One of the biggest problems I've had with theism is that I've been shown such astounding evidence for evolution of species by means of natural selection. Ironically, the best explanations of what that is really and what it means, were presented by a man who professes Christian faith, and who I am certain I should have asked more questions when I was under his tutelage. Nevertheless, the issue that is at hand has very little to do with biology and a whole lot to do with the world around us. Of course the questions begin with biology-- how did the Kingdoms split and from them emerged Phyla, and on and on. But the problem is that the answers to these questions are not readily answered with a "yes, but..." approach that leads into what we now know as the argument for Intelligent Design (and within that I'm including traditional Creationism, though I realize that there is a spectrum there).
But Intelligent Design would make more sense if there seemed any rhyme or reason or evidence of success to what and who and where we are. But there doesn't seem to be. I'm not trying to badger anyone or depreciate what it is to be human. Not at all. But I find that the problem with the natural selection (which is an awkward term, when you think about it) is that the underlying proposal is that there is no selection at all. Organisms are not progressing and becoming better. Rather, life is a craps shoot with no direction whatsoever. Whatever lives long enough to reproduce "wins" and whatever doesn't, doesn't.
The way that I'd always rationalized evolution and married it back into my Christian beliefs was by way of a very different, adulterated understanding of what it all meant. I would reason that if the Big Bang happened, and that's what the evidence points to, then it would have been used by God to bring forth the universe over time. And in the universe, then, God would have guided evolution until Man sprang forth from the other primates, and God would at that point have breathed "life" (and I took that to mean "soul") into mankind.
It doesn't seem that my rationalizations make much sense, though, in light of a better understanding of the scientific theory. I do not claim that I'm explaining it well, by the way. Just explaining what I took away from my experiences. (Do your own research, people! Ensatina salamanders are a good place to start.) But by looking at the nineteenth century and the worldviews that diverged from Darwin's publication onward, it becomes clear that one may not have one's cake and eat it, too.
T
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
AA and pseudotheological alchemy
As a part of this process, I initially made a list of places and events to try to attend and systems to learn about. One that was brought to my attention was Alcoholics Anonymous. It seems like a really odd place to go in search of spiritual enlightenment, but then, so does a banyan tree.
I accompanied my housemate, Jon, as he needed to go to an AA meeting as part of his course work for the masters degree he is working on in community counseling. Addictions counseling is a big part of that, and so understanding AA is pretty useful. Anyway, on the way to Little Rock to the meeting at noon on a weekday, we discussed the origins of AA and the underlying principles. When we walked into the room, I was surprised to see a bunch of tables in rows in what reminded me of a fellowship hall in a church. People were sitting dispersed around the room at the tables and in chairs around the perimeter. A woman with frizzy blond hair and the pudge of middle age stood on a platform at the front of the room and called on people in a sort of popcorn style. They would respond with the prose repeated in so many movies, "Hi, I'm ___, and I'm an alcoholic." And that, of course, was answered with a chorus of "Hi, ___."
Things started to get interesting when the people on the journey of recovery started to talk, though. At the core of AA is the acceptance of a Higher Power, and that Higher Power may be God in the Christian sense or not, but it is really important that a Higher Power be envisioned and sought. As these people (working class, mostly African American) told their stories, it became clear why I had been brought to AA. This really was a spiritual group meeting. The attendees talked at length about how they had managed to destroy their lives through alcoholism. Lost jobs, lost loves, lost family members and opportunities.
The stories were oddly similar, and they tended to follow the pattern of "I started drinking around the age of X. It spiraled out of control and messed everything up. Then I realized that I have a problem and the only way to live is by submitting to the Higher Power and to trust him/her/it with how I live. I can't have a relationship with the Higher Power and keep drinking. This is how I'm staying sober."
As Jon and I left that meeting room, we didn't really talk until we had gone back downstairs and gotten into the car. A man came to try to sell us knock-off colognes as we were leaving. We were not interested, and we told him we'd ask for him next time we came around. In the car I turned to Jon and just kind of gaped. I had no idea that AA would be so... religious. I thought it would be like the movies and no one would so much talk about the Higher Power, but that it would be kind of a personal thing. Nope.
I remarked to Jon that it was like a religion without doctrine, if that's even possible. The Higher Power is never proscribed as far as I can see, and there isn't much said about anything outside of liquor consumption. But Jon pointed out that maybe that is the doctrine, and in some ways it very closely follows evangelical Christian patterns.
-I have become an alcoholic; that has ruined my life
-There is nothing I can do under my own power to change
-The Higher Power can change the corruption of alcohol and make life good again
-I can't have alcohol and the Higher Power
-I must turn to the Higher Power and my life will be restored
This is kind of a putting-out-the-fire system of theology. If you replace alcohol in the above steps, you have a very close approximation to the evangelical pattern of salvation.
Who knew?
T
I accompanied my housemate, Jon, as he needed to go to an AA meeting as part of his course work for the masters degree he is working on in community counseling. Addictions counseling is a big part of that, and so understanding AA is pretty useful. Anyway, on the way to Little Rock to the meeting at noon on a weekday, we discussed the origins of AA and the underlying principles. When we walked into the room, I was surprised to see a bunch of tables in rows in what reminded me of a fellowship hall in a church. People were sitting dispersed around the room at the tables and in chairs around the perimeter. A woman with frizzy blond hair and the pudge of middle age stood on a platform at the front of the room and called on people in a sort of popcorn style. They would respond with the prose repeated in so many movies, "Hi, I'm ___, and I'm an alcoholic." And that, of course, was answered with a chorus of "Hi, ___."
