Why I Stopped Going To Church: The REAL Church Of God

I was raised to believe that good people went to church. If you didn’t go to church, there was something wrong with you. And it didn’t matter which church you went to, as long as it wasn’t Jewish or Mormon. Catholics were suspect, but regarded as “okay” with God. Not completely “right” with God, like Protestants. There were no such things as Muslim churches in those days. And certainly no Hindu or Buddhist churches.

My grandmother was a lifelong Methodist. And she was committed to her commitments. There was no converting to another denomination because you got married. And there was no divorcing because your spouse regarded Methodism as too highfalutin for his country blood.

My grandfather was raised Pentecostal. Specifically, Church of God of Prophecy. They were an offshoot of Church of God, both of which believed that Jesus was coming back specifically for them, and everyone else was shit out of luck.

Wad-Whipping Wind

Quick side-story my grandpa used to tell. Once, after a Sunday tent revival meeting in the early 1920s, my grandpa’s parents invited the preacher home for dinner. On the way, Poppa Beamer (my great-grandfather) drove. Momma Beamer (my great-grandmother) sat in the front passenger’s seat holding my grandfather’s baby sister, Rachel. My grandpa sat behind his father; the preacher sat behind Momma Beamer.

And they were all enjoying the jalopy’s 440 air-conditioning — that is, four windows down at 40 miles-per-hour — when Momma Beamer decided to hawk a loogie and launch it out the window. Anyone who’s ever flicked a burning cigarette butt out the window in similar conditions, and smelled something burning 10 minutes later, knows what happened next.