The other day I saw a picture on Facebook of what remained at a homeless encampment that had been removed. There was a tent, and in front of it, plastic lawn ornaments of Joseph and Mary. Now, I’m not a member of any organized religion these days and haven’t been for years, but I was raised in church. My uncle used to preach in a “hellfire and damnation” Baptist church when I was young. He and my aunt would sometimes take me with them when they traveled to revivals so I could sing “I’ll Fly Away” with her during the service.
Anyway, I don’t remember any of those early religious teachings because I was never listening to the preacher. The music and altar call were what I came for.
The old piano would start playing. My uncle would start the prayer. Voices would start whispering, “Yes, Jesus. Yes, Lord,” as well as muffled incoherent sounds in every direction. And I would watch the women, mesmerized, my head volleying back and forth so I wouldn’t miss a thing. They would stand in their pews, hands raised in the air, eyes closed, with their heads tilted back as if they were trying to feel the warmth of the sun, swaying back and forth, dancing to a tune stuck in their heads. There would be a stir in the room as someone did the necessary sidestep hustle out of their pew, making every attempt to not step on someone’s toes but always ending up apologizing.
They would come to the altar and kneel, sounding a silent signal to others to come and pray them through it. My uncle would place his large man’s hands on their heads. He would pray and stomp his feet, all the while holding his hands in place. His voice would build to a crescendo until he would scream at God. It wasn’t unusual for people to topple over as he released their heads and yelled, “In the name of Jesus Christ, You. Are. Healed!”
If the Holy Spirit was really moving that day, people would stand in the aisles and start speaking in a language that I had never heard before. There would be yelling and screaming and tongues making unintelligible sounds. The energy in the room would hum like a fluorescent light. People cried sometimes, too, in gut-wrenching sobs.
And I? I would be scared to death. I fought the urge to hide under the pew with my hands covering my ears. It was a lot for my young empathic soul. I was scared to death of God. I felt as if He would send a lightning strike aimed at my head if I didn’t try to be as perfect as I could be. I wholly understand “putting the fear of God in ya.” The God of my youth was always looking for a reason to whoop someone’s butt.
I have moved away from that belief with age. I don’t believe that a Higher Power rolls its eyes at me and becomes annoyed with the length of time between my incidents of disappointment. But that punitive version of God is my Boogie Man. He just pops up when I least expect it. The God of bigotry tells us that all LGBTQ+ folks are going to burn in the fires of hell. The God of women tells us that we are not deserving of reproductive rights. The God of white supremacy tells us that all non-white people are not to be treated equally or humanely. The God of poverty takes away capitalism’s responsibility to its fellow man.
There seems to be a punitive God for every social issue if you choose to believe it. And my Boogie Man doesn’t take a holiday break. If He did, there wouldn’t have been a plastic lawn ornament of Joseph and Mary in front of one remaining tent as a reminder; we would naturally walk through the world with hearts of compassion pursuing justice.
I’m not a Biblical scholar by any means, but I have read enough to realize that the God I would want to follow saw the power of the ones in the margins. To me, the story of Jesus’ birth is one of the impossible things happening under impossible circumstances; it’s a wonderful story of hope. The main characters are poor without adequate food or housing. They are forced to endure hardships so they can be counted for tax purposes and are refugees, fleeing shortly after the birth to safety. God chose a poor pregnant girl engaged to a poor carpenter to change the world by having a kid they couldn’t afford. God knew they were capable of great things, and so they believed it, too. And their Boogie Man even dies.
‘Tis the season,
Amy Jo