Things started to get interesting when the people on the journey of recovery started to talk, though. At the core of AA is the acceptance of a Higher Power, and that Higher Power may be God in the Christian sense or not, but it is really important that a Higher Power be envisioned and sought. As these people (working class, mostly African American) told their stories, it became clear why I had been brought to AA. This really was a spiritual group meeting. The attendees talked at length about how they had managed to destroy their lives through alcoholism. Lost jobs, lost loves, lost family members and opportunities.
The stories were oddly similar, and they tended to follow the pattern of "I started drinking around the age of X. It spiraled out of control and messed everything up. Then I realized that I have a problem and the only way to live is by submitting to the Higher Power and to trust him/her/it with how I live. I can't have a relationship with the Higher Power and keep drinking. This is how I'm staying sober."
As Jon and I left that meeting room, we didn't really talk until we had gone back downstairs and gotten into the car. A man came to try to sell us knock-off colognes as we were leaving. We were not interested, and we told him we'd ask for him next time we came around. In the car I turned to Jon and just kind of gaped. I had no idea that AA would be so... religious. I thought it would be like the movies and no one would so much talk about the Higher Power, but that it would be kind of a personal thing. Nope.
I remarked to Jon that it was like a religion without doctrine, if that's even possible. The Higher Power is never proscribed as far as I can see, and there isn't much said about anything outside of liquor consumption. But Jon pointed out that maybe that is the doctrine, and in some ways it very closely follows evangelical Christian patterns.
-I have become an alcoholic; that has ruined my life
-There is nothing I can do under my own power to change
-The Higher Power can change the corruption of alcohol and make life good again
-I can't have alcohol and the Higher Power
-I must turn to the Higher Power and my life will be restored
This is kind of a putting-out-the-fire system of theology. If you replace alcohol in the above steps, you have a very close approximation to the evangelical pattern of salvation.
Who knew?
T
Monday, November 15, 2010
Anglicanned
Yesterday I went back to the Episcopal church. And I did some thinking, some introspection, and some observation.
I sat behind a woman who I've noticed before at church. She reminds me of an elementary school teacher in her late 40's. She comes to church alone and goes through the service flawlessly and (at least from my perspective) seems to have a truly deep experience through the prayers and the Eucharist. I like watching her, because I like to imagine her growth in the church and how she must understand things better than I do.
What I realize, though, is that it is really easy to get lost in the proceedings of a high church service. I caught myself trying to make sure that my Book of Common Prayer was on the right page and that I would be able to not get lost. It isn't that it's that hard to follow. They give you a bulletin and announce the pages as they go. But I found myself caught in the keeping up, and not really experiencing the moments as they came and went.
This, I think, is the biggest experiential downfall of high church. One must have some grasp of how things will go. One needs to know the order of things and what is expected at each turn. And not just know them, but feel the progression and be able to respond to it without being preoccupied. I've had days like that, but for the most part, in the Episcopal church, I'm not really there. I cannot say that this is the fault of the church so much as a part of my lack of experience in it. That is to say that I am still learning and finding how it works in relation with what I know it is trying to accomplish.
As I was sitting in the pew and having already taken communion, I pulled a card out of the slot in front of me. It was neither a visitor card nor a "Doodle Card" as I had expected, but a card I'd never seen before. It was a bookmark sized piece of cardstock that had a list of prayers on it that I didn't know even existed. They were prayers for before worship, before communion, after communion, and after worship. (I'm probably forgetting one or two.) And the point of them is to make that bridge between the corporate worship and read prayers out of the BCP and the internal, personal spirit of the congregant. The prayers may be written ahead of time, which is not a bad thing per se, but they can become a robotic reading without internalization. This way, the church is not the only entity praying. I am praying.
That's the hardest part for me. It's hard for me to pray and read and respond at the same time. It's hard for me to put the requisite soul into my prayers as I'm reading them. But I'm learning. And now, since I have it, I'm praying as directed, for God to quiet my mind and focus my heart on worship.
As a final note, there is something that I highly appreciate in the Episcopal church. The confession of sins is a weekly thing. This is something that bothered me in the Baptist church. No one ever talked about sin as something personal, but as something "other" that needed to be confessed. There was no public confession. The other thing that I like about this tradition is that the confession is corporate.
The Deacon or Celebrant says
Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor.
Silence may be kept.
Minister and People
Most merciful God,
we confess that we have sinned against you
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done,
and by what we have left undone.
We have not loved you with our whole heart;
we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.
We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we may delight in your will,
and walk in your ways,
to the glory of your Name. Amen.
The Bishop, when present, or the Priest, stands and says
Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you all your sins
through our Lord Jesus Christ, strengthen you in all
goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep you in
eternal life. Amen.
T
I sat behind a woman who I've noticed before at church. She reminds me of an elementary school teacher in her late 40's. She comes to church alone and goes through the service flawlessly and (at least from my perspective) seems to have a truly deep experience through the prayers and the Eucharist. I like watching her, because I like to imagine her growth in the church and how she must understand things better than I do.
