Why I Chose “Nondenominational” On My College Applications

When I was little, I hated church. I didnʼt understand why I had to sit so quiet, and listen to this dressed-up man behind a pulpit drone on and on. I remember staring up at the lights and kicking my feet so they hit the pew in front of me until I was hushed, and reprimanded. I remember keeping an eye on Momʼs watch the entire time. 

After a serious death in the family, we stopped going. I was seven years old at the time. I missed my grandfather. But I remember that I was happy. I didnʼt have to get up early, or wear a dress, and most importantly, I didnʼt have to wait anymore. So all was well.

The funny thing about it though, was that we still said prayers at night. Just the Lordʼs Prayer. My brother, my mother, and father seemed to believe. Eyes closed, hands linked, they said those words with conviction. As they came out of my mouth, they meant nothing. I remember that I opened my eyes a lot. 

As I grew, and as the prayer was said night after night, I became conflicted. Wasnʼt there supposed to be a moment when you had a revelation? Couldnʼt I believe? It was strange. We were a Christian family, after all. I remember wondering just what the hell was wrong with me that I couldnʼt feel what I was so obviously supposed to.

When I was twelve, I tried youth services. On Wednesdays. I remember my father seeming angry that I was going. I remember thinking that it was probably because he felt guilty, for not going to church and I was, and he was projecting. I thought that it was funny, because I was so confused about God, and he wasn't.

So I went. For about a month. I felt awkward. There was no sense of fellowship, I was a lousy singer, and all of these other kids felt so fake. Like they were just keeping up appearances. I remember that they were on their phones a lot. Oh, but they loved to praise God, and they were so involved in camps and summer events, and each of them shared their “moment." You know the one. Where you suddenly let Jesus into your heart and feel it. I remember the crushing sense of despondency that came over me the moment I was asked what my moment was.

I stopped going. But I kept trying for that epiphany that had eluded me for so long. When those nice people came to our door and left us papers, I picked them up. I disregarded the church name and invitation for that Sunday every single time. I remember that I always flipped to the back. Past all of the inspirational shit. To the part that mattered. The one that instructed me:

If you recite this simple prayer, you are saved.

I remember getting down on my knees, and closing my eyes as tight as I could. I remember admitting that I was a sinner. I remember saying that I accepted Jesus as my lord and savior. I remember that my hands were clenched so firmly in front of me it was a wonder that my fingers didnʼt break. And I remember, that when it was done, and I opened my eyes, I was as empty as I was before my shins hit the floor.

After doing that five times, I threw those papers in the trash. 

Nothing life-changing ever happened to me. I was forever unsaved, as far as I was concerned, because I never once believed.

But every now and then, I receive these little signs. Small things that could just be coincidence. Makes me wonder if I should give the whole thing another shot. Sigh.

I donʼt believe, but I donʼt not believe, either. Itʼs really the damndest thing.

The only certainty I have about religion is the uncertainty in my heart.

So in my purgatory, I still

appreciate the teachings of the Bible. They're all well and good, in my opinion. Nice things to aspire to achieve every day. Goals to set and all that.

But in the back of my mind, questions loom.

Is it really possible to believe?

Will I ever change my mind before I die?

The answer to both of those:

I donʼt know.

But I guess one way or another, I'll find out.

Thanks for tuning in.

P.S. I chose "nondenominational” because agnostic isnʼt an option on most applications. Isnʼt that funny?