Church Runner

I'm not a fan of religion. 
I'm a fan of amazing human beings. I'm a fan of selfless love for others. I'm a fan of being about joy, light, love, forgiveness, gratitude, service and learning. Whether it's Buddha, Jesus, Allah; I don't judge. Whoever you look to for inspiration is up to you.
A person's life says a lot about them. When your life is a testament to what is beautiful about the human soul, it makes sense that others would find comfort in that. In all the ugliness in the world, it's those magnificent human beings that inspire us to be better people. When someone has the makings of an extraordinary life, I can respect that they become icons.
It's when their story becomes bastardized and twisted to suit hatred, war, genocide, polarization, killing, inequality that I get pissed. When a person is more devoted to pleasing other people than being a proper representation of their beliefs that I get turned off. Religion seems to come between man and their God more than it helps them. Of course, my opinion isn't popular. 
I find more peace in a grove of trees, a field of flowers, and sitting among rocks next to a stream of furiously churning water. I commune with nature, close my eyes and let my soul drink in the sounds of nature. It's moments like that I feel most myself, and I am centered again. 
Growing up, I spent a lot of time in church. My mother's family was Apostolic Pentecostal. Nothing was more torturous to me than 3 hours of preaching on three different days of the week in a room where there was no air conditioning, no coloring books or candy. 
My attention span was short. The preacher's would talk at length about subjects that they found relevant, which was usually Jezebels, adulterers, rock and roll music and gay folks. They'd work themselves into a a spitting, red-faced frenzy, jabbing their finger into the air to punctuate just how sinful this was, how God was offended by that. Personally, I was offended that they made it seem ok to hate others and make people feel bad but I kept that to myself. It made no sense that Jesus was so kind and loving but we spent hours talking about hellfire and damnation.
My Grandmother listened with rapt attention. She loved the Bible. In her lifetime, she'd read it at least 30 times, and she knew when the preacher was wrong. When he was wrong, she let him know. She'd blurt out: "It didn't say no such-a thing!" The preacher was almost always a bit embarrassed, taken aback at being wrong or worse, being corrected by a woman. 
Grandma was almost every bit a typical Pentecostal. She had long black hair, down to the back of her knees, that hadn't been cut in decades. Her hair was pinned up before going to church because long hair was God's glory, and shouldn't be shown to men, lest they be tempted into sin by it. Modest clothing was all she allowed herself to wear. They covered her chest and knees.
Grandma didn't drink, smoke or curse. She deferred to men, sometimes begrudgingly. Still, the one area she didn't hold back was the Bible. She didn't care for those who misquoted it, because it was an infallible work of God, and to misquote was to disrespect, and she didn't stand for that. 
When Grandma spoke up in church, it got my attention. I'd stop cleaning out my purse, drawing boobs in the hymnal or wiping boogers on my little sister, and watch Grams. The preacher would wipe his brow and adjust his sagging pants. All eyes would be on Grams, as she would read aloud the correct sentence. 
With keen interest, the other women in church would peer over the tops of their bifocals in our direction. Most of them didn't approve of Gram's outspoken nature, and many knew that she felt called to preach. Since the church forbid women to preach or watch TV and movies, this was the closest they got to the thrill. They'd whisper to each other as the she quoted scripture and sometimes and I felt the air around us shift.
The women respected my Grandmother. 
The preachers, brought up to respect the elderly, could hardly tell my raven-haired Grandmother to shut it. They'd shift from foot to foot, leaf through their Bible to find another passage to change the subject.
When she was done, there was almost an audible sigh from the pulpit. Preach would signal to the organist, who'd distract everyone with a rousing gospel song. Grams would glance at me, motion Renee and I to stand. I hated standing because I knew that inevitably, someone would be so moved by the holy spirit that they'd start dancing and speaking in tongues. Once a person began doing it, it spread through the room. Before you knew it, five people had the holy ghost, and it was a dancing, drum playing moment that took a normal three minute song, and stretched it into twenty. The chorus would repeat at least six or seven times, and just when you thought the song was going to end, someone in the sanctuary would sing it out, and it would begin again.
The preacher would interject over the music every few minutes with a special scripture that would encourage the church, his words assaulting the microphone and hurting my ears especially when he was too close to it. An incredible ringing would ping off the microphone, shoot up to the ceiling and straight to my eardrums. I wasn't allowed to cover my ears. I did that once, and my Grandma pinched me. I guess people think if you cover your ears, you are stating that the song is being terribly sung.
I fought the urge to cover my ears while standing. Almost always, I'd have on some uncomfortable patent leather church shoes that pinched my toes. Shifting my weight onto alternating feet seemed to alleviate the discomfort but not as well as taking a seat, which we weren't allowed to do until everyone returned to theirs.
Nobody else seemed to be bothered my the noise. Renee could sleep through a tornado and thus was usually asleep by now. She was five or so, and when there was nothing to do, she normally went to sleep. 
Grandma usually stood praying, silently mouthing her prayers or singing along. She wasn't like the rest of the ladies. She didn't wail when she got the holy ghost. She might dance or speak in tongues, but I never saw her run laps around the sanctuary like the other folks. Personally, I found it disturbing to see the display of dancing, laughing and running. It was God's house, and these people were doing things in church I wasn't allowed to do unless I got the Holy Ghost.
