A St. Mark's Story: A Place to Call Home
Posted on by G.N.
I have some memories of going to church when I was younger.
There’s the little rhyme, “This is the church, and this is the steeple, open the door and see all the people.”
I remember; some Bible stories, ladies in high heels, powerful sounding choirs, and everyone lighting up a cigarette as soon as they got outside.
But the whole church thing was always hard for me. And I think being gay, and watching how some churches have turned against my friends and I, has a lot to do with why I have stayed away. I never wanted to be labeled a Christian because I didn’t want to be in the same boat as those people who have judged and condemned us. So, I drifted around and didn’t really join a church for most of my adult years.
Then, I had an emotional meltdown one year ago in the spring. I retreated into myself, and tried to find that essence of what I call “me” to fight back. It was nowhere to be found. The familiar, soon became the strange. I used to think that if I sat in my most comfortable chair, sipping on coffee, eventually I would come to a place in my mind where I would find some peace, not this time. Comfort was fleeting and even somewhat elusive. Even sleep, normally my respite, became another dance with these unwelcome strangers.
My doctor put me on some medication to address the anxiety and depression. But the meds didn’t seem to be enough. I had a yearning for something else, more permanent, which is why I turned to a church. Always one to tell others that religion has been a crutch for the weak, and the cause of wars, prejudices, and everything abhorrent, I had to eat a little crow. It was worth it though, because I found something I was looking for.
I found St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. My first foray into the sanctuary came on an evening in March when there was to be a candlelight prayer service. I was greeted by the Rector in the narthex who held her arms open and welcomed me to St. Mark’s. She told me if I liked the service, I should come back for more on Sunday.
I did come back for more, and I met more of the church leaders and some of the congregants. One of the first people I met was Malinda. I spoke with her outside the church kitchen as she was inviting me to go to one of those confirmation classes. I told her I wasn’t sold on this whole religion thing. Before I could climb onto one of my soapboxes about the evils of organized religion, she said to me,
“Church is an organization of people. That’s all it is, complete with all the foibles and faults that people carry with them.”
I stopped and thought for a minute, and I considered the thought that I might have been wrong about church, religion and all the various things that go with one’s faith.
By early summer, my depression and anxiety had abated. Admittedly, I expected my church attendance to dwindle as well. To my surprise, I continued to go to church. Clearly diversity is welcomed in this church. From the occasional homeless person who wanders into the service, to the friendly, cigar-smoking, southern born Associate Rector, Buck, who is always outside the church to greet everyone, the term “inclusive” is translated literally. There is something rich about worshipping with people who are on the other side of ourselves. It’s as if someone has taken a random group of people from Kroger’s Grocery Store, and put us all in front of the altar to receive communion. The texture of its people, the acceptance of many diverse families, couples and singles, for me, is why I continue to stay involved at St. Mark’s.
I was confirmed at St Marks last spring, and I’m now attending the morning Bible study to learn more about how God has influenced other people, past and present. Some of the things that attracted me to church when I was a child remain the same: the powerful choir, Bible stories, and the ladies in high heels. But no longer do I feel badly about being called a Christian. In fact, because I’m gay I now refer to myself as being a “Fabulous Christian.” And as any good and decent person will tell you, Jesus has always loved the fabulous. So, thank you St. Marks for giving “the fabulous,” myself included, a place to call their holy home.