when all God’s children say amen

I truly want to believe in a Heaven. But with Heaven comes Hell, and if you didn’t know, Hell is no good. So I did everything in my power to avoid a burning afterlife in the pits of eternal damnation. 

Some of my first memories take place in my childhood church, Glory of Christ, on some residential street in the Bronx between a couple bodegas and a janky B-rated Chinese food spot. My family and I would walk up to the front doors decorated with chipped remnants of their thick golden paint, pulling on the big silver knobs my grandfather likely spray-painted on his day off from work. In we walked to our second home, fashionably late as always. 

We received loud and loving greetings from aunties, uncles, and family not-by-blood as we wove in and out of the aisle to find our seats in the sanctuary, usually towards the back so as to not interrupt the sermon. I hated those scratchy blue fabric chairs. 

I waited impatiently for my Pastor to call up the children to the altar, his big preacher words barely resonating in my small ears as I fidgeted helplessly; children’s church was my absolute favorite part of the week. 

“I would now like to invite our children of God up to the altar to receive the blessing of the Lord. Yes, Lord!” His bassy voice boomed over the congregation. I perked up out of my folding chair and ran straight towards the altar stairs, ready to be blessed.

“... and all God’s children say,” Pastor called.

“AMEN!” The congregation shouted in response. 

“Amen and amen. Yes, Lord. You may now head downstairs for the youth service,” Pastor concluded, beaded sweat rolling down his lined forehead and into his thick peppered beard as he stood tall and mighty up at the glass podium on the altar. He was so tall and mighty.

Some of our teachers directed us downstairs to begin our service. The church basement was huge: large green tiled floors, pasty-white fold-up tables and chairs lined around the large yellowed projector sheet. To the left you’d find all of the delicate and vibrant posters of Hillsong Church UK, kids’ drawings of Noah’s Ark, and a hefty scroll that read out the Ten Commandments, among other Christian paraphernalia. 

We separated into groups based on our ages in order to learn Christian teachings that were more suitable for each age; Sixes learned about the animals in Noah’s Ark, Sevens were taught The Ten Commandments, Eights read the first book of the Bible, Genesis, which basically explains how God created everything, and whatever else little Christian children learn about.

“Do you believe in God?” My middle school best friend asked me out of the blue. We were freshly thirteen, walking to a pizza shop a little bit downtown of our school’s gated campus after class. As we jay-walked across the small Westchester town intersection, I racked my brain hard for the right words to respond. 

“Of course I do, do you?” I asked. She was Jewish, so I assumed her answer would be ‘yes’ because they read the Torah, which is essentially the Old Testament. 

“No, not really. I’m atheist,” she said. No? What else was there to believe in? She couldn’t have actually thought the The Big Bang was real. How silly.

“So you believe we came from monkeys?” I asked jokingly.

“We did come from monkeys,” she responded swifty, as if she watched them evolve.

“Where’s your proof?” 

“Science.” Her eyes and demeanor hadn’t changed since the beginning of our walk, unlike me; my ears began to heat up, and my fingers fidgeted in annoyance.

“The world is too perfect to have just happened by accident. I think God created everything. He created monkeys as monkeys, and humans are just humans,” I scoffed, thumbing and fidgeting more holes into the wrists of my thin green sweater.

“Okay.” Okay?! How could she be so sure? Is there something she knows that I don’t? There must be something I’m missing.

“Who would like to lead us in prayer?” My youth leader, Jackie, asked us. She is the human embodiment of a hug; delightfully plump and warm to the touch, silver tooth glimmering on her back left molar, and a blonde pixie-cut with extra-long acrylic nails entrancing anyone who looked. Her gold bangles jingled and harmonized with the clacking of her nails when she talked passionately with her hands, which was always. Her light Puerto Rican accent rang nicely in my ears as all of the Eights shot up their hands in excitement, eyeing each other in competition for who will get picked. 

“Kiki! Why don’t you pray over us today?” Excited and mortified, I began. The only times I would pray were for my food, and alone before bed. I would close my eyes to fall asleep, but before I could let myself, I had to pray. Well, repent. I had to apologize for all of my prepubescent sins just in case that night was my last. I always made sure to pray about my family and friends first, to not seem conceited, of course. 

“I would like us to bow our heads and close our eyes,” I squeaked. The sweat in my small palms squished into the hands of the people holding them, but I continued. 

“Thank you God for this day. I pray that we will have a good day. Thank you God for everything you have given us, and we should all be grateful. Please protect us from the Devil, please. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen and Amen.” 

