still thinking… again.

There’s this girl who’s my age. She has a loving husband and a beautiful baby girl. She also has cancer in her liver. It hurts my heart to think about her, about her family, about the toil of the treatments and the ever-present fear, about test results, about what could happen. It’s gut-wrenching. And the best part? It’s EVERYWHERE… everywhere you look, really bad things are happening to really undeserving people.

So I’m gonna take this opportunity to pick a fight with one of the most common statements uttered here in the Bible Belt of the South:

“God never gives us more than we handle.”

I grew up having this statement drilled into my head. Like many things that are present for your entire life, you just hear it without actually THINKING about it.  However, when my mother died, this statement suddenly become *extremely* offensive to me. Like literally, someone would say that to me, and I would have an urge to immediately scream obscenities and/or punch the speaker right in their platitude-spewing piehole. I often wonder if the people who throw this statement around so casually have ever been completely broken by something outside their own control. Somehow, I think not.

So why exactly does that statement bring on such a negative reaction?

I think it’s because of the word “give.” “Give” is an active word, one that implies a voluntary, intentional action. You give a gift. You give an award. You give a compliment. The idea that God would GIVE me the death of my mother was further proof of the intimidating, temperamental, hateful God that I had learned long ago to fear (and despise). If that’s his idea of a gift, he can keep that shit to himself, thanks anyway.

I’m trying to rewire myself. I trying to unlearn fear and replace it with grace. I’m trying to come to terms with a world where a loving, all-powerful God and really bad things constantly happening can coexist, because, logically, how can one allow the other? This is a puzzle that I wanted, NEEDED, to understand in order to ever have a positive relationship with God.

After reading a bit and thinking a lot and talking to Dr McK the Preacher-Man, I sort of have a theory. It’s not MY theory — it’s a compilation of many inputs.* It’s not what I was taught as a child, and it’s not what many people believe. But it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.

I don’t believe that God GIVES us cancer. He doesn’t GIVE us heartache and disease and death. He created a perfect world long, long ago — a world that was free of sickness and greed and hurt. He created something that was inherently good.

And then, over thousands of years, the human race has fucked it up. WE — not me, or you, or anyone specifically, but “we” as an entire race — have broken  the perfect, unflawed world that was created for us. Our endless, driving need for more… more technology, more money, more power, more convenience, more material comfort, more stimulation, more, more, more… has corrupted the simple good things that once were. The need for constant growth, and money,  and medical advances, technology, and creature comforts, are all positive things in that they increase the efficiency, enjoyment, and productivity of our environment.  But what’s the collateral damage of progress? You cannot streamline and improve and grow something without altering it.  And after generation upon generation of alterations, what we have no longer even vaguely resembles what we originally started with.  Our food is full of preservatives and hormones, our air is full of pollutants, our little girls are growing breasts at age 8, our world is full of anger and ambition and burgeoning growth. And when the tiniest factor goes awry, the ripple effects are far-reaching and shattering. The result is war, cancer, brutality, and indoctrinated beliefs that are based only on narrow and selfish human emotion.

Why did my mother die of breast cancer? Why do shitty, unexplainable things happen? Because our world is broken, and a broken world cannot produce perfection. It’s just not possible.

And why doesn’t God — this all-powerful, omniscient, loving God — stop these atrocities from happening? Because he shouldn’t intervene. I do not believe that this theory makes him impotent, as some critics claim. For lack of a better word, he technically COULD intervene, but he’s not “allowed” because it would disrupt what is already in motion because of human decision and free will.   Just because you’re physically capable of doing something doesn’t mean that you should always take action. This world has to run it’s course, and has to reach its inevitable conclusion. Although it hurts him to watch us struggle and yearn and fight to survive, he has to allow the cycle to complete itself.

And about the idea of a “cycle”…   What if this cycle that we are a part of — Earth, our world, our decisions and actions — is just one of many cycles? What if there was a cycle before us, and there will be a cycle after us? And each time a cycle completes, God resets everything back to perfection and lets the human race try again. The movie “Knowing” was eerily fascinating… it’s Hollywood’s depiction of God pushing the reset button.

