God, Guns, and Country

I was born and raised in the south, in a small-ish town in Upstate South Carolina. A place too big to be a true small town, but too small to describe it any other way. If you’re from here or somewhere similar, you know exactly what it’s like. If you’re not, let me paint you a picture.

I grew up with a church around every corner, the same classmates from 1st to 12th grade, surrounded by cows and farmland. My childhood was spent running around barefoot in a cul-de-sac and eating honeysuckles at recess. Whenever I leave home, I find that people have a lot more misconceptions than I thought.

Some say we’re too rigid and beyond help. I met a woman in California who, after learning we were from South Carolina, began to rant about our “regressive state government.” I even had a professor look at me with serious concern and say my state was only getting “worse and worse.”

Others are too idealistic. They imagine romantic depictions of southern belles in flowy ball gowns like Scarlett O’Hara. They think of slow living, traditional family values, and call it God’s country.

My experience has been somewhere in the middle. For example, I’ve absolutely gotten fresh eggs from my friend’s chickens and talked to strangers like I’ve known them for years. But we also have questionable roads and infrastructure, (why are there no streetlights?) and a lot of people that are resistant to change of any kind.

Like anywhere, the south is full of different people and walks of life. We don’t agree on everything, but it always seemed like loving God and loving America were the two most important things you could do. This lyric from “Small Town Southern Man,” by Alan Jackson, sums it up perfectly: “And he bowed His head to Jesus / And he stood For Uncle Sam.” 

My whole life, it seemed like that‘s what everyone did: love God and love America. As I’ve seen more of the world outside my home, the more I wonder what people do when God and America contradict each other.

A few months ago I was driving home and saw a house with a sign that said God, Guns, & Country. Kind of like “live, laugh, love.”

My first thought was, at least they put God first! My second thought was, what does God have to do with guns?

For me, it was so strange to see guns right next to God. I don’t think they have anything to do with each other, but just a few miles away someone thought it was important enough to put up a sign for the world to see. It made me think about how easy it is to believe in something when you attach God to it.

I think that’s why Christianity and the south are so intertwined. It’s hard to separate church and state in the minds of people who have learned that you can’t have one without the other.

Take the name “God’s country.” It implies a place that belongs to God, where He is always present. Essentially Heaven on Earth. To some, the south is just that. A place of freedom where Christianity is the norm.

But the same place one person calls God’s country actually represents injustice and unspeakable violence to someone else. In their eyes God couldn’t possibly be present in such a place.

It doesn't matter what side you’re on, it’s nearly impossible to go anywhere in the south without being reminded of its terrible history. I remember driving to the beach and the GPS took me to a road called Plantation Drive! I wasn’t seeking it out, I was just on vacation!

I was taught that God loves everyone, but the south hasn’t always done that. It wasn’t long ago when the Bill of Rights wasn’t applied to everyone here, so it’s hard to say that everything we do has God’s constant stamp of approval. 

How can this be God’s country when it contradicts what I was taught about God?

There is nothing wrong with being proud of where you’re from, and there is certainly nothing wrong with thanking God for it. But I think there should always be room for nuance. Nothing is entirely black and white. 

The south is not fully good or bad. It is simply a region of man-made borders with as many flaws as it has merits, there’s beautiful moments in our history and dark moments.

The same goes for Christianity. It has been used as a tool for control in one way or another, not just in the south, and not just in America. But it can also produce good. My journey with my faith has been very freeing, but at the same time, I’ve had plenty of hard times. (And a lot of those happened in church!)

My faith has influenced me in so many ways, from how I see the world to how I treat others. Still, I know my way of life isn’t the only one, and I don’t think it’s the only one God cares about.

From what I grew up hearing, it seemed like God was always on “our” side, that this was God’s country and if you didn’t like it you could leave! But I don’t think it’s that cut and dry.

I have no problem with someone who believes in God, owns a gun, or loves America. But I do have a problem when someone believes God only represents their country and their way of life. It’s a slippery slope to Christian nationalism when people act as if America can do no wrong and that God co-signed the Constitution Himself.