What I realize, though, is that it is really easy to get lost in the proceedings of a high church service. I caught myself trying to make sure that my Book of Common Prayer was on the right page and that I would be able to not get lost. It isn't that it's that hard to follow. They give you a bulletin and announce the pages as they go. But I found myself caught in the keeping up, and not really experiencing the moments as they came and went.
This, I think, is the biggest experiential downfall of high church. One must have some grasp of how things will go. One needs to know the order of things and what is expected at each turn. And not just know them, but feel the progression and be able to respond to it without being preoccupied. I've had days like that, but for the most part, in the Episcopal church, I'm not really there. I cannot say that this is the fault of the church so much as a part of my lack of experience in it. That is to say that I am still learning and finding how it works in relation with what I know it is trying to accomplish.
As I was sitting in the pew and having already taken communion, I pulled a card out of the slot in front of me. It was neither a visitor card nor a "Doodle Card" as I had expected, but a card I'd never seen before. It was a bookmark sized piece of cardstock that had a list of prayers on it that I didn't know even existed. They were prayers for before worship, before communion, after communion, and after worship. (I'm probably forgetting one or two.) And the point of them is to make that bridge between the corporate worship and read prayers out of the BCP and the internal, personal spirit of the congregant. The prayers may be written ahead of time, which is not a bad thing per se, but they can become a robotic reading without internalization. This way, the church is not the only entity praying. I am praying.
That's the hardest part for me. It's hard for me to pray and read and respond at the same time. It's hard for me to put the requisite soul into my prayers as I'm reading them. But I'm learning. And now, since I have it, I'm praying as directed, for God to quiet my mind and focus my heart on worship.
As a final note, there is something that I highly appreciate in the Episcopal church. The confession of sins is a weekly thing. This is something that bothered me in the Baptist church. No one ever talked about sin as something personal, but as something "other" that needed to be confessed. There was no public confession. The other thing that I like about this tradition is that the confession is corporate.
The Deacon or Celebrant says
Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor.
Silence may be kept.
Minister and People
Most merciful God,
we confess that we have sinned against you
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done,
and by what we have left undone.
We have not loved you with our whole heart;
we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.
We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we may delight in your will,
and walk in your ways,
to the glory of your Name. Amen.
The Bishop, when present, or the Priest, stands and says
Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you all your sins
through our Lord Jesus Christ, strengthen you in all
goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep you in
eternal life. Amen.
T
Monday, November 8, 2010
Roots, Fruits, Cahoots
I'm living in the awkward in-between.
It has become painfully clear that I'm neither adult nor child. And with that made all but clear, I've realized that a certain freedom arises from this ambiguity. I can vote and smoke and play the lotto, but I can't seem to find a big boy job. I'm not getting married or having kids, but I've got a college degree to show that I'm not a baby anymore. I pay rent but not a mortgage. I have a dog.
I feel like one of those air plants that just exists by sucking nutrients out of the air. It's not a bad existence, per se, but it is also not a substantial one. It's a novelty. There is no fruit, there is no shade. It's because there are no real roots.
In the past four or five years, it seems that I've done a really good job at almost severing all of my roots. I don't really talk to my best friends from high school, and they are married. My college friends have begun the process of moving away or drifting away or getting distracted with the real world. It's a sad way that things go, really, but it also seems to be the natural order of things.
And so it is, I suppose, that my spiritual roots have been pruned. Not in an angry or malicious way. But in a way that is part, I think, or the maturation process. I don't know what I'm looking for, or if it is really there to be found. But I'm hopeful. I was talking to a friend several weeks ago, and she described herself as a hopeful agnostic. I don't know if I want to go that far, or if maybe I'm afraid of labels. But I understand in a very clear way what she meant.
I don't know. I don't know if I can know. But I sure hope.
T
It has become painfully clear that I'm neither adult nor child. And with that made all but clear, I've realized that a certain freedom arises from this ambiguity. I can vote and smoke and play the lotto, but I can't seem to find a big boy job. I'm not getting married or having kids, but I've got a college degree to show that I'm not a baby anymore. I pay rent but not a mortgage. I have a dog.
I feel like one of those air plants that just exists by sucking nutrients out of the air. It's not a bad existence, per se, but it is also not a substantial one. It's a novelty. There is no fruit, there is no shade. It's because there are no real roots.
In the past four or five years, it seems that I've done a really good job at almost severing all of my roots. I don't really talk to my best friends from high school, and they are married. My college friends have begun the process of moving away or drifting away or getting distracted with the real world. It's a sad way that things go, really, but it also seems to be the natural order of things.
And so it is, I suppose, that my spiritual roots have been pruned. Not in an angry or malicious way. But in a way that is part, I think, or the maturation process. I don't know what I'm looking for, or if it is really there to be found. But I'm hopeful. I was talking to a friend several weeks ago, and she described herself as a hopeful agnostic. I don't know if I want to go that far, or if maybe I'm afraid of labels. But I understand in a very clear way what she meant.
I don't know. I don't know if I can know. But I sure hope.
