if I was “doing it right.” I stumbled through a couple of hymnals, accidentally had my eyes open during prayers, but I made it through okay.

Then the pastor began to preach.

I’ll be honest. I left halfway through.

I was tremendously famished. I can’t focus when I’m hungry, so I popped out briefly to find a snack. It was epic. I remember thinking, “Man, if I could’ve done this as a kid, maybe I would’ve stayed religious!”

After a brief respite, I dusted off my fingers and rejoined the congregation.

I’m not going to tell you what the pastor talked about. Not because it wasn’t interesting, it certainly was. In fact, I am almost positive you would find a photo of him, chest swelled, palms facing up toward glory, right there with the definition of gumption in the dictionary. He was riveting. Granted I am older and my attention span is slightly better. But there was a time when I couldn’t get through sermons without falling asleep. Sure, one could blame this on the fact that I usually stayed up till 4 on Wattpad. I am choosing to blame it on the fact that these were white churches, and I think if white people are being honest, they are a little bit scared of passion.

At some point early in the service I had to escape to the second floor of pews. There was no one up there (minus the Lord). I barely managed to hold back my tears till my foot landed on the top step.

Rushing forward, I sink to the floor in a puddle of bitter tears. The organ swells below. I glance up. Baby blue ceiling, with intricate white, swirling carvings. At the front of the sanctuary, thick, rich velvet tapestries hang with a cross standing proud front and centre. The left with a quote, the right holding a delicate dove. The voices of the choir rise, and I fall apart.

In spite of the tightness in my chest, I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Here I am, a twenty-something-staunchly-anti-religious-lesbian, sobbing into my hands because somehow, the organist is playing straight to my heart.

The sermon ended promptly. I like to think that God whispered to the preacher, “don’t drag it out too long, the dyke has a short attention span.”

The pastor at this church makes a point of knowing everyone present. As the congregation filed out, he beelined toward me and introduced himself. I complimented his fabulous outfit; he complimented my cropped pink hair. Said his wife used to have hers just like mine. I considered asking him where he got his suit and decided against it. Perhaps too gay for the setting.

He asked what brought me to church. I didn’t want to tell him that there’s not many places you can loiter for 3 hours without paying, so I just said I woke up wanting to hear music and be amongst my people. We spoke for a bit, and then he told me I should come again. I informed him that I am unsure because I am not religious. Without missing a beat, he assured me. “That’s okay! But there is a reason you felt called to come,” he chimed, “talk to God, just to see.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’ve already tried.

The rest of the congregation was equally welcoming. Several people introduced themselves to me. We chatted amicably. I was invited over and over to come again. Or if not to return, to find a church that suits me. “Hold on to the Lord,” they said.

I left the building feeling refreshed and lighter on my feet.

If you had told me a year ago that I would willingly wake up for church, engage wholeheartedly, and stay for the whole service, I would’ve called you an Uber to the hospital. But somehow, there I was, dried tear tracks on my cheeks, and a heart 2 stone lighter.

There was no huge awakening. The pews didn’t widen and swallow me into the depths of hell, nor did the tapestry dove flitter off its resting place and land on my shoulder. I still don’t know who is up there, if there even is a “who.”

But I was moved. I wept openly for the first time in months. I heard good music. I wore a cute outfit. I even stopped holding my breath.

The people were kind, so kind. When newcomers were greeted, they looked in my direction. There was nothing but warmth and joy in their eyes. Nobody questioned why the androgynous pinkhead with bleached brows or facial piercings was in their holy place. I received so many genuine smiles. Little kids giggled and waved at me. For a moment, I was held.

I look up to the clouds and wipe my freezing tears.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s room for a pinkheaded whore in the back of the church.