Joyful Noise

It’s been about two years since the last time I actively poured out my feelings to the whole wide web. Two years since I last felt a narrowing void of despair and oblivion within my soul. Two years since the ending of a toxic relationship. Two years since I first encountered God.

Now before you start rolling your eyes and laughing dryly at that last statement, hear me out. Coming from a family that’s been rooted in Buddhism since before I was born (when my great grandma was still alive), you could probably guess at how upside-down my worldview must’ve looked when I encountered God. Not to say that Buddhism has a skewed view of the world. In fact, I’d say Buddhism almost walks hand in hand with Christianity when it comes to being compassionate to strangers and maintaining a high moral code. Other than that, the two lifestyles part ways, but that’s another story for another day.

To put it very lightly, quite a lot has changed. I now regularly attend church—both Sunday and Wednesday services, and I’m often at church every other day for other events. I’m part of the choir, I joined the Youth ministry, I started a special interests group (commonly known as a small group at my church) for fellow artists, and I just recently joined the Wednesday night Praise Team. All within the past two years.

So I think it’s safe to say that I’m not the same 23-year-old I used to be. (In fact, I’ll be turning 25 this year.) Outwardly, there’s a definite change: I only wear skirts and dresses now, and only past-the-knee length or longer. When I was invited to join the choir, our executive pastor (not to be confused with his father, Pastor Dan, our senior pastor) pulled me aside at a youth/hyphen home group (essentially, we had devotion and mouthwatering plates of homecooked pasta, adobo, and sweets).

His first words were: “Prescila, congratulations!” (His geniune enthusiasm warranted for boldfaced text.)

Back then, any sort of compliment or approval withdrew me back into my shell. This wasn’t any different. “Thanks, Brother Dane,” I remember saying sheepishly, a forced smile on my lips.

“So I heard you wanna be in the choir.”

I nodded, desperately waiting for him to continue since I had no idea what to say in response to that. Thankfully, he proceeded without hesitation. “Awesome! I just wanted to let you know what it means to join, okay? We don’t ever want to blindside you so here’s what we expect…”

Brother Dane then launched into what I would rate as one of my top five most-intense-and-overwhelming-conversations-of-my-life. Remember, I was still new to the faith. He said that there were higher expectations since I would be on the platform in front of the entire church; I also found out a little later that our church posted livestreams as well. “Think of it like being in a glass box,” I remember him saying. Of course, as Christians, we were already expected to abide by certain codes but those on the platform would be even more so scrutinized. I started becoming nervous but the worst (at the time) was yet to come.

“In the Bible, women are told not to cut their hair. Ever.” Brother Dane looked at me as if gauging my reaction before he chuckled and continued, “Don’t ask me why because the reasons are extremely vague. And men: they need to make sure they don’t leave it long so they can cut their hair. This really goes back to the gender distinction that has always been advised by God. Now, women are told to dress appropriate to their gender, which means not wearing clothing that is meant for men, such as pants or shorts. Even then, our church guys don’t generally wear shorts out of respect and because we’re all very, very pale this time of the year.”

He paused to wait in case I had something I wanted to say, but I had nothing at the moment. I was just absorbing everything he was saying, trying to understand what I was getting myself into. Learning to read the Bible and attending church services had been one thing, and I had finally gotten past the emotionally charged and raw atmosphere of worshipping as an Apostolic Pentecostal. I was getting used to addressing everyone as “brother” or “sister” and for some reason, it still continued to rub me the wrong way. It didn’t roll off my tongue easily, and I felt forced and embarrassed every time I had to push it out of my mouth.

“So, what do you think?”

I remember taking a few moments to formulate how I was going to respond. The answer surprisingly fell out of my mouth easily and I had no time to react. My mind was racing and scattered simultaneously as I realized the depth of my commitment. I’d gone this far, hadn’t I? Now it was time to take another step forward, I told myself firmly. “I still want to do this.”