T
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Buddhism by way of a German novel
I've not been to church lately. It isn't that I haven't wanted to go. It's just that, for the most part, I've overslept or been hungover or whatever, and 10:30 comes awfully soon after 3am.
What an awful way to start a spirituality blog post.
The paradox, though, is that I have been thinking a lot about the metaphysical. Recently I read Herman Hesse's book, Siddhartha, and it was eye-opening in ways I didn't expect. What I found perhaps most interesting was that Siddhartha, the protagonist of the novel, goes on a journey similar to one I find myself on. He grows up under a certain structure, leaves it for a more intense religious way of life, then leaves that, too, for yet another piece of the world puzzle. And (and we're not here yet), he leaves that one, too. Siddhartha meets the Buddha, listens to his teachings, and then goes his own way without joining up.
What I find interesting about this whole system, as laid out in Hesse's work, is the idea that true knowledge is not gotten through teachers and teachings. It is gotten by experience, by knowing the world through knowing the self, and by (for lack of a better word) meditation upon what is beyond the self. Hesse has been criticized for extremely oversimplifying the world in his writing. I can agree, this pre-modern India is not like a technologically-infused USA. There is a lot of noise here, and a lot of possibility here. But it is also arguable that there is noise in every place, possibility in every place. The specifics change.
Ultimately, Siddhartha finds enlightenment not by an eightfold path or ten commandments, but by listening to a river. He calms himself and eliminates noise and excess and communes with the world around him. When I finished the book, I texted a friend and informed him that I would be henceforth living in a van down by the river until enlightenment strikes. He shot me down and reminded me that Hesse is, indeed a good writer, but his view is simplistic. Not to mention that he was a German explicating the underlying currents of Buddhism.
If there is an ultimate take-away from Siddhartha, though, it is to calm the noise, to calm the soul, to be still. God may be speaking through the river's babble. Or God may not be. God may be in the sound of thunder or the still small voice. In any event, one cannot hear very well with gadgets buzzing and blinking at every moment.
As a side note, Siddhartha is considered one of the great writings about Buddhism, kind of, I would say, like CS Lewis's writings for Christianity. And while I'm not planning to become a Buddhist (I'm not even an Episcopalian, as it were), but I am more than happy to learn from these that have learned before me. And I'll remember, as per Hesse, that it is not to hear teachings, but to listen to the quiet and to practice for myself that I might become.
T
What an awful way to start a spirituality blog post.
The paradox, though, is that I have been thinking a lot about the metaphysical. Recently I read Herman Hesse's book, Siddhartha, and it was eye-opening in ways I didn't expect. What I found perhaps most interesting was that Siddhartha, the protagonist of the novel, goes on a journey similar to one I find myself on. He grows up under a certain structure, leaves it for a more intense religious way of life, then leaves that, too, for yet another piece of the world puzzle. And (and we're not here yet), he leaves that one, too. Siddhartha meets the Buddha, listens to his teachings, and then goes his own way without joining up.
What I find interesting about this whole system, as laid out in Hesse's work, is the idea that true knowledge is not gotten through teachers and teachings. It is gotten by experience, by knowing the world through knowing the self, and by (for lack of a better word) meditation upon what is beyond the self. Hesse has been criticized for extremely oversimplifying the world in his writing. I can agree, this pre-modern India is not like a technologically-infused USA. There is a lot of noise here, and a lot of possibility here. But it is also arguable that there is noise in every place, possibility in every place. The specifics change.
Ultimately, Siddhartha finds enlightenment not by an eightfold path or ten commandments, but by listening to a river. He calms himself and eliminates noise and excess and communes with the world around him. When I finished the book, I texted a friend and informed him that I would be henceforth living in a van down by the river until enlightenment strikes. He shot me down and reminded me that Hesse is, indeed a good writer, but his view is simplistic. Not to mention that he was a German explicating the underlying currents of Buddhism.
If there is an ultimate take-away from Siddhartha, though, it is to calm the noise, to calm the soul, to be still. God may be speaking through the river's babble. Or God may not be. God may be in the sound of thunder or the still small voice. In any event, one cannot hear very well with gadgets buzzing and blinking at every moment.
As a side note, Siddhartha is considered one of the great writings about Buddhism, kind of, I would say, like CS Lewis's writings for Christianity. And while I'm not planning to become a Buddhist (I'm not even an Episcopalian, as it were), but I am more than happy to learn from these that have learned before me. And I'll remember, as per Hesse, that it is not to hear teachings, but to listen to the quiet and to practice for myself that I might become.
T
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Confirmation
I was back in the pew of my regularly-attended Episcopal church this week. Two of my roommates were finally being confirmed into that church. I can't really explain how excited I was for them. I love that they are able to join into this body that they have wanted to join. Furthermore, I'm amused that they (a committed couple) had very different and far-reaching reasons for why they wanted to be confirmed.
My other roommate is a [dirty papist!] Catholic.
One of the reasons I was excited about confirmation, other than my pleasure at my friends' step forward in their lives, was to finally get to see the bishop. Since my church is a vicarage instead of a parish, my priest is not actually a priest, but a vicar. She doesn't have full authority, but works as a proxy (or vicar) or the bishop. Furthermore, I was told that the bishop would be holding his staff and wearing his funny hat (which, I learned is a miter). Being there was a no-brainer. Also, I was able to drag my boyfriend with me to support the roomies, and this was heightened by sitting next to Jon's dad, who preached at the Methodist church a few weeks ago, and further down the row, Jon's grandparents, the avowed Baptists who were none too thrilled to watch their grandson kneeling before a bishop, funny hat or no.
