Mark and I attended the Greek Food Festival in downtown Birmingham on Saturday. I knew it was hosted by the Greek Orthodox Church, but I didn’t realize it would be held on church property. Nevertheless, once I determined the location, we followed through with our plan.
We arrived at the event and headed directly to the food line where we purchased some delectable Greek cuisine. After meandering through the crowd with our boxed food for a few minutes, we found a shady spot to eat and listen to music.
Afterwards, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a Beer and Wine bar. (The former Southern Baptist in me is still surprised when churches don’t condemn drinking alcohol.) I bought a cup of wine, and we made our way back around to the food line to grab some Chocolate Baklava and an Almond Pastry. Instead of attempting to weave through the crowd to find a table again, we sat on the front steps of the church to share our dessert.
When we finished, Mark asked if I wanted to walk through the church since they were inviting visitors to tour it. It was supposed to be a nonchalant question, but it felt weighty instead. The past few years, walking inside churches has taken effort and mental preparation on my part. I agreed, and we made our way through the magnificent, wooden doors.
Inside, there were gorgeous paintings and stained-glass windows. We walked to the front where the High Place was sectioned off, and immediately, I was reminded of all my studies about the Tabernacle. That’s when the ache and anger bubbled within me, fighting for prominence. We took photos of the paintings and the arched ceiling and the tall, lighted windows. I felt as if I belonged, like I always do when I walk into a church building.
There’s something about a sanctuary that makes me feel like I’m home, even if it’s a home that gaslighted me. Perhaps it’s because I spent countless hours inside them for decades. For a moment, I imagined myself singing there. But I knew I didn’t fit. I’ve come to understand there’s no place for me inside a church building anymore.
Later that night, we went to a local bar to hear a band and grab a late dinner. I drank a couple of beers, watched the other patrons, and listened to the band as I ate my BLT sandwich. I had to fight off tears. The ache and anger were back, but this time, they were accompanied by jealousy. I wanted to be the one singing, to feel the fire of a burning passion again. I belonged on that stage, singing…because singing always feels like the home that tells me the truth. Within minutes of finishing my sandwich, we left. I didn’t fit at that bar, either.
I’m slowly-but-surely working on a book about how religion affected me as a female. Last week, as a source of research for the chapter I’m currently working on, I pulled out an old Bible study workbook about the Patriarchs and began thumbing through it. Years ago, I’d made notes and highlighted sections I felt were significant to me. They were about promises and waiting and fulfillment of those promises. The author wrote the study (as most Biblical teachers do) in a way that made it seem like the promises given to Biblical characters somehow applied directly to me, the reader. I just knew God had promised me a life of singing. But now I know: those are ancient stories that have absolutely nothing to do with me. I wasn’t promised anything. And the waiting? Well, looking back, that seems like a tactic teachers and leaders use to keep people in a posture of powerlessness.
Tonight, I sat at my old piano where I played and sang a few songs. I started off with an Elton John tune, then made my way through an Iris Dement song and a few others. Even though I knew better, I grabbed the book of worship songs and played through some of those as well. Something about the familiarity of those songs stirs something in me, even though the words ring hollow now. Perhaps my solo performances to an empty room were a eulogy to the promises and places where I belong but don’t fit.
*Photo: Pixabay