So as for God “giving” us more than we can handle? I call bullshit. Past generations are “giving” this crap to us and we’re “giving” it to our future generations and eventually it’s going to implode. It has to… it can’t continue to function indefinitely on its current path.

And this concludes my happy, uplifting contribution for today. Ok then.

Whew. Happy Monday morning, ya’ll.

*Just in case anyone’s interested, this post was my first attempt to delve into this topic. Then this book by Yancey and this book by Kushner are probably the ones I would recommend, although they don’t necessarily agree with each other.

Just got home from our “talking about joining” meeting with the preacher-man, to whom I will refer from now on as Dr. McK. Again, I so like him. Really, REALLY like him. He’s smart and open and well-spoken and thoughtful and patient with my lists of questions. He really listens, instead of just waiting until I finish talking so he can give me the canned, “right” answers.

He explained much — for example, this church is affiliated with the Coop.erative Bap.tist Fellowship rather than the South.ern Bap.tist Convention. As a non-Bap.tist, I had no idea exactly what that meant, so I had to come home and do some reading… after doing a comparison, I’ve realized that this is a very good thing for me.  I don’t think I’d be a very good South.ern Bap.tist. He said that there’s no membership “rulebook,” which appeals to me mightily. I grew up with a rulebook implanted in my head, and would prefer not to raise my children the same way. The phrase he used that stuck with me was “exploration, not indoctrination.” Well said, Dr. McK.

So yeah, I think I’m ready to do it. The whole thing.

It’s storming like a beast here… rain, thunder, lightening, the whole shebang. I kinda like it — I’ve always loved thunderstorms. When I was little, I used to sneak out of the house and stand in the front yard, staring into the sky until Mama realized I had escaped again and demanded that I come in. I remember one time though, that she came out there with me, and we just stood in the yard with the thunder until we were soaked.

I’m making peace with “the news” that I’m still not able to tell ya’ll… sorry, I promise I’ll divulge as soon as I can. I no longer get the sick, sinking feeling when I wake up in the morning and remember. And I’m no longer sobbing intermediately without provocation. That’s an improvement, right? Yeah, thought so.  And a special thanks to all you fellow “uglies” out there… thank you for sharing that I’m not alone in my uncontrollable hatefulness.

So about church — I really, truly like the church that Bobby & I have been going to. A couple of weeks ago, we decided to try Sunday School. A little background: I’ve never done Sunday School. The Church I grew up in didn’t have Sunday School… the thought was that children shouldn’t be coddled, and should be disciplined enough to sit through a hr-long sermon without wiggling, squirming, or any entertainment (some kids were allowed to have coloring books & crayons, but ole Marty made sure that his daughters were fully focused on the sermon). Anyway, I digress. Bobby and I decided to try Sunday School, and I confess, I didn’t like it initially. It felt forced — lots of big questions and serious discussion topics crammed into a 50-min time period with strangers, concluded by a schoolhouse bell indicating that time’s up. But I’ve often been one to make snap judgments, so agreed to try it again… and I liked it much better the second time. Maybe I just needed to adjust my expectations — I’m not sure what I was expecting, but once I made an effort to be open, it was much better.

Bobby and I are probably the youngest ones in our class, and we’re definitely the only ones without kids… I told Bobby that although I feel a bit disconnected, I would rather be the youngest than the oldest. And these are really nice, really friendly people who hopefully can provide mature friendships, guidance, and maybe even some baby advice when the time comes.

So this past Sunday, I took the plunge and checked the “interested in joining” box on my little registration form. (I know, what’s up with churches having registration forms?… that would have definitely thrown me off a few years ago, but I’m ok with it these days – am looking at it as just a nice, little organizational tool.)  Church membership is a foray into the unknown for me…. more than anti-Sunday School and anti-women’s rights and anti-pants/makeup/jewelry/movies, The Church was and is anti-church membership. As a result, I’ve resisted it for years. Was taught — and thoroughly believed — that attending church is about a relationship with God, not signing on the dotted line, and church membership was a tool of Satan to lull unbelievers into a false sense of security brought about by belonging to a social club. But things have changed. I’ve changed. I’ve reached a point where I really want to commit to something bigger than myself. I need guidance and structure and spiritual leadership, and I’m not arrogant enough to think that I can do it alone. I want to be a part of a community. Not just a community, like my street community or the museum committee community, but a community based on something bigger than me.

