The Overzealots
I always hated church when I was growing up. Yet, I spent about eighty percent of my childhood at a church. I thought it was a good time but the majority of the time it just flat out sucked. Everyone there wasn’t really about the message. It was more of a social gathering to see who was the better ‘Christian’ than the other. Before we go any further, I want my reader to understand, this isn’t a piece about the bashing of church-going Christians. If you’re a churchgoer do not be turned off by my allegations. Majority of churchgoers are just trying to go and have a place to feel accepted and to genuinely congregate with their community. I’m just asking you to hear me out for a bit longer because I promise there is a meaning to all of this. Church is a good place to raise a family and become acquainted with some really genuine people, at least that’s what everyone else tells me.
I was forced to go every Sunday for main service, Wednesday for youth groups, and Saturday to help prepare for Sunday. My mom and stepdad were heavily involved with our little home church Trinity Lutheran located in the hell hole of city Hemet, California. My mom acted as theVolunteer Coordinator for several years and she loved it. Mom is a caring woman who just wanted to help out and do the Lord’s work for her church. She’d be the one who people would trust in by telling them confidential aspects of their lives and the one people would trust with their children because she ran an independent daycare from our home for a few years after she met my stepdad, Ed.
Don’t get me wrong, we had some great times at that church whether it was all the fall festivals, chili cookoffs, Christmas festivals, Rally Picnics, or cooking for the homeless. I was never not involved in the church events or else my Mom would reprimand me until my ears fell off. Also, she ran all of the events at the church, so it would’ve looked pathetic if her heathen son didn’t attend and help out. So, I was there for my mom at all times even if I was being a little poopy butt about it. Those were the times that taught me the important life lessons; not the Bible verses we had to recite and all the boring hymns we had to sing.
Then there were the bunk times where church served as a proving ground for whoever’s crucifix hung heavier around their neck. Sunday school was a joke because it was basically a teenage girl or guy who would have cared less whether or not that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. I don’t remember anything from Sunday School that held significant merit in my life other than that it wasn’t anything close to a school. Sunday School felt more like a glorified IKEA daycare where we wouldn’t do anything but sit there and stare at each other essentially. It was more of a time to gossip about other people’s families and how ‘unchristian’ they were because so-and-so got to watch that R-rated movie or how so-and-so was a sinner because they said ‘crap’ or ‘hell’. I never understood why the majority of the people at church were so judgmental and thought they served a higher purpose as though they were God’s right hand pounding down the gavel of judgement. It doesn’t end with the kids; the adults were just as contradictory.
After congregation we’d all meet outside of the front of the church where everyone would gather in their cliques. A circle of fashionable worshippers over here, a circle over there. This is where all of them, my family as well, would decide where they were going to eat for their Sunday feasts. These talks would also include another hour-long discussion of whether or not they’re living their lives righteous enough or if they should be more faithful to their lord and savior because they’ve been having one too many glasses of wine before bedtime. Mundane, simple shit that didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of being a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person.
I never had a good experience with people at church. Any church for that matter. All the kids would bully me, make fun of me, tell me I’m ‘too radical’ and weird. My jokes went over everyone’s head, my sense of style was like a little skater kid that didn’t fit in anywhere, and above all I was a bastard child. All the adults would complain to my parents about how I’m this ‘wild child’ and that I don’t listen to people when they tell me to do things. Although this might have been true it was never out of spite or because I was this delinquent everyone painted me out to be it was simply because I could see right these people and their intentions. They weren’t looking out for me; they were trying to use their powers as adults as they tend to do by telling me how and who to be, but I never could fall for it. I tried but it never felt genuine. I wasn’t some evil little devil child that needed to be changed and molded into something I’d never be! Ain’t nobody perfect! I could never fit that perfect image of what a ‘child of God’ was supposed to be. People at church loved to live their lives with this notion of ‘perfect image’ which is something that my family and I could never really live up too because we were real people. Real isn’t perfect because perfect isn’t real.
All of this blasphemy had me confused. I thought that this was a place of community and positivity, yet, being so involved with the church and seeing what happens behind the scenes of such secular activities. Even the pastor of our church made my Mom cry one time because he thought that she was planting ‘negative thoughts’ into people’s minds at the church making them leave to other churches. This obviously wasn’t the case; my Mom was more a shepherd to the people of Trinity Lutheran than he was. People simply just wanted to get the heck outta dodge and go to a more healthy and positive church.
Eventually we left the Trinity and tried to find a new home church because we were all getting sick of the overzealous repercussions. Sadly, we never found one we could truly call home. We would attend church every now and then for the annual Christmas service or if my grandmother Gigi wanted us to go with but whenever we’d enter those hallowed halls it never felt the same. They reeked of false prophets and empty messages as we sat in the cathedral of misguided sheep. My Mom always had a way of making light in every situation though. It was during the time we were serving food to the homeless in the community center at the church. We were all smiling, the homeless men, children, and women were too as we served them a warm dinner. I watched each of them pass down the line grabbing a plate and showing their gratitude and my Mom walks up behind me and says, “This is what it’s all about Jim. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
It’s not about going to church every Sunday. It’s not about donating money. It’s not about sitting around talking shit on everyone and how they aren’t a ‘rightful Christian’ because of X, Y, and Z reasons. It isn’t about molding people into who you want them to be. It’s not about being judgmental. It’s all about being a real, genuine, and loving person. I believe that’s what God would want his followers to be. That advice from Mom is something I’ve held close to my heart ever since and it has never led me astray. I’m a man of faith and I walk on my own road of salvation. I’ve never needed a church to tell me how to be a good person because in all reality, you can’t teach heart.
Author Bio: James Mudrak is an aspiring artist, writer, and creator graduating this winter with a BA of Arts in Literature in Writing Studies. He enjoys spending his alone time creating and working on his brand Unify Collective and his other various creative endeavors. To find out more about James, we encourage you to visit his website: unifycollective.com or follow him on Twitter and Instagram @jamezmudrak.