How Langston Hughes Helped Me Survive My Spiritual Failure

I couldn't find Jesus. In lieu of faith, I found connection in memoir.

In my sophomore year of college, I agreed to attend a Christian Fellowship meeting after a classmate, Sarah, invited me for what must’ve been the twelfth time. I liked Sarah, she was smart and kind, but I had no interest in the event.

My weekends were spent partaking in activities Sarah would never engage in—activities like drinking, fucking, and smoking pot. Sarah’s gatherings included no alcohol, no sex, and no drugs. I knew this because during our freshman year, I went to one of her parties. She and her friends played board games and drank lemonade. I’d thanked her for the hospitality, left early, and ended up drunk at some fraternity house later that same night.

(When I think back to those days, I hope my own children will prefer board games and lemonade.)

I ended up agreeing to attend the Christian Fellowship meeting because I didn’t want to hurt Sarah’s feelings. How many times could I say no? It’s not like she kept inviting me to do something horrible.

More importantly, I was suffering from a pretty severe depressive episode that year. I needed medication, but I had no prescription yet. So, when Sarah explained the meeting was a chance to meet Jesus, I wondered if I ought to be more open. Perhaps I too could be saved. I doubted it, but desperation can drive unprecedented behavior.

And I would be saved. Just not by Jesus.

When I arrived at The Christian Fellowship meeting, I immediately felt like an outsider. This was through no fault of the Christians themselves. They were courteous and welcoming, but their zealous enthusiasm for what was to come—not just Jesus but the Holy Spirit too—made me feel like the very embodiment of doubt.

I couldn’t relate to their anticipation. When everyone took a seat upon the floor—this was held not in a church with pews but in the basement of a random college building, maybe a dorm—I reluctantly plopped my butt on the linoleum flooring.

People took turns speaking. One girl engaged the audience in a type of question and answer session. She gazed across the room. I think we made eye contact. When she started speaking, I felt as if she was looking straight at me. If she’d pointed a finger and called for my immediate removal from the premises (Get rid of that blasphemous traitor!), I would not have been surprised. This, however, did not happen.

Here’s what did:

The girl called out questions. And each time, the audience roared in agreement. There were shouts of “Yes!” and “Amen!”

The speaker said, “You know when you’re having a terrible time in life, and you get so mad, you start talking out loud to Jesus?”

“Yes!” The crowd shouted.

I stayed silent.

The speaker continued. “And then you ask Jesus: Where are you in my time of need?”

“Amen!” The crowd cheered.

I stayed silent.

Now, the speaker held her arms up for emphasis and in a raised voice said:

“And suddenly, you hear him. You hear Jesus speak to you. You could be crying on your bathroom floor, but Jesus will show up anywhere for you. You know what happens next. You try to argue with him. You know, because you’re mad about your life. And you want to blame someone. But Jesus says he loves you no matter what. And maybe you even get a little more mad at that. Because Jesus has some nerve! To keep loving you even after you’ve been so unkind to him. Maybe you’re even a little envious of Jesus. You’re not as good as him. But that’s the whole thing. That’s why God sent him to you in the first place. He’s come to save you from your sins. To save you from yourself.”

“Amen! Yes! Indeed! That’s the truth!” All the people around me cheered. They related to this.

I stayed silent.

I stayed silent because Jesus had never visited me. Not in my bathroom. Not in church. And if I were honest, I didn’t want a man, even if he were the son of God, to save me. I didn’t want to be submissive like that.

A hush fell over the room. The Holy Spirit was coming. They could feel it.

I felt nothing. No, that’s not right. I felt insane. Then, I flip-flopped and wondered if everyone else was insane. I had to get out of there. I left without saying goodbye to Sarah. Or maybe I managed a farewell by sticking it beside a fib. Something like: Oh no! I just got my period! Gotta run!

It doesn’t matter how I left. What matters is how I felt. I felt so alone.

It wasn’t my first bout of loneliness. It wouldn’t be my last. But whenever I failed at Christianity, I felt as if I had no chance of any spiritual dimension in my life. I was all body and mind—no soul. What I lacked in faith, I made up in doubt. But there was no room for questioning in my Catholic upbringing. You had to accept Jesus as your savior. Blind faith was required for membership.

What I didn’t know then is how Judaism differs. Jews were in community before they received Torah. Before Revelation. Before they “met” G-d. The peoplehood comes first. In fact, a Jew can suffer doubt, is raised to question everything. Some Jews are even atheists. And yet, they are still Jews.

But the night of the Christian Fellowship meeting, I knew nothing about any other world religion. All I’d learned thus far was about Christianity, and being raised in a Catholic family of origin, my experience of Jesus came with a hierarchy from priest to Pope. I hated that part too.

I might’ve spent the rest of that night suffering, but lucky for me, I’d always been an avid reader, and while chain-smoking beneath the moonlight, too despondent to attend a party of any kind, I remembered a short personal essay by Langston Hughes entitled, “Salvation.”

In the piece, Hughes recalls an event not dissimilar to my experience at the Christian Fellowship. But his stakes are even higher. His family takes him to a Christian revival, and like me, he fails to meet Jesus. I’ll attach a link to the piece here. It’s probably one of the most relatable moments from memoir I’ve ever encountered.

Hughes ultimately succumbs to the pressure of his family and fellow church attendees—he lies and pretends to have met Jesus. This causes him to suffer further anguish. The loss of innocence is profound. When he cries from grief, his family interprets his torment as joy. His suffering is layered and compounded. It’s a testament to Hughes’s strength as a writer, how much emotional gravity is packed in so few words.

Also, there was this reader’s relief.

Who knows if Hughes imagined his story would be someone else’s salvation someday? And who knows how many other readers found company in his work? I would bet countless others have and will.

That’s the miracle in memoir.

Imagine Langston Hughes, penning his story which would first be published in 1940. It cast a lifeline out to a 19 year-old white girl in 1993. Race didn’t matter. Gender didn’t matter. Temporal distance couldn’t stop a connection between a literary giant and a mere college kid.

Maybe some people find salvation in Jesus. I’m not here to doubt their personal journey. But for me, salvation has always come from other people such as writers—or perhaps more accurately—the words they have written. And so it goes with Torah, the Jewish text as well. Having cast aside the impossible quest (for me) of meeting Jesus, I can return to those Biblical stories and find resonance in timeless tales that are ultimately about the human condition. What’s more: I don’t have to read alone in the dark.

Summer break is ending soon, and I cannot wait to return to my formal conversion studies.

Thanks for reading!

All the best,

Jen xoxo