A Sort of Beautiful Faith
A while ago, some people expressed interest in me rambling on about my shifting religious views. So. Here we are. To be clear, I have the utmost respect for religion and those who practice it. The Christian religion was a huge part of my life for longer than it wasn’t, and this post is in no way meant to dissuade anyone from religion or to lessen the value of religion in people’s lives. It is simply a few words about my own experience, which, as experience tends to be, is very specific to my personal situations and choices.
First, a little history. I grew up in a Methodist church, but my parents were very casual about the whole thing. We went to services every Sunday, but prayer and even conversations about God weren’t really a part of our home lives. As I entered middle school, I got more and more involved in the youth group. I sang in the youth choir. I dated youth group boys (okay, with a few breaks in between for some…er…non youth group boys). I went on all the youth trips and worked the day camp during the summer. I read my bible and prayed and used all the right terminology like, “quiet time” and “for the glory.” In college, I majored in Religion, because there was literally nothing I liked to talk about more. Which was okay. During college, my beliefs became increasingly conservative and exclusive. That last one is not so okay. Still. It happened. It’s my history. My entire circle of existence was very white, very Christian, very straight. I only read the bible and nonfiction Christian books. I only wrote essays or memoir-ish nonfiction on Christian things. I only listened to praise or Christian-influenced music. Jesus, for all intents and purposes, was my boyfriend.
After college, I got involved in a big community church. We met in a high school gym, had three services, and a band with lots of flashing lights and drums and guitars. I sang almost every week. Occasionally, I would also lead worship and play guitar. I distinctly remember one time when the associate pastor got up on stage next to me to welcome everyone after the opening song. He looked at me, looked at the two women on either side of me who were singing harmonies, and said, “Oh, look, it’s the Powerpuff Girls.”
That might’ve been flag number one. A small thing, yes, but it planted something in my mind. A sort of “Wait a minute. Let’s think about this.”
The next chapter of this here journey is ugly. I’m not proud of it, but I feel I need to be forthcoming about it because it is a huge, huge part of why I am the way I am today.
So there was this guy—I know. Of course, right? Okay, so there was this guy. He was in the band. He was a piano player. He was an amazing singer and songwriter. He was hot. And he thought I was the most amazing woman on the planet. We clicked. We jived. We got each other. I fell hard. I mean, hard.
Well, a whole lot of stupid followed, on both our parts. Lots of lies were told. Lots of tears shed. Sneaking around and lamenting about what the hell we were doing and why and what we were going to do and how we would survive and it was so insane and intense that I truly understand how love can drive a person to completely crazy actions and decisions. If you’d even call it love. I’m honestly not sure. It was so wrapped up in the clandestine, it was hard to separate that from what actually was. But I was a total mess. We’d stop talking for a while then start up again. I couldn’t understand how I couldn’t simply walk away. I was a Christian. I was seeking a holy, loving life. How the hell was this happening to me? Well, eventually and of course, his wife found out. Again, I’m not proud of this history. I was wrong. Way, way wrong. I hurt a lot of people and I do not condone this behavior, religion or no religion. He and I cut off communication completely and the church decided that I wouldn’t sing regularly in the band anymore.
And what about him, you ask?
He stayed. He stayed because he had a family. He stayed because his piano skills were needed. He stayed because he’s a man. In my opinion, and in light of how it made me feel at the time and still makes me feel, he stayed because he was more valued than I was.
And me? I was more at fault than he was.
I’m not saying that things shouldn’t have changed in the band. We needed to be away from each other. I needed to be away from him. But it was a clear instance of the trollop being cast side while the man was coddled.
And that was another flag for me.
I moved from Atlanta to Nashville. I never spoke with him or anyone at that church again. I changed my entire life, all the while clinging to God, begging to understand how I could’ve fallen so hard when I was so committed to Him. And I was. I was devout. And I stumbled and fell and bloodied up everything. This baffled me. I understood that Christians still sinned. I knew I still sinned. But I never thought God would “let” me fall so dramatically. Leave me feeling so alone, so heartbroken, so bereft of anything or anyone. Yes, I made those choices to sneak around with this guy. But something in my head couldn’t reconcile what I was feeling with what I knew of God. This is how affairs happen. I know this. I was still at fault, so don’t take this to mean I’m trying to slough off responsibility on some cosmic force. I’m not. I’m just pointing out that at the time, I felt like this shouldn’t have been possible for me.