There’s an episode of The Twilight Zone (1959-1964) called “Still Valley,” that demonstrates my point.

In the episode a Confederate soldier comes to a town occupied by Union soldiers. When he sneaks in, he sees they are all completely frozen, unable to move or talk. He meets an old man who says they can’t move because he cast a spell on them using a book of witchcraft. But the spells don’t work unless the caster pledges allegiance to Satan and denounces the name of God. Then the old man chooses the soldier as the next person to have control over the book. 

At first, he plans to use the book to defeat the Union army, and the other Confederate soldiers agree with him eager for a leg up in the war. But when he realized he would have to denounce God, he refused to do it. 

He couldn’t denounce the name of God but was totally willing to fight and die for states’ right to own slaves. Which obviously contradicts that same God.

I had an epiphany watching that episode because it’s the perfect picture of what happens when you don’t evaluate your beliefs but still claim that God is on your side and no one else’s. You will be able to justify anything because you’re using God for your own cause, even the most unjust of causes.

Our laws haven’t always reflected the standards set in the Bible, and mixing the two requires that legality determines what Christians believe, not what the Bible actually says. And we all know just because something is legal doesn’t mean God is behind it.

I think it’s dangerous to blindly idolize the South and use Christianity to justify it. It’s a slippery slope to Christian nationalism, which merges the Bible and the Constitution into one belief that props up certain people over others, and claims that God approves.

I think the beauty of the South is hidden behind the hypocrisy of what we say and what we do. But I’m proud of my home and I haven’t given up on it. 

I hope one day people will see the South the way I do: not completely perfect, but not hopeless either.

From Communion to Questions: My Shift Away from Catholicism

As a child, I was raised catholic. My grandmother in particular, was deeply devoted to the religion, and due to other family members being mostly non-religious, my grandmother took the opportunity to introduce the religion to me.

In my hometown, there’s a church down the street from my house. It’s where I received my baptism at a young age, and where my religious journey began. My grandmother and I would walk there for mass every Sunday morning, most Saturdays, and during holidays such as Easter and Christmas. My grandmother was a woman who truly believed in her faith, but never forced it on anyone. She loved angels, always wore a cross necklace, taught me prayers, and everything she knew about Catholicism. 

Since I attended a public elementary school, I was enrolled into Sunday school for religious education. I attended every Sunday after mass, as did many other kids in my public elementary school, and it was there that I learned tales of biblical figures, Catholic holidays I devoted myself and my time to celebrating, and what it meant to be catholic. I had my first confession at nine years old, and soon after, I received my communion. At the time, that milestone made me feel more connected to my religion, though I remember being more excited about dressing up in a white dress and veil.

Mass, however, was always my favorite part. My grandmother would give me coins to offer to the ushers, and I lived for the moments when everyone stood to sing. I wasn’t a part of the choir, but singing next to my grandmother made me feel connected both to the church and to her. Holidays were also always my favorite, especially Christmas mass. Something about walking through the snow to service, and then feeling the warmth of the church both physically and metaphorically, was something I looked forward to every Winter season.

Yet even then, something deep down felt strange. In mass, it was often said that God was beside you at all times. Instead of comfort, I felt a certain pressure to be good, or almost perfect, at all times, in fear that I was always being watched. It reminded me of a kind of spiritual panopticon, where you never know when you’re being observed.

I started to question how one presence could be with everyone all at once. The Eucharist confused and troubled me too. Being told that the bread and wine were transformed into the body and blood of Jesus made me uneasy. I found myself imagining the church walls, floors, and even pews as parts of his flesh. I struggled to recognize what was meant metaphorically and what was supposed to be real. Looking back, I was a young and impressionable child, and perhaps that was part of the design.

I am no longer religious, nor do I believe in God or Jesus Christ. My grandmother passed away in 2015, and although she never pushed her faith onto me, I think she might be disappointed by how my beliefs have changed. After she died, I continued with religious education because I wanted to make my confirmation in her honor. However, as I entered middle school, I found myself dreading the classes. I didn’t believe anymore, yet I still felt watched, not only by the holy figures I’d grown up with, but now by my grandmother’s memory as well.

