Church Boy.

Hi Kenna, I think this must be day 55 or more of your sobriety. I am very happy for you. Keep asking the Lord to strengthen and guide you. Smile. Jesus loves you and so do I. 

Thanks mom. 

Going back to church was one of those things I hadn’t gotten around to. Like a pile of laundry that keeps growing throughout the month. You could avoid it. 

Until you feel unclean. Dirty. 

The little church girl who would consume the Body and Blood of Christ on first Saturdays, in a small plastic container with a stale wafer and grape juice, was the same girl who would be consumed by the bodies of men who worshipped her instead. 

The gospel according to Tinder. 

The apostles: vodka, cigarettes, and stimulants. 

I was approaching that time in early addiction recovery when the conversations pivoted from drugs of choice to higher powers. Family, Buddha, meditation, self-preservation. 

This teaching clip made me think of you. Watch Isaiah 26:4

Ignore.

My mother had always been praying for me. Praying for protection when she didn’t know where I was for a few days. Praying for my deliverance when the trash in my room overflowed with cans of alcohol from nights drinking alone. 

Deliverance.

Something I’d been watching clips of on YouTube. A pastor would stand in the pulpit of a church casting out demons from weary folks who had strayed. Calling upon the name of the Lord to rebuke attachments as the folks dropped to their knees, sometimes writhing in pain as the demon was summoned out of their vessels and cast back down to hell. 

“Hi. McKenna. 56 days sober from alcohol.”

I was sitting in a recovery meeting trying to calm myself down from a panic attack that had no specific trigger. I was having a lot of those these days. The supposed pink cloud, replaced by an overcast of emotions. 

A round of applause from the group followed as usual. 

“So. I’m going back to church this Sunday. First time in years.”

Some nods from the group.

I was getting better at sharing. 

“I grew up in the church, you know. I stopped going in college–”

I’d been scrolling on Instagram and this church popped up on my algorithm. It felt like a calling. Or maybe Meta was getting better at spying on me, and I took surveillance for a sign.

“I mean the only reason I went in college, if I’m honest, is because this guy who went to my school was the pastor's kid and they needed people for the choir. They said they’d pay me twenty bucks a week. I was broke.”

Someone from the group laughed. 

“Anyway, yeah, I’m sort of scared I’ll combust into flames or somethin on the way in. Or maybe be cast out as a witch or somethin. I’m not a witch though. No shade to witches. I’m just not one. I dunno.”

I actually meant that. The scared part. 

The witch part too actually. 

“Well I look forward to hearing how church goes when I see you next week McKenna.” 

The group counselor said. So I had to go now. 

Protect my new life in sobriety, or whatever the hell I was telling myself so I wouldn’t pick up. 

The addiction recovery center had become my church.

The groups, my congregation. 

Our shares, confessionals.

Our proclamations of sober time, prayers. 

Sunday evening, I put on a pair of grey jeans and a cream button-up with a rip on the sleeve.

I figured I’d tell my mother. Maybe it’d make up for all the shit I did in the past if she saw I was saved again. Another way to receive some sort of approval.

 The whole good girl thing that I was in active addiction to. 

Bright red doors, smiling faces welcoming me. 

Wooden pews lined to the very back. 

Stained glass windows. 

I shuffled into one of the back pews to avoid talking to anyone. 

I couldn’t risk it. 

At any moment God could make an example of me. Show others what could happen if you strayed. Command me to combust like the biblical burning bush and sink to the floor.

I was watching too much YouTube. 

I scanned the room instead and met with confrontation, not combustion.

Church boy. A few rows ahead of me. 

One of those guys who casually spoke about sex. 

Who appeared as though his faith was never in question.

his identity, accepted. 

Mine hung in the balance between the streets and scripture.

Between wondering whether faith and desire could exist in the same body. 

I ducked under a pew to hide my face. Seriously. 

Church boy.

Had seen me in compromising positions that I wanted to be in. 

I didn’t actually know him. Just wanted him. 

Just wanted whatever I thought he represented.

Conviction. Belonging. Acceptance.

With Him all things were possible. 

Until I ended it. 

Until I felt I wasn’t special. 

Until I felt something else could give me whatever He couldn’t.

A photo of my rack was merely one in a probably endless rotation of women.  

Church boy was merely a casualty in my endless use and discard of men. 

I guess I forgot that the old me walked into church too.

And I guess I was sort of reconciling with the fact that just like there was B.C. and A.D. there was B.S. before sobriety, and A.S. after sobriety. 

Sometimes A.S.S., depending on the day.

That day. 

I was scared of facing B.S. 

Of the way I kept making men, people, responsible for feelings that actually belonged to me. 

The pastor began to preach about idolatry. False idols, false gods. 

Here I was ruminating about church boy.

Still wanting church boy.

Still wanting to fuck church boy.

Still worshiping perception. 

Still serving two masters.

Bowing down to the altar of approval and self-avoidance.

Of lust and wrath. 

I closed my eyes.

God, if you’re there, show me a sign that I belong here.

The pastor continued.

“This church is tied to one of the longest-running active AA meeting locations–”

Lead me not into temptation.

“Some people say that AA is church. That they’re more welcoming than the church itself–”

But deliver me from evil.

“But not this church. Not my church. I know the same fellowship that they have down in the basement, we have here.”

I got up and walked toward the altar for prayer. Past church boy, who I was now pretty sure saw me. Who was really just an idol among many, hiding me from the fact that getting laid was distracting me from getting sober. 

Worship filled the space of the church as I began to cry. 

And continued to pray. 

This teaching clip made me think of you. Watch Psalms 103:13

For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory forever and ever. 

Thanks mom. On my way home soon.

Amen.