So there I sat, between Bob and the boyfriend, neither of whom knew the particulars of the Episcopal service too thoroughly, and I was doing my damnedest to kneel and stand and sit and bow and cross and forehead-lips-chest sign and sing and read and pray. It was awesome.
This week, one of the most interesting points I noticed was that in the process of confirmation, the congregants went through the liturgy of the baptismal renewal. I like this, because it is a fresh vow to follow Christ and to abstain from evil. I dig it. Also, in the service, the Bishop's sermon focused on the Christian doctrine of the ultimate triumph of good over evil. He preached against the ancient heresy of Modalism, that is, that the two sides are balanced and it is an unsure struggle. God wins, or good wins. It depends on how you want to look at it, but I think that's kind of the same thing.
I know I'm skipping something. But here's to another week of the search and the participation in that which is, I hope, a noble pursuit.
T
My other roommate is a [dirty papist!] Catholic.
One of the reasons I was excited about confirmation, other than my pleasure at my friends' step forward in their lives, was to finally get to see the bishop. Since my church is a vicarage instead of a parish, my priest is not actually a priest, but a vicar. She doesn't have full authority, but works as a proxy (or vicar) or the bishop. Furthermore, I was told that the bishop would be holding his staff and wearing his funny hat (which, I learned is a miter). Being there was a no-brainer. Also, I was able to drag my boyfriend with me to support the roomies, and this was heightened by sitting next to Jon's dad, who preached at the Methodist church a few weeks ago, and further down the row, Jon's grandparents, the avowed Baptists who were none too thrilled to watch their grandson kneeling before a bishop, funny hat or no.
So there I sat, between Bob and the boyfriend, neither of whom knew the particulars of the Episcopal service too thoroughly, and I was doing my damnedest to kneel and stand and sit and bow and cross and forehead-lips-chest sign and sing and read and pray. It was awesome.
This week, one of the most interesting points I noticed was that in the process of confirmation, the congregants went through the liturgy of the baptismal renewal. I like this, because it is a fresh vow to follow Christ and to abstain from evil. I dig it. Also, in the service, the Bishop's sermon focused on the Christian doctrine of the ultimate triumph of good over evil. He preached against the ancient heresy of Modalism, that is, that the two sides are balanced and it is an unsure struggle. God wins, or good wins. It depends on how you want to look at it, but I think that's kind of the same thing.
I know I'm skipping something. But here's to another week of the search and the participation in that which is, I hope, a noble pursuit.
T
Thursday, September 23, 2010
John Wesley's Rules for Singing
This week I went to a United Methodist church in a small town adjacent to the city I live in. This was mostly because my roommate informed me the night before that his father was guest-preaching there. I like my roommate's father for multiple reasons, but prime among them is that he is a Medievalist and he looks like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof. He also tends to be a rather engaging card player, and he drinks rum. Basically the best of all worlds.
Anyway, without tracing through the path of my roommate's father, there are roots in Southern Baptist, Roman Catholic, and now, apparently, United Methodist traditions.
I seized upon the opportunity to go to a Methodist service. Being brought in the south and in a Baptist church, Methodists always seemed to be cast as our beer drinkin' brethren. The joke is tired, but I'll rehash.
Q: What's the difference between a Baptist and a Methodist?
A: The Methodist will say "hello" to you in the liquor store.
Now that I've been to services of both, I have to disagree. Methodist services are strongly reflective of their history. Brief rundown looks like this: Catholic->Anglican->Methodist. It's actually a very interesting story. The Methodist church was a part of the revivals being held in fields etc. and it was a part of the Anglican church for a good while before they finally split.
When we arrived at the church, we were a minute or two late, and we nonchalantly sneaked up the side aisle between the announcements and the actual beginning of the service. Squeezing into a pew near the front, I was suddenly struck by the similarity of the church to the one in which I grew up. Certainly there were two lecterns instead of one, and sure, they were on the sides as opposed to the central pulpit of my youth, but the general air in the church was much the same as my old Baptist childhood church. Too many wood tones. A general feeling of the 1970s through which I did not live. Community that is none too open to change, and an appreciation of that very quality. Status quo, born and died.
A small procession happened, and the woman who was presiding came down the aisle with my friend's father, and a little girl lit the candles on the platform. There were a couple of lectionaries and a gospel reading (though there was no pomp surrounding it-- the reader didn't even bring the Bible to the middle of the people!). A few songs that were familiar were interspersed, and we had a responsive reading from a projection on the front wall of the apse. My friend's father mounted the lectern and delivered a sermon that is hard to qualify as United Methodist, per se. He took one of the readings, the passage from the Old Testament that deals with the balm in Gilead.
