How I Cured My Complicated Relationship With Religion
The spirit finally moved me
When I was 13 or so, a well-known prophet came to our town, and I accompanied my father to a prayer service. Daddy had always been very spiritual, a seeker, and he wanted me to participate in his active faith.
The worship was akin to what we’re used to seeing in megachurches and Black Baptist rituals. People keened and hollered around me. The music swelled. People cried out in joy and in deliverance. The Spirit was moving.
I did not like this outpouring of emotion, and I frowned in dismay. As a young child, I cried a lot, lacking the words to articulate my feelings. My parents did the best they could to console me, which meant asking me not to cry and telling me that everything would be okay. So, I learned to not show tears, to bury my feelings.
Back in the fervor of the prayer service, a woman across the aisle caught my eye, and she approached me with purpose. “I know you don’t understand what’s happening here,” she said as she took my hands in hers. There was a lump in my throat and a stirring in my heart I couldn’t describe, and I wept shoulder-shaking tears onto this stranger’s bosom. My new friend was correct: I had no idea what was happening, in the room or in my own body. All I knew was that it was slightly painful and…
