I Found God In A Hopeless Place

And he wouldn't be caught dead in a red hat.

Photo by Nicola Fioravanti on Unsplash

I’m not a religious nut, I promise.

I’m not well-versed in the Bible, and if I’m being brutally honest, I’m not even that religious. But I am spiritual — and I did have an epiphany when I found my way back to God while in the most hopeless of places.

Kinda, like Perez Hilton, who, in case you’re not following, is having his own come-to-Jesus moment following a near-death experience. I guess God comes for all of us, even bitchy gossip columnists.

I say I “found my way back”, as I did have a somewhat religious upbringing. Fun fact: my mother comes from a long line of Irish Catholics, and as something of a flat-out F.U. to that lineage, her English father baptized all six of his kids as Presbyterians. I was christened in the Anglican tradition of the Church of England.

My two sisters and I attended Sunday school as kids with our grandmother — a ritual that followed our Saturday night sleepovers (back then, I thought that was our treat, but I realize now it was actually our parents’). Not that any time spent with Nanna wasn’t a treat, especially sitting at the round table eating her famous homemade Sunday breakfasts of fat sausages, fried eggs, and bottomless tea from a china teapot. My tea addiction started early.

I’m not going to lie, Sunday school was B.O.R.I.N.G. AF. Though I did enjoy getting dressed up, and the fruitcake wasn’t bad.

I broke up with religion as a kid.

But then I became a mother. I had both my sons christened on their first birthdays at ‘Our Lady Star of the Sea’, a beautiful sandstone church overlooking Sydney Harbour. My kids’ dad was baptized Catholic, so we fell into line. Tiago even started school at Holy Cross — attending a Catholic school in Sydney is a bit of a flex.

The belief being that you get a better education, with plenty of prayer thrown in. But more importantly, you pave the way to acceptance into posh feeder high schools that follow the old English tradition of Christian-based private boys’ schools.
BTW, that was never my thing, which probably explains why I dragged my kids to New York to live when they were 9 and 2.

When I revisited church as a young mum — baptisms, confession, holy communion, the works — I was not surprised to discover it was still the total snorefest I remembered. Old-school priests, long sermons you tune out halfway through, and really just ticking the box to look like a good, God-following Christian in the school community. Sorry God.

So yeah — not exactly a practicing Christian. But I have always believed in some kind of higher power. The idea that we are being guided, that things do happen for a reason — cliché, I know, but I believe it. Disclaimer: That belief does not apply to the unimaginable horrors we see playing out in the world today; it’s hard to make sense of or reconcile any of that with a loving God. Whether you believe in him or not.

I also believe that the people you encounter in your life and your experiences often carry messages, like signposts leading you along a path the divine has perhaps already laid out for you.

That point was proved when Javier started pre-K in TriBeCa at age 4. At the parent information and introduction night, as these things always go, we had to all introduce ourselves and tell each other what we did. I noticed David and Kate immediately — and not just because Kate was carrying a baby in a sling and introduced him as “Quatro.” His name is actually Eddie, but he’s the fourth kid, so the nickname stuck. They introduced themselves as musicians, which made total sense as they exuded that intoxicating mix of warmth and cool that music people just have.

I promised that night I’d come to a gig sometime. Then never thought about it again.

Until my marriage ended — suddenly and traumatically — a year later. A total horror show. I fell to my knees. The rug had been ripped out from under my entire world, and I had just unknowingly embarked on a long, painful journey that would break me open in ways I never thought possible.

It was in the early days of that unraveling — when I was in my “disassociated from reality” phase — that I hit Kate up. “Hey, I’m single now. I’d love to get out there and go to a gig — where do you guys play?” “Trinity Grace Church,” she replied. “Come.”

Oh. My. God.

I had not expected that — but I went.

Trinity Grace Church — now renamed Good Shepherd New York — was held back then in the auditorium of PS 89 elementary school in TriBeCa. Not even in a church, though we now have a proper home. In a Romanesque Revival style church on East 22nd, just off Gramercy Park. It is actually designed by the same architect behind New York’s famed Metropolitan Opera House and the American Museum of Natural History.

Anyhow, back to mine and the church’s humble beginnings in that school auditorium. I had no idea what to expect the first time I went, but I can tell you what I never expected. To feel like I was at a jazzy Broadway show followed by a TED Talk. In fact, the first sermon was given not by our lead pastor, Michael, who, light years from the stuffy old priests of my childhood, could be mistaken for a Brooklyn hipster. But by a successful fashion creative director — hi, Chidi

I can’t remember exactly what Chidi spoke about during that first “TED Talk,” but it hit a nerve. And not just because the “priest” was a fashionista. He was real, woke (in the best way), and totally relatable. He talked about how navigating and surviving life is tough, no matter your circumstances. And he went on to describe living in New York as having your senses, personal space, and wallet assaulted every single day.

I felt like I’d been called home.

I had lost my marriage, identity, family (and my mind), but somehow I’d found my community. A community whose mission is to spread peace, love, unity, and healing, and who wrapped their arms around me physically and in prayer as I cried for three years straight during every service.

I leaned in hard. Going to church saved my life. It became my therapy and my recovery — in a way that no amount of talk therapy could even come close to achieving.

It’s also my happy place. I mean, if you could hear the music. Led by David and Kate, who I now consider family, the music is an energetic acoustic mishmash of soulful gospel, jazzy New Orleans blues, indie folk, and chamber pop. As I said, it feels like kicking your Sunday off right with a show. The first time I closed my eyes and dialed into the music, I legit saw an image of God holding everything. Including me.

Corny as it sounds, I surrendered. I dropped the tough-girl act I’d spent decades perfecting to survive an abusive father and, ultimately, my marriage. I got vulnerable. I got real about who I was, where I’d come from, and how I’d been assaulting myself, carrying trauma and grief that should never have been mine to carry.

Amen.

Take Me To Church —Happy Easter

A Love Letter to Good Shepherd New York

Thank you for teaching me that God isn’t judgmental or exclusive — that we are all welcome at his table, whatever we bring to it, “even a lot of faith or a lot of doubt,” or none at all, as our pastor Michael always reminds us.

Yep, you don’t even have to believe in God or be a Christian to belong to our community. We also welcome Jewish people, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and those of every faith with open arms.

“Difference doesn’t diminish or divide us; it makes us stronger”. Again, Michael’s words. Translation: whatever your beliefs, your background, or how you do or don’t identify—white, black, brown, gay, straight, queer, trans — you belong here.

We look after our own. Savannah Guthrie is a loved member of our church, and we have held many prayer visuals for her, her family, and her beloved mother, Nancy Guthrie.

When I landed myself in a psych ward, struggling through a grief I couldn’t even name, Michael, David, and Kate all showed up. Not just at the hospital, but in ways that saved my life more than they could ever know.

Happy Easter. If you want to know why I love my church so much, check this out for yourself.