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Does God care what I wear to church?

While my thinking on this question has shifted, at the core of my being there is still a well-dressed girl from Queens.

A few years ago, I stopped dressing up for church. Until then my typical Sunday outfit consisted of either one of my better dresses or a skirt suit, stockings (even on the hottest summer days), and shoes with the kind of heels that noisily announced my approach. I chose my accessories carefully, good but not ostentatiously outsized jewelry, a small handbag of which Queen Elizabeth II might have approved—and which contained an embroidered handkerchief. Regardless of how low the temperatures dipped or how soaking the rains were, I never wore pants to church. In the 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s, that was the ultimate transgression no God-fearing, upstanding woman dared commit, lest she risk being cast into outer darkness.

I was born and lived my first 13 years in the Jamaica section of Queens, New York, where my British Guyanese immigrant parents and I attended the neighborhood Methodist church. Although it was not part of what is known as the Black church, where the term “Sunday best” is taken very seriously and women’s elaborate hats are referred to as crowns, nonetheless I was surrounded by African American men, women, and children who observed the prescribed dress code of mid-century America: suits and ties for men, dresses for women. We dressed up for church because we were going to spend a few hours in God’s house, the most important house. Church was different, serious, and special; it was not the workplace or school, and it was not a recreational place, such as a park or the beach. It was a place where respectful attire and behavior were required and expected. As Black people, it was also important to us to dress well on Sundays because our dress communicated how we wanted and needed to see ourselves—as dignified human beings who cared about our outward appearance.

In the early 1980s, we moved to another part of Queens, much closer to Manhattan, where I worked at the Museum of Modern Art. I began attending the midday service at one of the city’s prominent Episcopal churches during my lunch break. This eventually led to catechism classes, followed by confirmation.