Excommunication of the Self...

Originally written by Olivia Petrus. Oct. 7th, 2007.

I stared out the car window at the green open fields enveloped in the early Sunday morning light. The car moved slowly up and down the hilly road that led us past the Illinois countryside. I noticed the birds soaring freely in the blue skies and watched the cows graze, while the horses galloped in and out of the stereotypical barns littered across that Middle-of-Nowhere Town.

“Why don’t you say something to me Livy! I want talk! You know your grandma loves talking to you!” My grandma said, as she grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t have anything to say though,” I responded in a sulky, guarded early teenaged troubled tone. “Why not?” She pushed, “You use to have LOTS of things to say to me.” “I know, but I don’t have anything to say right now. Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” I suggested blankly, while the open fields passed, and the secrets of my life stayed sealed behind my pouty lips...

I ran out of things to say when I turned twelve, I believe. I changed. A lot. I went from an obnoxious extrovert, to a relatively reserved introvert, terrified of people and the world. I suppose this was most noticeable to my grandmother, who adored my youthful companionship and my infinite abundance of energy. Hormones had arrived, and I felt exhausted all the time - whiny and wordless with little to say to the woman that helped raise me since my mother was too sick. I was in a particularly surly mood that morning, for the simple reason I was driving out to church with her. I did not enjoy church too much.

Her shiny red Buick slowly hurled over the gravel of the church parking lot. My grandma grabbed her bible, purse and water bottle, and we exited her shining jewel (she adored that Buick...) A few other cars were parked in front of the small chapel. As usual, we were early. My grandmother liked being early, so she would have more time to talk to all her friends before the service started. I liked being early because it gave me the opportunity to find an empty room to hide in, read, and avoid people until I could safely slide into a pew at the start of praise and worship.

We entered through the tattered, old, aging side-screen door of the weathered wooden building. The stench of left over pot-luck lunch, old leather and thrift store clothing invaded my nostrils. Upstairs, I could hear the church band rehearsing their worship set. My grandma saw one of her friends, warmly embraced her, and they fiercely started talking a mile a minute away, like two hens in a cock fight, about friends and family...

“Oh Livy come here and say 'hi' to Beth!” my grandmother yelped with pride and delight. “Hi Olivia! It’s so nice to see you! How are you this morning?” Beth asked, giving me a hug. “Good,” I responded, automatically adding the perfunctory, “How are you?” out of respect. “Good! Good!” she squealed. “You know there’s going to be youth group during church today... you should go!” The blonde hair, blue eyed, self-professed former crack-addict-turned-evangelical heathen informed me. I thought about it for a second. The adults had been trying to get me to associate with the other youths my age there for quite some time, and I never quite cliqued with any of them. To this day, I still fail to "clique" easily with people in my age group. “Well, I don’t think…” I began slowly, guard up as high as this lovely woman used to get. My grandma interrupted, “She’d love to go. She likes doing those types of things!” “Since when?” I wondered to myself. My grandmother and the pastor’s wife went back to talking and I walked away.

I walked upstairs and started to head towards a room that I knew would be empty, but was stopped by Daniel - the pastor of the church. He was an older gentleman, with snow white hair upon his head and a large, round belly. He could've easily been mistaken for Santa Clause during Christmas. “Olivia!” He delighted. “Oh, Olivia! How have you been? I’m so happy you’re here today!” Again, I was hugged by a strange adult that I encountered briefly on these Grandma Ground Sundays. “Good,” I responded, robotically. “How have you been?” I asked politely, in response. “Good, good! Where’s your Grandma? I want to see her!” He asked, as jolly as the man that wears red when it's cold outside that time of year... “She’s downstairs talking to your wife,” I replied. “Oh great! Well, I’ll see you later then. Are you going to go to the youth group during service today? It would be a wonderful thing for you to do,” he suggested. “Sure,” I said and continued to walk through the sanctuary. “Mic check one, two... Mic check... Can you hear me? Let’s take it from the top again, girls,” piped the man with the acoustic guitar to the three women singing hymns.

The floorboards creaked as I made my way to that gloriously empty room - my sanctuary within the sanctuary. I sat down on a couch that reminded me of something I’d seen in a 70’s movie somewhere. I took a deep breath and stared out the cracked window. I searched the bookshelf for something decent to read while I waited for the service to start. "Raising a Christian Child in a Secular World", "Getting to Know Jesus", and "Christian Answers to Adolescent Questions", were a few titles I noticed, none of which interested me greatly at the time. It was an older, under-funded church, with about 30 people who regularly attended service, so I didn’t expect the latest, best-selling, blockbuster Christian books to be stocked, not that they would interest me much either. I did like the fact that it was a small church, though. My grandmother had taken me to many churches over the years. Far too many were industrial-sized and costs millions of dollars to build and sustain. They were filled with strangers and sermons laced with messages of the importance of tithing. They didn’t feel authentic or genuine, and it was harder to find a room to sit by your lonesome in.