And my completely shallow self really, REALLY loves the inside of the church… it’s absolutely, stunningly beautiful. That’s the Mama in me… I just couldn’t join a church that wasn’t aesthetically pleasing.

So Bobby and I are going to sit down with the pastor next week, and talk about what church membership means. I’ve never been a member of a church, so it should be interesting.

Part of me worries that I’m being rash… after all, I’ve only been doing this church thing for a few months. Am I ready to commit? Should I wait a few more months and make sure I still like this church? Should we try a few more churches just to confirm? But I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m in limbo. And anyway, we’re just talking about joining… we’re not actually taking the plunge just yet.

Sometimes I really do look around and wonder how I got here. The t-shirts say that life is good. I’m more of the opinion that life is just plain weird.

And this is totally unrelated to anything, but I’d now like to share a picture of my favorite front-yard tree (I have a favorite back-yard tree, too, that’s not pictured). Isn’t it lovely?

I’ve found that it’s much easier to be “honest” with people who are not affiliated with The Church… it’s much easier to pull back, disassociate, and perhaps even poke fun a bit. But I found that I lost my voice when speaking to those who have first-hand knowledge, the kids I grew up with. Oh, it would have been very easy if we ALL felt angry, damaged, and betrayed. But we don’t. There are a few who are still in The Church, and who are willing to defend it. One particular person, who I was very fond of as a child, wrote a long, passionate post about why he still believes in The Church so adamantly. Almost as if by magic, I felt myself crumbling, shrinking into myself, chastised for my unbelief, and wishing that I had never opened myself to his viewpoint — I felt like I had been told once again by The Church that hell is the only possible consequence of questioning that faith. (See this post.)

But then, something happened… something wonderful. His words, which I read as a challenge (whether he meant them that way or not) stirred something besides anger and fear. They stirred something deep in me that’s been growing, an understanding that while he has a right to his beliefs, SO DO I. What a novel, beautiful, boundary-shaking thought — one that may seem so simple and obvious to some, but so freeing to me and others who were taught to believe that there is only ONE WAY.

So I wrote the following paragraphs on the message board. Although these words may seem very basic in the context of this blog, where I’m more likely to write honestly than anywhere else, they felt very brave when directed to their intended audience. For the first time, I felt like I was transparent and not ashamed in the face of The Church and therefore, myself.

It’s strange, really… I’ve harbored so many feelings (good & bad) for so many years about my religious upbringing. I was TERRIFIED about contacting ya’ll again, because I was afraid that I was the only one who had walked away with less-than-perfect memories. I wondered if I was the only one who felt damaged…

And after a week or so of reading your words, I felt… better. That seems like a really small word — maybe “somewhat healed” would be a better choice? Not completely, obviously… it’s more like I’ve spent years with a splinter in my finger, and it’s been infected, hurting, festering, painful. And then, you guys helped me remove it FINALLY. It’s going to take a while for it to heal completely, if it ever does, but at least some progress has been made.

Digging the splinter out was emotionally exhausting — I had buried that crap down deep. And I wonder if there’s more down in there that needs to come out. I don’t know. What I DO know is that after my week of thinking/dreaming/constantly checking this group, I suddenly felt empowered to try church again. When that little voice in my head started it’s nasty talk about how I was wasting my time, how The Church is the only way, I told it to shut up. For the first time, I’m considering the novel idea that the little voice is wrong… that the people in my childhood, however sincere, were WRONG. It’s liberating.

I scheduled a meeting with the pastor of the church I’ve been trying… for the first time, I sat down with a man who is my spiritual “superior” and didn’t feel intimidated. I told him very briefly about my childhood religion, and how I was still struggling to shed the baggage. We talked about the God of Grace, and how I’ve only known a God of Fear. He told me that his father was an alcoholic, and that being raised in a family with substance abuse carries much of the same baggage as being raised with religious abuse.