He discussed how there is a plaintive, sad air to the question, because there seems to be no balm in Gilead. He related it back to the needs of our contemporary culture... he mentioned health care or the lack thereof. He talked about the people who are marginalized and the ones who are unable to make life work. Then he turned attention to the true balm in Gilead. He pointed the attention of the congregants to the sacrament of holy communion. He segued beautifully into how we do have a balm. We can come to the open table of the Methodists and receive our healing through the bread and the cup. I personally though the sermon was lovely and not at all what I might have expected from a small, country church. Then again, around here, you are as likely as not to find Ph.D's doing plumbing and playing in bluegrass bands as you are to find them in offices and libraries and classrooms. College town.
Next in the service, the woman who was the celebrant blessed the bread (unleavened circular loaf) and the cup (grape juice in a chalice and in the tiny plastic cups I like to call Baptist shots). The congregants moved single file starting in the back of the church and received their communion. There was an individual blessing given to each person as he or she got the communion, and he or she responded with "amen." I was last, which was kind of awkward, since it was my first time. I took the elements and knelt to pray for a moment and to reflect. Then I crossed myself and went back to my place.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have crossed myself in a Methodist church, but it has become habit in that kind of environment to do so. No one said anything about it, of course, but it was glaring weird halfway through. Father and Son and... mistake... but you can't stop now... Holy Ghost. Reverently skitter back to the pew.
A few things that I'm noticing so far:
-Liturgy begets diversity of opinion. The more liturgical a church is, the more people are able to interpret the liturgy and its meaning.
-Architecture is an indicator of importance. Dual lecterns indicates that maybe the celebrant isn't the main event. Single lectern indicates that what's being said is the "meat" of the service. Also, kneelers in the pews mean that it's time for Jesus-y step class.
-Similarities are by and large more important that differences so far.
T
Anyway, without tracing through the path of my roommate's father, there are roots in Southern Baptist, Roman Catholic, and now, apparently, United Methodist traditions.
I seized upon the opportunity to go to a Methodist service. Being brought in the south and in a Baptist church, Methodists always seemed to be cast as our beer drinkin' brethren. The joke is tired, but I'll rehash.
Q: What's the difference between a Baptist and a Methodist?
A: The Methodist will say "hello" to you in the liquor store.
Now that I've been to services of both, I have to disagree. Methodist services are strongly reflective of their history. Brief rundown looks like this: Catholic->Anglican->Methodist. It's actually a very interesting story. The Methodist church was a part of the revivals being held in fields etc. and it was a part of the Anglican church for a good while before they finally split.
When we arrived at the church, we were a minute or two late, and we nonchalantly sneaked up the side aisle between the announcements and the actual beginning of the service. Squeezing into a pew near the front, I was suddenly struck by the similarity of the church to the one in which I grew up. Certainly there were two lecterns instead of one, and sure, they were on the sides as opposed to the central pulpit of my youth, but the general air in the church was much the same as my old Baptist childhood church. Too many wood tones. A general feeling of the 1970s through which I did not live. Community that is none too open to change, and an appreciation of that very quality. Status quo, born and died.
A small procession happened, and the woman who was presiding came down the aisle with my friend's father, and a little girl lit the candles on the platform. There were a couple of lectionaries and a gospel reading (though there was no pomp surrounding it-- the reader didn't even bring the Bible to the middle of the people!). A few songs that were familiar were interspersed, and we had a responsive reading from a projection on the front wall of the apse. My friend's father mounted the lectern and delivered a sermon that is hard to qualify as United Methodist, per se. He took one of the readings, the passage from the Old Testament that deals with the balm in Gilead.
He discussed how there is a plaintive, sad air to the question, because there seems to be no balm in Gilead. He related it back to the needs of our contemporary culture... he mentioned health care or the lack thereof. He talked about the people who are marginalized and the ones who are unable to make life work. Then he turned attention to the true balm in Gilead. He pointed the attention of the congregants to the sacrament of holy communion. He segued beautifully into how we do have a balm. We can come to the open table of the Methodists and receive our healing through the bread and the cup. I personally though the sermon was lovely and not at all what I might have expected from a small, country church. Then again, around here, you are as likely as not to find Ph.D's doing plumbing and playing in bluegrass bands as you are to find them in offices and libraries and classrooms. College town.
Next in the service, the woman who was the celebrant blessed the bread (unleavened circular loaf) and the cup (grape juice in a chalice and in the tiny plastic cups I like to call Baptist shots). The congregants moved single file starting in the back of the church and received their communion. There was an individual blessing given to each person as he or she got the communion, and he or she responded with "amen." I was last, which was kind of awkward, since it was my first time. I took the elements and knelt to pray for a moment and to reflect. Then I crossed myself and went back to my place.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have crossed myself in a Methodist church, but it has become habit in that kind of environment to do so. No one said anything about it, of course, but it was glaring weird halfway through. Father and Son and... mistake... but you can't stop now... Holy Ghost. Reverently skitter back to the pew.
A few things that I'm noticing so far:
-Liturgy begets diversity of opinion. The more liturgical a church is, the more people are able to interpret the liturgy and its meaning.
-Architecture is an indicator of importance. Dual lecterns indicates that maybe the celebrant isn't the main event. Single lectern indicates that what's being said is the "meat" of the service. Also, kneelers in the pews mean that it's time for Jesus-y step class.
-Similarities are by and large more important that differences so far.
