Growing Up Apostolic — and the Quiet, Unnamed Journey of Leaving Without
Leaving All at Once
“Any religion that doesn’t allow questioning and curiosity is dogma.”
Part Two
It was during my adolescent years that the church’s Women’s Department began organizing special classes for the teenage girls — some sort of purity class, though I don’t remember what they officially called it. We all knew what it was about.
I only attended once. I had to. That one class burned into my memory — not because of what was taught, but because of how it felt. Demeaning. Suffocating. The sanctuary, usually filled with music and movement, was now still. Silent. Those familiar pews, where we were already used to being watched, had become school benches.
The stained-glass light slanted across our laps, casting long shadows we couldn’t escape. It’s as if God’s rays was burning our lustful sins away. She stood at the front — old-school Caribbean Christianity incarnate: rigid-backed, stern-eyed, a woman forged by the twin hammers of scripture and pastoral authority. Her accent reflecting her home of Nevis. No notes. No handouts. Just her and the Bible, its spine cracked open to verses she wielded like a scalpel. She was unmarried, probably in her forties. Quiet. Reserved. Authoritative.
At the time, anyone outside our youth group felt either too young to matter or too old to understand. That was the unspoken hierarchy. But I remember seeing something in her — not just authority, but sadness. A kind of emptiness behind the sternness. I couldn’t fully dismiss her. Maybe some part of me already recognized the cost of the life she had chosen, or been handed.
I don’t remember every word she said. Something about purity. Something about modesty. The usual: how to keep ourselves clean, unseen, unspoiled. It was a lesson in how not to be too much of anything — not too loud, not too visible, not too curious, not too female. Not too tempting.
That single class was enough for me. I didn’t go back. I don’t know if anyone noticed, or cared. I had drawn a quiet line in the sand. And even though I couldn’t articulate it then, I was already beginning to step away. Slowly.
I don’t remember how long those classes lasted. My memory tells me it wasn’t very long. They just… faded. Maybe they were quietly canceled. Maybe leadership decided it wasn’t working. I don’t remember an announcement or a clear ending. Just that one day, they were no longer happening.
Looking back, I think it was an experiment — likely borrowed from the American leadership board, as some things were. Or maybe it was from the Uk leadership because that board was more Caribbean Old school Christianity. A new tool for shaping young women into the ideal mold: modest, silent, pure, and marriage-ready. We were always being watched for signs of deviance or worldliness, so this was probably just one more tactic to rein us in.
But I also remember that not many girls kept going. Maybe they were like me — going once out of obligation, then quietly refusing to return. Maybe they didn’t have the words to name their resistance either, but they felt it in their bodies. A discomfort. A no.
That recognition matters.
Even in a system designed to keep us obedient, something in us refused.
Even in silence, there was resistance.
There were other forms of rebellion too. Smaller hats that showed more hair. Patterned stockings and pantyhose. Sleeveless dresses with sheer overcoats. Mid-thigh skirts with slits that stopped just at the knee. Shinier lip gloss. Clear nail polish. Braiding my hair with extensions. I did all of this.
Some were subtle.
Some were blatant.
It was the blatant ones that got me in trouble.
And let me be clear — in the Black church, especially the one I grew up in, there was no such thing as subtle rebellion.
The Church Mothers saw everything so they were all up in your business.
They didn’t miss a thing — not a hemline, not a shimmer of lip gloss, not the way you walked in those slightly-too-high heels. If you dared to step outside the invisible but very real boundaries of “acceptable,” they’d spot it from across the sanctuary before you even sat down.
Sometimes, they’d haul your entire behind outside in the middle of service or wait for you outside in the parking lot for a good old-fashioned tongue lashing — loud, shaming, in your face and unapologetic. You’d stand there, heart pounding, overwhelmed while they quoted scripture, demanded explanations, and reminded you who you represented.
And if it was really bad — if your rebellion had gathered a little too much attention — you’d be summoned to Pastor T’s office for a “talk.” His office was unremarkable, but that desk of his loomed like a pulpit, and when he sat behind it, you shrank. He was judge, jury, and wielder of punishments. Depending on the severity of your “crime,” the sentence might be exile from the choir or a scarlet-letter stint on the front pew. Either way, the congregation would know: you were guilty.
That talk was never a conversation. It was theatre—a performance of concern draped in scripture, a reminder that your body wasn’t yours but the church’s to police. Holiness meant obedience.
What they wanted was: Fall in line.
What they really meant was: Shrink. Obey. Disappear.
But I had already begun to taste what it meant to belong to myself. And once you’ve tasted that, it’s hard to go back. Even when it costs you their approval. Even when it gets you hauled outside.
In the Pentecostal Apostolic church I was raised in, there were clear offices — structured, defined, and deeply respected and feared even if you aren’t doing anything “wrong.”
Deacons. Missionaries. Evangelists. Elders. Pastors. Bishops. Presiding Bishops.
They had all the bases covered — a full hierarchy, a spiritual chain of command. Each title came with status, with authority, with a place in the seating arrangement.
And even though many of them rarely, if ever, left the church or the city to actually spread the gospel, their lives were held up as testimony. Their “jobs” were lived examples of holiness — or at least that’s what we were told. But for all their titles and positions, it wasn’t them being policed.
It was us — the regular church members, especially the young women. We were the ones under constant watch.
And there was one figure in particular who terrified me.