Page 90 of Man On

In the entryway, there's a table pushed against one wall. A bronze bowl filled with what I'm assuming is Holy Water, sits to the side. The rest of the table is covered in old framed photographs of this building and some pamphlets for guidance counseling and other campus resources. On the wall, there's a bulletin board with community news and notices of events and meetups. My eyes are drawn to the large, brightly woven rainbow above the bulletin board with the words, ‘All Are Welcome Here’. On the board is a pinned notice of the Harrison University LGBTQIA+ Resource Center Meetup, which apparently happens in this building, too.

There's almost no one inside the simple chapel, only a few people are scattered amongst the pews. A woman that might be in her early forties stands at the front near a table of candles. No one notices when I slide into the far back corner, kneeling and propping my hands up on the edge of the pew in front of me. I close my eyes to pray, but the words won't come. It’s been so long since I prayed, even just to myself at home. My thoughts are too convoluted. I feel broken, like a scattered puzzle that’s missing too many pieces.

What if God doesn't want to hear from me? What if I've fallen too far?

By the time I look up again, the room has filled up a little more. There are at least a dozen people sitting in the pews, and I notice the woman I saw before is donning a clergy stole. It's the school's colors, black and white, with several white embroidered emblems for different religions. Is she the pastor?

My mind shifts through all the scripture I have memorized, remembering passages that specifically forbade women to be leaders in the church. Because Eve was so easily deceived by the serpent in the Garden of Eden, women were not considered worthy enough to preach the gospel or have authority over men in any capacity. I look more closely at the woman, at her suntanned skin that suggests she likes to work outdoors, her somewhat unruly dark curls, and the kind expression on her face as she walks among the congregation, greeting each person like an old friend. When she gets to me, she holds a hand out for me to shake, enclosing my hand in both of her warm ones. Her honey brown eyes exude warmth and make me feel grounded. I find myself smiling back at her as she introduces herself, holds my gaze, and welcomes me. And I believe her. For the first time, I can actually feel God's love in the form of a person meant to convey His word.

Suffice to say, I like her immediately.

It's not until she walks away that I realize I hadn't actually heard her name, and I'm pretty sure I didn't introduce myself when she asked my name. I was too busy staring and processing. She doesn't seem offended, making her way up to the pulpit as the small crowd finds their seats.

"Good afternoon," she says to all of us, and we reply in turn. "I see some new faces in the crowd today, so I'd like to introduce myself and what we do here, because it might be a bit different than the places of worship you came from. I'm Dr. Alice Levin, and I'm the chaplain here at the Harrison University Interfaith Chapel. This is a non-denominational place of gathering and worship. It is a sanctuary for all. A safe space for people of all backgrounds and creeds. In these walls you will find acceptance, compassion, comfort, and dignity no matter who you are or where you come from. As long as you enter with love in your heart, you will be accepted as a member of this congregation without question."

Her words penetrate my heart and make my brain spin. This is nothing like the church I grew up in, and I'm having trouble understanding the concept of acceptance at face value. I believe I have love in my heart. At least I think I do. But I'm so afraid that love is tainted.

The sermon is nothing like the ones I grew up hearing. There's no fire or brimstone or talk of hell. There's no fear at all. Only more talk of love and acceptance of each other and ourselves. I'm not even sure if she mentioned God once, and she never once lifted a Bible or shouted. No one spoke in tongues. A couple times she even made jokes that people laughed at, while I mostly stared wide-eyed at my surroundings. Everyone looks so comfortable. It's too easy.

I have so many questions, yet I'm unsure if I could find the words to voice them if I wanted to. I linger for a few minutes after the closing words, nodding politely as the people close to me greet each other and me. I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't notice Dr. Levin sit down on the pew next to me.

"A bit different from what you're used to?" she asks with a warm, understanding smile.

Does she look at everyone like that? Would she be so understanding if she knew everything in my heart? All the fear and questioning that I'm running away from?

"Just a bit," I tell her with a wry smile.

She nods, not expecting any further explanation. The silence between us is oddly comfortable, and I have to admit that I feel better just sitting here than I have in a very long time.

"I've avoided church for the past four years or so," I say eventually. "It just didn’t feel the same as what I grew up with." More silence, and then I turn my head towards her. "I'm a little confused why this feels right, but it's not a real church at all."

If she's offended, she doesn't let on. She actually laughs. "You're not the first to think that. But I think church and God and worship are all subjective." My eyes widen and I flinch back like she could be hit by lightning at any moment, which she also finds humorous.

"I don't mean that in an irreverent way," she explains. "What I mean is that there are billions of people on this earth, all of whom are searching for truth and meaning in some way. Who's to say who's right or wrong? What if the God you worship and the enlightenment found by Buddhists monks on the other side of the world are the same entity, just perceived differently? Whether you call it one God or many, or a spirit, or the Force,” she chuckles. “It doesn't matter because the meaning is the same. It's something that unites humanity, despite it being the cause of war, death, and despair for eons."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it, I guess."

"You're too polite to tell me what you really think,” she says with a laugh.

"I'm not sure I know what to think anymore."

She hums and nods understandingly. “You were praying earlier. Do you find it helpful?"

"Sometimes. But I'm not really sure He's listening," I admit.

Her face falls into a somber expression. "What makes you think that?"

"Because I haven't followed His word the way I should," I say, and my voice sounds small even to me. My eyes cut towards the rainbow in the entryway.

“Lane,” she says, and I turn to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry someone made you feel that God doesn’t love you exactly for who you are.” Her eyes shine, but I don’t feel pity in her gaze. “That’s not the God I believe in,” she tells me bluntly. “Part of the wonder of Creation is that we are all so very perfectly imperfect. I believe we are meant to love all of those parts of ourselves, and I believe He loves you exactly as you were born.”

Her words echo what my mother said and burrow into my soul. When I really search my heart, I don’t believe that my feelings are the work of evil forces drawing me into temptation. It doesn’t feel like evil; it doesn’t feel bad. It just feels like me. But I also don’t know how to stop feeling the shame of my truths when they’ve been driven into me, or how to get the voices that say otherwise to stop whispering.

Sick. Abomination. Weak.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Shifting my gaze to my hands, and the cuticle I've nearly made bleed, I shake my head. There aren’t words for what I’m feeling right now.

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