T
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Remember Tony Alamo
I cannot remember a time before Tony Alamo. This gentleman is a self-proclaimed "World Pastor" who preaches a brand of Evangelical Christianity that I don't pretend to fully understand. However, his big compound a few miles from my childhood home made him always in the periphery of my consciousness. There were all sorts of allegations about polygamy and child molestation that circulated. I have no idea if those allegations are true. In recent years, I recall, Alamo was arrested and tried for child molestation and perhaps child pornography. The feds got involved. My hometown was a circus.
I say all of that to say that it is nearly impossible for me to complete this assignment without realizing that I have some really, really deep biases against people I snap-judge as crackpots. Tony Alamo would be one of those people.
Last week, a friend received a Tony Alamo Christian Ministries World Newsletter on the windshield of his car while parked at a local Wal-Mart in the town where I live now. The compound and the child brides and the circus are well out of sight, but they linger in my mind. So I took a look at the pamphlet. I tried. I really did.
I read through the main article, "Eternal Life" by Alamo himself. It lays out what I would consider a fairly traditional Evangelical plan of salvation by placing one's faith in Christ and receiving forgiveness for sin by grace.
The idea, in case you did not grow up in a similar tradition, is that Jesus Christ is the one and only incarnation of God, the YHWH, or LORD of the Old Testament. Jesus was miraculously conceived by the virgin Mary through a work of the Holy Spirit (the other part of the Trinity, though we're not going there today), and then Jesus lived a sinless life. He was betrayed by one of his apostles, Judas, and he was crucified unjustly. In the process, though, Jesus took on the sins of the entire human race. He went through hell and then was resurrected three days later. Then, after a month on earth, he ascended into heaven. This process of sinless death, burial, and resurrection, makes him a perfect sacrificial substitute for the atonement for the sins of humanity. If we truly believe and ask him to forgive us, then Jesus will remove our sins and cover us with his grace. If we do this, then we can have eternal life in heaven with God. (And if we don't, we go to hell and suffer in anguish apart from God for eternity.)
So, anyway, Alamo basically follows this regular route, except for one difference in what I have found to be the orthodox Evangelical understanding. Alamo claims that if one accepts Jesus and is saved, then Jesus will transform the heart of the person, and he or she will never sin again. This sinlessness is an act of faithfulness and a show of gratitude for the gift of salvation.
I found the article to be convoluted and all but incomprehensible, though. Alamo pulls from diverse parts of the Bible and sews them together in a way that stories are stripped of their richness and made ugly as parts of an absolute, literal understanding that is zany at best. Things that could be literal are inverted into symbolic, and symbolic elements are made concrete.
For example:
Alamo continues for a couple more verses in this chapter in the same way. If that makes real sense to you, more power to you. I had to read through it a couple of times to understand where he was trying to go, and then I didn't really like where it went. I will say that I appreciate that Alamo seems to know his Bible verses. I don't really understand how he cobbles them together out of context, but I like that the Bible is a focus. But go back and actually read Hebrews 9. It has an argument all its own that didn't need Alamo's explanation. In fact, it is an elegant argument that stands on its own.
In the same article, Alamo writes a prayer for someone to pray if they believe what they have read about the plan of salvation. Then, there is a list of four other things to do in order to receive salvation. I won't pretend to understand what "resurrection from the satanic life of Adam unto the sinless life of Christ" means in any literal sense, but apparently it is necessary for salvation. Once one has done all five steps, he or she is saved.
Alamo's closing salutation is followed by what I consider to be the nail in his coffin on my personal spiritual quest. "Someone" has added in italics at the end of the article "Tony Alamo is probably the greatest patriot this country has ever known."
Unlikely. And irrelevant. Just like the rest of the article.
T
I say all of that to say that it is nearly impossible for me to complete this assignment without realizing that I have some really, really deep biases against people I snap-judge as crackpots. Tony Alamo would be one of those people.
Last week, a friend received a Tony Alamo Christian Ministries World Newsletter on the windshield of his car while parked at a local Wal-Mart in the town where I live now. The compound and the child brides and the circus are well out of sight, but they linger in my mind. So I took a look at the pamphlet. I tried. I really did.
I read through the main article, "Eternal Life" by Alamo himself. It lays out what I would consider a fairly traditional Evangelical plan of salvation by placing one's faith in Christ and receiving forgiveness for sin by grace.
The idea, in case you did not grow up in a similar tradition, is that Jesus Christ is the one and only incarnation of God, the YHWH, or LORD of the Old Testament. Jesus was miraculously conceived by the virgin Mary through a work of the Holy Spirit (the other part of the Trinity, though we're not going there today), and then Jesus lived a sinless life. He was betrayed by one of his apostles, Judas, and he was crucified unjustly. In the process, though, Jesus took on the sins of the entire human race. He went through hell and then was resurrected three days later. Then, after a month on earth, he ascended into heaven. This process of sinless death, burial, and resurrection, makes him a perfect sacrificial substitute for the atonement for the sins of humanity. If we truly believe and ask him to forgive us, then Jesus will remove our sins and cover us with his grace. If we do this, then we can have eternal life in heaven with God. (And if we don't, we go to hell and suffer in anguish apart from God for eternity.)
