[pic]The Day That I Didnt Go to Church. Essay Example For Students

[pic]The Day That I Didnt Go to Church. Essay When you think of Sunday, what is the first thing that comes to yourhead? For me it was different at one point in my life than it is rightnow. To suggest to me at age sixteen that one-day I would look atorganized religion and cringe was completely out of the question. God wasmy savior, my guider, and my reason for existence. Now he is my friend, anacquaintance at best. One sunny day in April, my mom informed me that I was nominated tohead one of the Sunday school classes, being that I wanted to pursue acareer in teaching. I remember the weather that spring day because itstarted out as one of those mornings that make you take a deep breath andthank whoever it is that you choose to thank in situations of almostcomplete fulfillment. The birds were blasting out glorious hymns and thesmell of the first lawns being mowed were enough on their own to make melove life just a little bit more than usual. What happened to the weatherlater on that afternoon is extremely appropriate to the changes thatoccurred in my mood. It was around 4:30 and the shadows were beginning to give way to theapproaching storm front. The wind picked up and lightning flashed in thedistance, not yet accompanied by thunder. Nonetheless, I was excited to saythe least about my chance to prove the congregation that I was the bestsixteen-year-old Sunday school teacher that Holy Trinity had ever seen. Iwas going to prepare a lesson that would hit the hearts of the children andat the same time be extremely simple in both speech and idea. It waschallenging to say the least. I spent the better part of the stormy evening going through my picturebible and choosing, preparing, and practically scripting my lesson. Thefinal draft of my 30-minute spiel was nonetheless something to gloat about. It was the Saturday before my scheduled debut and I spent the night atmy best friend Sarahs house. We were listening to the Spice Girls andhaving a discussion about why her parents didnt make her abide bysocietys standard and attend a weekly service. She used an analogy thatwill stick with me for the rest of my life. Connie, my parents told me that church was like a shoe. You buy itbecause it looks and feels good but over a period of time the shoe becomesengraved to your soul and almost personalized to meet your expectations,Sarah explained. The weight of her words didnt seem so heavy at first, but as soon asI reevaluated her remark, it hit me. Being sixteen years old and havingjust been told that the religion that I have grown up to trust is nothingmore than a comfort zone, something to make my life a little moreconvenient, ended up making me more confused than anything. How selfish ofme as a member of the Holy Trinity congregation to sit there weekend afterweekend and fill my heart with empty promises and rehearsed lines when Ishould be out helping others not just feeding my conscience withmetaphorical pats on the back! I remember wondering if I was committing asin just by sitting in church trying to grasp and practice the concepts andstandards of a personalized religion. As the dark room illuminated periodically with flashes of white lightfrom bolts of lightning, we laid there in silence. Not the silence ofsleep but the silence of uneasiness. Sarah new just by the look in my eyethat a blanket had been lifted. To this day, I dont think that she wasprepared to be the deliverer of such a spiritual awakening at that stage ofadolescence. .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 , .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .postImageUrl , .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 , .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:hover , .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:visited , .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:active { border:0!important; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:active , .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0 .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .ud1283f68591d9b701006a522dd81d8b0:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: A Critical Analysis Of Tensions In Memorial A. H. EssayThat night, I fell asleep to the arguing in my head. One part of myrational thought kept telling me that what she said was true. The othervoice was yelling at me to maintain comfort and stick with what I knewbest. The mental conversation continued through the night and well intothe R.E.M. stage of my sleep. I began to dream that I was in church staring at my new pair of shoesand wondering how long it was going to take to break them in. Paying noattention to the sermon, I looked around at the different faces of thecongregation. To my surprise, they were all asleep with expressions ontheir faces that would suggest that they were following the pastorslesson. I got up from the pew to run away but as I tried to lift my feet Irealized that my brand new shoes were stuck to the ground. After whatseemed like minutes of trying to wriggle free, I tried to say something totry to wake the stranger next to me but every time that I opened my mouththe pastors voice got louder as if to drown me out. The last thing that Iremember about my nightmare was the fact that the pastors outfit was oneof a car salesman. His light blue leisure suit was horribly tacky and outof date, his tie was tied too short. I woke up startled but content. To me the dream portrayed a number of things. The shoes of coursewere those of which Sarah spoke of earlier that night symbolizing church asa whole. The people being asleep acting like they were listeningrepresented the fact that they had not woken up to realize what I had. When I spoke and the pastors voice overcame mine, it lead me to believethat what one individual person has to say about how life should be livedhas no meaning before God. Last but definitely not least, the image of mypastor dressed like a car salesman portrayed the idea of forcing religionlike selling a car onto seemingly innocent minds. The dream was even morepowerful than the metaphor that Sarah used. The next morning when my mother called to tell me she was on her wayto pick me up to head to church I politely declined. I explained myepiphany not expecting for her to understand completely. I could tell inher voice that she never thought the day would come that I would turn myback on church and the congregation. It saddened her, I could tell, buttnothing could make me more happier than I was that day. When I got home, I marched straight up to my room and in to my closet. I grabbed the new pair of shoes that I had bought earlier in the week withmy allowance money and brought them to my lock box that I keep under mybed. I let out a sigh as I opened the box and put the shoes in. Inparting with the shoes, I parted with a big chunk of my life but,strangely, that was all right with me. I still have the pair of shoes andto this day they have never been broken in. I can definitely say that daychanged my life from how I knew it then to how I know it now and I amgrateful. The End