Anyway, in the next several years, that little spark of doubt grew and grew. I spent a lot of time alone. I healed very, very slowly. Then I met my husband while he was in divinity school at Vanderbilt. Growing up, we both had a similar Christian experiences. As we started dating, he would share what was learning at Vanderbilt, which was a very progressive program. We talked about other religions. We talked about QUILTBAG people of faith or otherwise. Slowly, slowly, I started to open. I let the world in and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing. My view of God and Jesus expanded and it was hard at first, but I welcomed it. Because something had to change. Something was off about the way I had seen everything before. It was too small. It was too narrow. It was too exclusive to the point that it eventually excluded me.
My husband went through a lot of spiritual changes as well and was eventually able to make a new sort of Christian faith for himself. One very focused on loving others, accepting others, listening to others.
I never quite got there. I mean, yes, I focused on loving and accepting and listening, but I kept struggling with the Christian part. It kept tripping me up. I couldn’t seem to create a new way to interact with God. Every time I tried it felt fake. It felt silly. Again, I’m not saying it is inherently silly. I, personally, just couldn’t get there. And oh, I tried. My husband went on to become a pastor. I spent the next several years as a pastor’s wife in a small southern church. A more open denomination, yes, but still. It was in south Georgia. I just didn’t feel anything. I know, I know. Belief isn’t solely about feeling. And it shouldn’t be. Nothing else in life is. But there was nothing emotional to tie me to the ground. To make me care about this set of beliefs to which I had so long adhered. I felt disingenuous. I felt tired. I felt angry that women always came second. Angry at the way American Christianity treated QUILTBAG people, people of other religions, people with tattoos or who liked to cuss, women who spoke their minds, sex. Angry that I had let my own brand of faith stifle certain parts of myself for a long, long time. I was just tired.
I know all Christianity isn’t like this. I have several Christian friends and they are the best, kindest, most accepting people I know. This struggle was mine alone. I just couldn’t make myself get there. I couldn’t make that faith mine again.
Three years and two kids later, in 2012, I was still struggling.
Then, in April of that year, my mother died very suddenly. She was 62. She had broken her leg, contracted an infection and the hospital, and I barely made it to her bedside before she died.
Naturally, this was devastating. My father had died of cancer four years previous. At 32, I was an orphan and I can’t tell you what a strange feeling that is. You never stop needing your parents or those roots that are your beginning. Your origin. I felt completely unmoored. I still haven’t fully sorted through that grief and I probably never will.
As far as the affect this had on my religious views, I just…stopped. It wasn’t an angry thing. It wasn’t like I was all, “Well, you took my mother, so screw you, God.” I just let go. I stopped trying to force myself into something that didn’t feel like a part of me anymore because, honestly, life is too damn short.
And you know what? It was an immense relief. To let go. To stop trying so damn hard. I decided to follow a dream—writing—and I met a lot more people who weren’t like me. Some were religious, some not, but all were accepting. I’ve had many wonderful examples of not only a beautiful and loving Christianity, but a beautiful and loving Islam, a beautiful and loving Judaism.
And here is where I’ve landed, at least for now: A beautiful and loving agnosticism. I just don’t know. Simple as that. I don’t know about God anymore. I don’t get a lot of things about religion. I respect those who do. I’m open to something else in the future. But for now, it’s not me. I believe in people, in the power of words and love and friendship, and those are things we can all agree on, no matter your God or lack thereof.
So that’s my shift. Honestly, I’m still not totally sure how I got here. Ten years ago, I would never have believed I’d be anything other than a very white bread, conservative Christian kind of girl. But I never believed I’d publish a book, lose both my parents relatively young, admit same-sex attraction.
Life happens. For me, that life meant stepping away from God. For others, it’s a drawing near. Point being, life is a beautiful and diverse mess. Who knows where I’ll be in ten more years. Wherever it is, it’ll be on the side of people and friendship. Of acceptance and celebration of everyone who is like me and everyone who is not. It’ll be a place of listening and learning and loving.
And that, I think, takes a sort of beautiful faith.
amandla
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