As the time for my confirmation grew closer, our classes were separated by gender. The girls were placed in an empty classroom where the teachers talked about saving ourselves for marriage and described sex as sinful. I hadn’t even had my first relationship yet, so the idea of marriage felt distant. When I left the room, I felt uneasy, and the other girls seemed to feel the same. My cousin, who was in the boys’ group, told me they had just played games. Only later did I recognize this as purity culture, and that we were being taught, at as young as twelve years old, that our bodies already belonged to future spouses, long before we even understood our own.

I received my confirmation shortly afterward. Part of the process involves choosing a saint whose virtues you admire. I chose Saint Ermalinda after my late grandmother Linda, because I wouldn’t have been on this path without her. After I was confirmed, though, I stopped attending religious education and eventually stopped going to church altogether. I no longer prayed at night, and as I grew into an angsty teenage girl, I rejected the idea of God entirely. I believed that if God were real, the world wouldn't hold so much suffering.

I especially resented people who pushed religion onto others, often in moments of real pain.

Although I still have complicated feelings about religious pressure, I’ve let go of that anger. I still do not believe in God, but I don’t regret the journey I had. I value hearing from people who believe and who can understand my perspective. I’ve become comfortable without a label, and am unsure whether I’d call myself an atheist or an agnostic. I wrote this not because I feel traumatized by religion or because my experience was perfect, but because I appreciate it for what it was. I was fortunate to practice freely, and when I no longer believed, I was free to step away. Most of all, I cherish the memories it gave me with my grandmother.

Catholicism wasn’t the right path for me, but she remains the one angel I do believe in.

When the saints come marching in: the Intersection of Culture and Religion

The original intention of the Black church was to serve as a refuge and a shield from oppression. It was meant to be a safe gathering space to hold and take care of the community. The church gives a community a sense of hope, purpose, and direction. It seems bothersome that Christianity is a religion that was imposed on enslaved African people and many other ethnic groups. It is the religion of the colonizer. The religion that has so much blood on its hands while preaching “thou shall not kill.” The same religion that says “love thy neighbor” while simultaneously invalidating the way that you love. So much more can be said about Christianity, but I ask myself, why can I not let go of it? 

I was raised in the church, and my earliest memories in the church were with my Nana, who would take me every Sunday. I remember seeing her in the praise dance team. I looked forward to Friday night children’s fellowship. I remember overcoming stage fright in the church and cultivating a love of performance; in the choir, the pageants, and in the praise dance team. I loved Easter, Christmas, and Palm Sunday. Church was fun as a kid; it gave me a sense of community and an escape from my PWI. However, I grew up and began to realize that just because Scripture says, “God is love,” does not mean that every believer holds that verse in their heart. Discovering my sexuality as a pre-teen while being in the midst of the church led me to silence and self-loathing. I could just not let go of the church because of what it meant to myself and my family. It was bigger than me, and it was bigger than my religion. So much of the common Black American experience is tied to the Christian church to the point where religion becomes a part of our cultural identity. So much so that when it comes to my reevaluation of faith, not only is it a crisis of faith, but a crisis of racial identity. 

I find gospel music to be so nostalgic, but how can I enjoy Break Every Chain by Tasha Cobbs Leonard when she exclaims, “come out of homosexuality” in the middle of the song? It’s this rhetoric that makes me want to come out of the church. How can a place that I once called home kick me out? That isn’t the God that I serve. I often think about how this religion wasn’t originally ours, but we took ownership of it. There’s something to be said about the resilience of Black people and reclaiming something that was meant to control them. But is that because of the trauma of slavery? I often think of the religions and spiritual practices that were lost because of white Christianity. 

All this being said, I still find myself clinging to Christian practices, especially during very trying seasons. Comfort remains in the midst of uncomfortability. When a question gets answered, I’m still left wondering more. Maybe this is the nature of faith. As complicated as it may be, I will always cherish the Black church.