I looked on the wall and noticed a large scroll of paper, with personal messages about God and Jesus scribbled all over it. One said, “Jesus is my Savior!” Another person wrote, “God is MY friend!” I picked up a green Crayola marker, sitting in the box next to it, and coldly, smugly wrote, “What God Wants, God Gets...” the title and chorus of a Roger Waters' song. At the time, to me, it was the most accurate statement about God I had heard in awhile. I couldn’t understand how God was all powerful, yet allowed all this suffering and pain to take place in the world. So, it made sense to my tiny pwe-teened brain back then, that God would get what He wanted. Upon reflection, it is a rather limited, immature and uninformed interpretation of spirituality... and rather insulting to the Almighty. If there's anyone in the world that knows if God truly gets what God wants, besides Roger Waters, please email me, because I think I've tested faith enough at 31 to know better than to put God, him or her or itself on trial. Yes, the Bible tells you test all things, and hold fast to what is good, but if you DON'T want STUPID CHAOS in your life, leave the faith to the faithful. Hell, if it gets crack heads off crack, that can't be a bad thing for the world, can it? Ah... the simple wisdom and logic of my twelve-year-old mind. I re-capped the marker and left the comfortable isolation of the back room to take a seat in the pew of the chapel.

More people had arrived, finding seats and filling pews, talking to one another, praying together and laughing as the band continued to rehearse. I noticed my aunt and cousins had arrived. My aunt came over and gave me a big hug. “Hi, Livy, how have you been?” she asked. “Good,” I responded, again and replied on cue, “how have you been?” “Hanging in there. We’re still moving all our things to our new house, and Brandon has been a burden.” She said. “Hi, Brandon,” I smiled sincerely at my then newborn cousin, cuddled securely in my angry aunt's arms. She sat down next to me, and yelled at my two other cousins to settle down in their seats. My grandma came and joined us, talking with her daughter, while marveling at her then new grandson. The service began when the band members encouraged everyone to stand up and join in worship.

I always stood during worship out of respect. Sometimes I sang, sometimes I didn’t. Usually, I stood back and watched people become enthralled in the music. They would close their eyes and raise their hands, swaying back and forth. If there is one thing I cannot deny, it is the power of music and its’ impact on people. These hymns were sung by three amateur singers - accompanied by a basic, three to four chord acoustic guitar riff that I could've played myself, at age twelve - and yet these worshipers were genuinely moved. Best of all, nobody came over and tried to talk to me! Music never ceases to amaze me. Indeed, it DOES transcend all barriers... After 45 minutes of singing and prayer, Pastor Dan seated everyone and welcomed his flock to the church. He went through the upcoming events, allowed people to share their good news and bad, took the offering and dismissed the children to the basement for their church, and the youths to their youth group. I really didn’t want to go to the youth group, but decided it was probably less boring than the sermon. So, I got up and walked to my empty room, which was now being invaded by a group of young Christians.

The youths segregated themselves on the couches. All the best friends sat next to each other, kitty corner to the couch their other friends were seated upon. I took the chair next to the door, sitting with my back to the wall, observing the kids that my grandma so wanted me to befriend. I watched them laugh, gossip and talk about what reality television shows and movies they had seen the last morning. Even at the tender age of twelve, I felt a little more than ennui. I got up and swiftly exited stage left, before anyone could notice...

LIKE A CAT?

I walked down the crooked staircase and out the old, weathered side-screened door, and felt instantly relieved by the fresh air, silence and freedom. I walked past the church to the graveyard across the street. I slowly strolled past the different graves. I looked at names of the buried remains, noting when they were born and had passed. I came upon a large Oak Tree, taking shelter beneath it's bouquet of loving leaves. I thought about all the dead people I sat above. I wondered about their lives and their families. I wondered how they died and what they did while they were still living. Internally, I paid my respects.

Then, my thoughts shifted to God and the church I had just left. I wondered about the biblical teachings that had been read to me, the Jesus they had told me of. I thought about all the people my grandmother had dragged me up to, bragged about me to only to then condemn me for “not smiling”. I felt sadness at the realization that all these years of going to church had taught me little about Christ and left many of my fundamental questions unanswered. They told me about "redemption" and how accepting Jesus would take, "the burden of life off of my soul..." Well, there I was, sitting in a graveyard filled with great grief, sadness, and emptiness! "Who is God, and who is this Jesus, and what is the true value of the Bible?" I asked myself, at the time. "All these years of going to church and I still don’t know!" Whine, whine (wine is good!) "They said He would feed my hunger and quench my thirst, but still I hunger! Still, I thirst..." (Whiskey works!)

I do not have the answers I need to follow this faith of Christianity my family has denoted to me. Why should I just blindly accept what has been handed to me and told to me? After all, it could be all lies. No single person is right about everything. I refuse to be a hypocrite and just go to church like many other carnal Christians. I want answers! Is this all there is to life? Just believing what is told to you, and never finding out for yourself the REAL answers? I can’t accept such doctrine. I will not have joy, contentment, and peace in my heart until my questions have been answered.

And I realized then, what I realize now - only I could answer these questions of who God is, who this Jesus they speak of is, what Christianity means to me, and why is there so much suffering in the world today, despite a, "loving" God and "forgiving" Jesus... A preacher can only offer subjective insight, colored by his faith. My family could only ask me to go to church and pray that I accepted Jesus into my heart. Ultimately, only I can find out the real answers for myself. No, a religious doctrine is not the only acceptable to answer these philosophical questions, these questions can only be answered by devoting one’s life to the answering of these questions, in question...

And there, as I sat in a graveyard, ditching church on a beautiful Sunday morning, I decided to devote my life to a journey for truth. This journey has guided my soul ever since that moment. And so, this journey will never end, until I meet God myself. There may be Hell to pay, for being so contentious, but hey, He made me in HIS image, and if God really gets, what God wants, then I guess I'm good. For now...