“Amen!” The rest of the kids barked back in unison, opening our eyes and letting in the fluorescent lights of the basement. I quickly released my grip and wiped my hands off on the tulle of my pretty Sunday dress. I hope I did that right. 

I shifted in my wooden chair uncomfortably around the oval seminar table in my Eastern Religions class sophomore year while we discussed reincarnation. My teacher explained the Hindu and Buddhist beliefs of karma, Nirvana, and ultimate peace, and I couldn’t help but notice that my chest didn’t tighten up the way that it does when I think about Heaven and Hell. To receive reward or punishment for how one acts in all lifetimes, no church needed. How weird, it felt so much more fair. Is there more to it than I thought? Am I horrible for liking it more?

There are many ways to avoid Hell, according to the Glory of Christ Church; repent your sins; try not to sin as hard as you possibly can; get baptized; and most importantly, whatever you do, do NOT skip church on Sunday. I chose to get baptized. This would be the closest I could get to a clean slate, and I would not give up the opportunity to get right with God. I was almost eleven years old when I told my dad my genius revelation. At the time, he was the Deacon (or the leader) of the men in the congregation, going to church easily three times a week, so you can imagine his excitement when I brought him this news. During the praise and worship segment of the service I sang loud and let the wailing of Glossolalia— also known as speaking in Tongues— “utterances approximating words and speech, usually produced during states of intense religious experience,” send an electric feeling down my spine, an incomprehensible and unusual feeling  that I cannot articulate, even now that I am no longer religious like I was then. I decided to chase that electricity. I needed it. I felt I could control my fate now, it was no longer in the hands of my sins. This could get God to let me into Heaven. So over the next few months I spent every Sunday memorizing every book of the Bible, taking quizzes on crucial Biblical events, and mastering the mental state of which one had to be in in order to accept this new chapter of one’s life: the clean slate chapter.

Several months of lengthy preparation later, it finally came time for me to get baptized. My mom had stopped coming to church after having a blowout with our Pastor, an endeavor in which I am not allowed to speak, but I was able to convince her to get up out of bed and attend just for me. I twiddled my fingers impatiently waiting behind the church doors, dressed in all white down to the socks, symbolizing purity of heart and soul. My grandparents weeped joyful tears as they watched me walk down the white-tiled aisle in the middle of the sanctuary to this huge pool hidden underneath the alter. Using my dad’s hand to guide me, I waddled confidently into the cool water. I stood and received a prayer from the entire church. Nose and mouth cupped and covered. Submerged. Reemerged. My dad’s big white t-shirt soddened and stuck to my young figure. The weight of the water stretched my hair; long, thick strands flayed about my shoulders. Rebirth.

I was a new woman now. I had to stay in God’s good graces, and to do so, that meant saving my Sundays for holy endeavors. 

All of my friends from elementary school thought I was insane. Everytime my best friends wanted to have a sleepover from Saturday night to Sunday morning I would scream, “NO! I can’t do Sunday mornings,” When they’d ask why, I’d simply just say, “Church.”

Not even six months after my baptism, I started missing church more and more as the weeks progressed. My mom refused to show up in spite of my pastor. My brother followed suit. It was just me and my dad. I’d cry silently in the car all the way to the chipped golden doors with silver knobs because I failed yet again to drag my family out of their beds. An itching sense of dread washed over me as I wove through the aisles to a scratchy blue folding chair in the back of the house, late again.

“Where’s your mama?” Rosemary Diaz asked me, burgundy dyed box braids swaying violently as she begged for my response. 

“Um… she’s home,” I hesitated. “She’s sick, I think.”

“Tell her that bed not going nowhere, Mija, and that God don’t like quitters.” She kissed my cheek, leaving a thick orange imprint of her lips behind, and whisked away to smack her tambourine to “One Way, Jesus” by Hillsong UK, A praise song that used to be my favorite.

Every Sunday some different auntie or third cousin twice removed would run up to me and interrogate me about my mom, and then about my brother, disengaging me from whatever sermon was being preached. Pastor’s words went from inspirational to obnoxious and repetitive. I was running dry of excuses. I hated the questions, I hated my mother and brother for giving up. I hated myself for questioning the existence of God. I hated my school for what I now knew. I hated my pastor’s stupid sermons. And I hated my friends for having Saturday night sleepovers without me. I couldn’t see those golden doors in the same way—all I felt was robbed, empty, and confused.

Sometimes I miss spending my time at church. I haven’t been in a couple of years now. I miss the love, I miss the raw infatuation—the innocent ignorance. I haven’t died yet, so I don’t know if Heaven exists, but even now in the back of my mind I feel that overwhelming fear—maybe even excitement— of what I have yet to know.