I know that some of you have walked away with mostly pleasant memories, and I’m glad. I didn’t. My father was/is egocentric & religiously abusive, and the church’s male-centered doctrine gave him the perfect outlet. Acknowledging this is my first step to dealing with it, I guess.

Anyway, I said all that to say this. Thank you all for sharing your memories, thoughts, etc. It’s helped me more than you can imagine.

So what now? Where do I go from here? I feel a bit like a ship that’s lifted anchor after years of tethered in an enemy land — free, but also directionless. I feel impatient to find a new shore, but also terrified that I will discover that my new shore is not all that I imagined. But I know, I finally truly KNOW, that the new land WILL be better than the one I just left.

I’ve read “The Jesus I Never Knew” and am now working on “What’s So Amazing About Grace?” The Jesus, the deity, that is discussed in these books is a new one for me. For the first time, I’m beginning to understand and maybe even believe Yancey’s words when he writes:

There’s nothing you can do to make God love you less. There’s nothing you can do to make God love you more.

When I first read those words, I felt like a convict whose life sentence had just been pardoned — thrilled, but incredulous. I’m still trying to understand and come to peace with Mama’s death… today I’m heading to the bookstore to buy Yancey’s “Where Is God When It Hurts?” For the first time since Mama left me, I really want to know the answer to this question and I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. For more than a year after her death, my thoughts were more along the lines of “Who gives a f*ck where God is? F*ck him and the chariot he rode in on.”  And guess what? Apparently, thinking that didn’t make God love me any less….  who knew?!

I feel like I’m swimming through mud. And it’s my own fault. Let me fully explain what I’ve done.

Two days ago, I created an invitation-only group on Facebook, and invited the kids I grew up with… the ones who also grew up in The Church. And then I asked them what they think now. Keep in mind that these are people who I’ve purposefully lost touch with — when I left The Church, I left in every way possible. And then we became Facebook friends, which was kind of a leap for me — the first contact I’ve had in over a decade. And then I asked them what they think about how we were raised. It was the equivalent of nailing a hornet’s next with a baseball bat.

Clarification: Heretofore, when I reference “The Church,” I’m referring to the actual, physical building and body of people who helped raise me and played such a gigantic role in my life. I am NOT referring to the belief system that is still practiced throughout the world. I’m realizing that The Church was an extremely poor representation of The Belief, and that they are not & should not be interchangeable.

Here’s something else I’ve learned about myself in the last two days… I’ve learned that just a few well-placed words and a certain tone can once again reduce me to a puddle of shriveling insecurity. It’s like the years and education and hard-won independence that I’ve gained during the years since leaving The Church just melt away, and I’m once again that scared, apologetic little girl hoping that I don’t go to hell for poking at the powers that be. I thought that I would be “safe” because it’s all behind the computer — I mean, it’s not like I’m meeting these people face-to-face, right? Wrong. The tone is the same, whether written or spoken. It makes me feel nauseous and it makes me cry.

I am logical, as a rule. I usually admire logical arguments that are well-organized and stoutly built. But when it comes to The Church and its advocates, I’m a stumbling, bumbling mess. I read the posts on this message board, and I have no intellectual, logical response. The only part of me that has anything to say is the emotional, scared little girl who’s screaming “STOP FUCKING PREACHING AT ME!!” I hate the tone, I hate the superiority and the certainty that drips from every word.

And you know the best part? The preaching is done in such a way that, really, the problem is all mine. I have some serious baggage. I resist men as religious authority figures. I have a chip on my shoulder, and it’s like I’m just waiting for them to piss me off. I’m sure that it’s not a coincidence that I was just dandy with the message board until a guy spoke up and then I saw red. Everything he wrote made me mad. Why?

So I composed a long response to what he had written and posted it. And there was no response. It’s like I wasn’t even worth the effort of responding. What the fucking hell is up with that? Am I really that invisible? Are my thoughts really that meaningless? The Church made me invisible for 18 years, and sometimes when I talk to my father, I’m still invisible. I just want to leave, to pretend like I didn’t stir this up. I hate them. I hate this. This is not about God at all. It’s about those men and their stupid, fucking egos and power trips and God complexes. I’m really, really fucking angry right now. And I don’t know why. I just feel so helpless and fucking invisible.