My Church

Dear me-at-twenty,

I miss going to my church. But you, you get to go there, unfettered by the apocalypse upon us. And although I know that this plague too shall pass, I remember the closest I felt to believing in a higher power and it gets me through these dark times.

In that moment of pure ecstasy, standing with my arms raised to the ceiling of the chapel-turned-rave club venue, where we now pray to a new god, hear new hymns and the only holy water is the first cold sip after the first pill hits you, I’m so fucking jealous. You feel like your life has culminated in this moment and it has. But there will be a sequel, and another and another and then suddenly five years have gone by and you’re wondering, where did it all go? I think of you and I no longer feel this stab of sadness of days gone by. I feel blessed to have stood in that sacred place, stained glass windows, organ and all. Every pill was a communion wafer, and the communion wine never ran dry. Our sins melted as soon as the music started and I felt the closest I ever have to a mass of strangers, stood below the new prophet, who stood behind the decks. It’s this visceral experience, of feeling whole and holy, of feeling one, of feeling unlimited love. If you asked me what it felt like to feel the touch of god, I would tell you standing in my church, arms raised to the ceiling, singing the hymns of my priest. I would tell you dancing under the ornate ceiling, with no cares in the world. I would tell you hugging one of my best friends, grinning from ear to ear and feeling like we don’t need to speak, we both already know. At our prayer, we close our eyes and hope for the next drop to make us feel like we’ve never felt before. And our wishes are granted. We sing hallelujah. We’re all in this spiritual moment together, sharing in this elevated plane of consciousness, where our hearts beat together to the tempo of the bassline.

Five years of tears and laughter, nights out and mornings after. It’s been a rollercoaster ride and a half. You’ve lost some friends but made way more. I remember those moments at my church, and I think of how lucky I am to have prayed to the gods I did, to feel them touch my heart and ears, to wonder how life might be like if I had never had such a Revelation. My church has been a place of refuge, moving from venue to venue, but the essence remains. Those moments make me understand that true faith is not believing in someone else’s god, it’s believing in the power of human connection. My higher power isn’t some omnipotent man, it’s knowing that the same stardust runs through all our veins and knowing we all experience this world together. I remember reading once that we are just the universe becoming aware of itself and when I was at my church, I felt that more than I have ever felt anywhere else.

So whilst people who look like me are targeted by vitriol and violence in the street and people who look like me watch on doing nothing whilst our black comrades are murdered by police, and whilst the poor get poorer and Jeff Bezos gains billions, whilst people are dying and it is not soldiers but grocery shop workers, care staff, doctors, nurses and paramedics risking their lives each day, and as jokes about banana bread and a man who own tigers that you can’t begin to understand become mainstream, you are partying on, in our church, somewhere in the past, eyes closed, heart full, blissfully unaware of what is to be. Savour every moment, and I will live vicariously through your blurry photos and wine-soaked reminiscing over Zoom (you’ll understand soon enough). As the world feels dark and messy and uncertain, those moments of joyousness, connection, and hope standing in our church, give me faith that a child like me, who has always felt in-between worlds of black and white, of straight and gay, of immigrant and citizen, can feel at home in a world so desperate to erase her.

So, me-at-twenty, go to church every weekend. Don’t let the nonbelievers tell you any different because in five years’ time, when you can’t even go outside, hugs feel illegal and a gathering like our church is sinfully selfish, you’ll miss the feeling of release and ecstasy that is impossible to describe. When every day is starting to feel like a morning after, you’ll need those moments to look forward to, to remember, to revere.

I miss going to my church.

Love always,

A