I didn't want the Holy Ghost anyway. 
Towards the end of the torturous evening, the preacher, completely spent by hours of preaching, would invite people down to the alter to pray or get "saved". This was the part of the evening I dreaded most, so normally, a few minutes before, I'd have slipped out and into the bathroom. I'd rather sit on the toilet and study the art on the stall walls before risking being out there at this time. 
Usually, Grandma stayed in our pew, but on occasion, she felt called to go pray with a friend. If I had the bad luck to be in the pew still, I had to keep out a watchful eye. Grandma had a few friends who didn't like the fact that I didn't go to the alter, didn't seek the Holy Ghost. Plus, I was a mischievous little turd. They felt it was their duty as Grandma's friend to drag me down to the alter. I hated that, and I'd yank my arm away, or pretend to feel sick so I could sit down. This happened a number of times before I told my Grams. 
Later, I found out Grams approached the offender and told them to keep their hands off her Granddaughter. She didn't like people interfering. She was my hero. 
From then on, during that 45 minutes of alter time, I'd get glares from different women in the sanctuary. I'd smile at them politely, and resume occupying myself.

Today, if you ask me what I hated the most about growing up in church, I'd have to really think on it. Everyone takes away something different, and my take was especially unpopular. I felt it was a travesty for the preacher to go on and on about our responsibility to give an offering. We had a lot of elderly people in the church living on social security. They lived month to month. Our preacher drove a Cadillac, had a Rolex watch and seemed flush with money. It just didn't seem right to be always talking about money.
Then, these preachers were really fond of calling people out. It was embarrassing. I was probably called out five or six times by name over the years. "Melissa, you are going to burn in hell if you don't come to the Lord! Time is going to run out, my dear"!
My face would be flush with embarrassment. All eyes would be on me, and my Grandmother's eyes would be straight ahead. I knew she wanted me to get the Holy Ghost, but she also knew I did things in my own time. More than once I brought up the fact that God would know if I did something for the wrong reasons. I did not want to come to God because I was scared. I wanted to come to God because I felt compelled in my heart.  I didn't understand why I had to speak in tongues to be considered a child of God. I knew in my heart that I had a bond with God, and I was annoyed that I was being asked to prove to others that I had this relationship. I was resentful, for sure.
I didn't like that people in our religion forbid so many things, so many occasions. It seemed like we were being forced to live a very isolated life. No TV, no radio, no rock music, no makeup and no pants for us women. We weren't supposed to cut our hair or go swimming with the opposite sex. I felt that it was ludicrous that so much was forbidden. I mean, God trusts us to make our own decisions. It felt like everything was geared towards avoiding the least bit of temptation. More than once, I told my Grandmother that our conscience was like a muscle. I needed to be given a chance to use it to exercise it and keep it strong. I think she understood that, so she looked the other way as I watched tv, listened to music, wore pants and makeup. Eventually, I'd show up at her church in pants and makeup. It was scandalous, but Grandmother would dress anyone down who tried to criticize or shame me. She knew my soul and spirit were as pure as they could be.
It didn't seem right to judge people on their appearance. At the times I began, people were still pretty racist, but a bit quieter about it, especially when black people began attending our church. It seemed the more we brought minorities into our fold, the more compelled the preacher would be to spend hours on a new topic. Now, it was hours and hours about premarital sex, sodomites and the end times. I did very much like talking about Revelations and the end times. It was a welcome respite to boring nights talking about a Psalm. 
I got quite a few messages growing up that I found confusing. 
Sex was a temptation, and we were supposed to avoid it. Yet, we talked about it all the time. I remember telling my Grandma that the preacher was awful focused on talking about married people business, and she literally rolled her eyes at me. She told me he was a typical man in that way. Until recently I did not realize that she was saying he was sex-obsessed.
We were supposed to abstain from feeling lust. Us women had to cover our bodies, because we were a temptation to men. If we did not dress as modest women, they would feel lust. This told me that men were not in control of their penis. 
I did not like the hypocrisy. The most mean people I ever met were the most devoted, fervent members of the church. They were the first to judge, criticize. They were nasty to others, and felt free to treat people badly. I felt that they were the reason that a lot of people hated religion, and namely, Christianity. It didn't seem very Christian to use your sacred text to condemn people. 
When I was in my twenties, I devoted quite a few years to finding a church. I had hoped that nothing would remind me of the experiences of my youth. I did find, however, that no matter what religion the church was, there was still hypocrisy, bigotry, racism, classism, sexism. Ten years or so ago, I stopped going to church. I wasn't willing to focus anymore on spending time with people I probably wouldn't like. I wouldn't focus on pleasing them.
I found that by leaving church, I was able to focus on my spirituality. Today, I pull my beliefs from several religions. I have found many inspirational stories and live by a very personal code of ethics and morality that I created for myself. My life has never been so peaceful.
My Grandmother taught me a lot of things. Always question, always speak up, and be true to yourself. Don't become so immersed in an ideology that you lose your sense of self. Don't sell your soul to please others. Grams was the strongest woman I ever knew, and she taught me a lot about God and spirituality that was never to be found in the Bible. It was found because I stopped listening to to other people, and began listening to the song of my soul.