I grew up in the church. Every Sunday until my mid-teens were spent putting on my Sunday best, jumping in the church van that would come and pick us all up and heading to Sunday school. And hours later, once the main church service had finished, we could finally head home, knackered and hungry.
Several weekends a year we’d be taken to a church convention, which was two (very long) days of worship for my mum and aunts while I whiled away the hours with my cousins or my church mates. Every weekend we’d be learning scriptures, singing songs in the choir, celebrating the Lord and being thankful for what we have, while giving to others. Church was a very big part of my life, and I firmly believe it shaped who I am today, my values, and the way I look at the world.
But it’s a complicated relationship that I have with my faith, and it’s one that tends to come to a head at this time of year. Christmas and religion go hand in hand for many of us, and despite cooking for the hordes of family and friends that would descend on our house every Christmas, my mum would make sure that we went to a Christmas morning service so we could give thanks and share the morning with our community in south-east London.
Faith has been part of my family for just about for ever. The English brought Christianity to Jamaica in 1512 and it has existed in some form ever since as a result of the Empire. So when my grandparents moved here as British subjects, they were fully fledged and hugely devoted Christians. But many of the local churches here were unwelcoming and racist. They turned their backs on, and turned their noses up, to the darker-skinned Christians. So my grandparents and their friends created their own church, like many Jamaican immigrants of the time were forced to do, in order to feel a connection to God.
As a result, my mum’s faith was strong. She was the one who made sure that we went to our local church every Sunday. But she also believed in freedom of choice – when I reached my mid-teens she allowed me to make my own decisions about whether I wanted to continue going to church. By that point I was already having an uncomfortable relationship with it, which was causing me to question my faith. The things they’d preach about didn’t marry with the way my parents were raising me.
The hate and obsession with so many things – including homosexuality – seemed bizarre to me. And anytime a preacher brought up their so-called “disgust” surrounding it, even though I was young I knew it was wrong. My parents were happy to send me on holiday to the South of France with my language tutor and his boyfriend for a week so that I could work on my conversational French. And I adored them both, so I just couldn’t get my head around what the church was trying to teach me.
On top of this, one of the churches we attended dealt with paedophilia in the worst way possible. When a church leader suddenly disappeared, it didn’t make a lot of sense. But in latter years I realised it was because he’d been facing allegations of sexual abuse towards young boys in the church – so they’d sent him away rather than call the police. My mum never let us return.
The list of reasons why I pulled away from the church is long, and those wrongs chipped away at my faith so much I doubt it will ever be as strong again. But it is still there. There are still moments when I yearn to be in a church. If my soul is having a crisis, I often quietly find a church and just sit in silence for a bit in my thoughts. Especially during the festive season. For me there is no better place for your soul than sitting in a church adorned with decorations, with the calming wafts of pine needles and cloves, giving thanks.
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My best friend from school grew up in the Catholic Church and when we travelled together in our youth I’d sit in the back of the church while she attended mass. I didn’t need to understand the language to feel the waves of belief and stillness sweep over me. Faith is a feeling for me. It makes you feel less alone.
I’ve tried to find a church that fits, something that feels like the ones I grew up in but doesn’t make me want to storm out in anger. I tried one a few years ago, and it was all going well until the preacher started banging on about trans men and women taking over the world, and how everyone should write to their MPs about banning trans women from ladies’ toilets “to protect the children”. I very quickly stood up and walked out. My faith has never been about hate and I’m forever in a cycle of confusion as to how and why hate is so loved within some religions.
My mum’s faith was integral to her accepting that she was going to leave us prematurely, so having her pastor there in her final days was important for her. I could see that she’d become so much more peaceful when he’d arrive to say prayers with her. Maybe I’ll reach a stage in my life where I no longer flounce out of a church in anger, or maybe I won’t. But that’s OK. I feel like what my parents and grandparents wanted me and my siblings to take from the church, we did. It made us who we are. And for that I’ll for ever be thankful.
Charlene White is a presenter for ‘ITV News’ and ‘Loose Women’