In his letter to them he noted what he felt was the hypocrisy of the church that he has known since a boy. My father chose not to attend the meeting, instead responding in writing. When it was determined it contained alcohol, he received a formal request to meet with the pastor and the board of elders to discuss his behavior and the consequences. Shortly after the going-away party, my father was approached by the pastor of the church and questioned about what was in the beverage he ordered. He is, however, a man committed to serving others: he loves well and is loved well, as evidenced by the hundreds of people who have spoken on his behalf since this incident occurred. Like some Adventists and other Christians he has sparingly consumed alcohol. I would be remiss if I did not pause here to say that my father is not, nor has he ever been, an alcoholic. He enjoyed the celebration with friends and loved ones, ate his meal, drank his drink, and went home. But my father, ever the romantic, never misses an opportunity to enjoy the reminders of the home of his childhood. It has cultural significance and invokes deep nostalgia.Īnd yes, it has some alcohol in it. This is a Haitian version of a holiday drink called ponche de créme that is served during the Christmas season in his home country of Trinidad. While there, my father ordered a drink called a cremas. Many members, young and old were in attendance. This particular celebration was not sponsored or paid for by the church, though it was advertised on the church website. But my parents and a handful of others have remained faithful members there for more than 25 years. The church has seen many pastors come and go, and many members as well. Shiloh is a small and unassuming congregation. And with the passing of time, even the most devout Adventists must take a thoughtful, and perhaps critical, look at the religion that has shaped and molded them.Ī recent incident with my father, where his faith and his commitment to the church that he has loved and served for his entire life were called into question, forced me to take a closer look at what it means to be an Adventist Christian, and ask myself some hard questions.Ī few months ago my father attended, along with several members of Shiloh Adventist Church in Smyrna, Georgia, a going-away celebration at Zeke’s Kitchen and Bar in honor of one of the matriarchs of the church. It was an upbringing both defining and isolating.īut children grow up, and parents grow old. We were made well aware of the soon-to-come Sunday blue laws, the dangers of the Catholic church, and the time of trouble that would force us to run and hide in the rocks and mountains, before Jesus’s eventual triumphant return, appearing first as a small fist in the sky. We rarely ate meat (we wouldn’t have recognized pork if we saw it), were not allowed to wear nail polish (although my sister snuck a bottle to school once, and paid the price) or pierce our ears. We were raised with Friday night worships, Sabbath potlucks, and Pathfinders. My parents, immigrants to this country, brought with them a deep-rooted faith that they instilled in my siblings and me. I was born and raised a Seventh-day Adventist. By Charis Granger-Mbugua | 13 June 2023 |
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