So, anyway, Alamo basically follows this regular route, except for one difference in what I have found to be the orthodox Evangelical understanding. Alamo claims that if one accepts Jesus and is saved, then Jesus will transform the heart of the person, and he or she will never sin again. This sinlessness is an act of faithfulness and a show of gratitude for the gift of salvation.
I found the article to be convoluted and all but incomprehensible, though. Alamo pulls from diverse parts of the Bible and sews them together in a way that stories are stripped of their richness and made ugly as parts of an absolute, literal understanding that is zany at best. Things that could be literal are inverted into symbolic, and symbolic elements are made concrete.
For example:
Hebrews 9:1 says, "Then verily the first covenant [which is done away with] had also ordinances of divine service, and a worldly sanctuary [built by men, not the Spirit of God]. For there was a tabernacle made; the first, wherein was a candlestick [symbolic of the church of God, the Lord who is the Word, the Light of the World], and the table, and the shewbread [symbolic of Christ, the Word of God, the Bread of Life, and the whole Word of God, like a table of power, strength, and joy which we eat in the presence of our enemies. 'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies' (Psa. 23:5) keeping me spiritually nourished and with joy during all persecutions, trials, and tribulations. It is spiritual food for those of us who believe.]; which is called the sanctuary [for our souls]" (Heb. 9:1-2).
Alamo continues for a couple more verses in this chapter in the same way. If that makes real sense to you, more power to you. I had to read through it a couple of times to understand where he was trying to go, and then I didn't really like where it went. I will say that I appreciate that Alamo seems to know his Bible verses. I don't really understand how he cobbles them together out of context, but I like that the Bible is a focus. But go back and actually read Hebrews 9. It has an argument all its own that didn't need Alamo's explanation. In fact, it is an elegant argument that stands on its own.
In the same article, Alamo writes a prayer for someone to pray if they believe what they have read about the plan of salvation. Then, there is a list of four other things to do in order to receive salvation. I won't pretend to understand what "resurrection from the satanic life of Adam unto the sinless life of Christ" means in any literal sense, but apparently it is necessary for salvation. Once one has done all five steps, he or she is saved.
Alamo's closing salutation is followed by what I consider to be the nail in his coffin on my personal spiritual quest. "Someone" has added in italics at the end of the article "Tony Alamo is probably the greatest patriot this country has ever known."
Unlikely. And irrelevant. Just like the rest of the article.
T
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Start from the start
I went home for my mother's birthday weekend this past weekend. And thus I began the experiential bits of my so-called pilgrimage to God-knows-where. I returned to my hometown, the house I grew up in, and that same Baptist church that I knew for so many years as a home away from home.
At this point in my life, my parents have surrendered their half of the battle to make me go to a Sunday school class before morning worship. This is a thankful reprieve found in the wake of countless similar visits and awkward hours spent in small church classrooms with people I don't know well and smiles that say "I'll never tell" shooting around the table. I do not blame any such pretense on the religious leanings of the people around such a table. Rather, I find that it is human nature to hold one's cards close to the chest, at least until trust is built and the fear of judgment diminished.
Nevertheless, I found myself slipping into the foyer of the church and discreetly up the side aisle to my mother's spot on the right-hand side of the sanctuary. I found her big, blue, nylon zippered study Bible on the itchy pews from the 1970's. I plopped down and made the requisite greetings to the people in my vicinity. Mom came and sat next to me for a moment before shuffling off to the choir loft.
A prelude played and then the pastor, a man in his late 50's or early 60's, mounted the platform and welcomed those congregated to the service. He asked that everyone tear out an information card from their handout, and that new visitors would put it in the offering plate when it was passed later in the service.
Next, a middle-aged man in khakis and a polo shirt got up and led the choir, musicians, and congregation in a series of hymns and more modern praise songs. The theme of the music seemed to be the blood of Jesus and the grace that it imparts to sinners, and how that is what brings us to God. The music itself was nothing out of the ordinary. A piano, an organ, and an electronic keyboard played along as the lyrics were projected onto a screen above the baptistery. However, the joining of voices was transcendent in a plaintive, beautiful, hopeful, conflicted but joyous celebration of God and the possibility of a paradise beyond this world.
In singing, my heart rose, and my voice melded with the others in the sanctuary. A tingle ran across my skin as I was swept up into the emotion and the true belief of the people there. It was such a beautiful moment. I could have gone on singing with these people, my people, the ones from my childhood and my formation. The music ended, though, and mom came down from the choir in as unobtrusive a way as she could. Normally, I assume, she would stay in her spot, but with my presence she had an excuse to come down and sit next to me. It was nice to be next to my mother in the house of worship we'd shared for many years.
The pastor went to the pulpit again and began his sermon. The subject this particular Sunday morning was the nature of faith. What a perfect start to my own escapades in what there is beyond myself. His scripture reference was from the eleventh chapter of Hebrews. This is one of the more famous texts from non-Gospel New Testament. "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen..." The pastor went ahead and expounded on what faith is and is not, how it isn't a blind leap or an ignorant wandering into what we don't know, but a trusting movement into what God has promised. Without my notes at hand, I cannot be too specific (they got lost between here and there, as I drove with a hyper-active puppy and no air conditioning for a few hours on the interstate). But I remember thinking about the claims of exclusivity and supremacy of Christ. I remember why that makes total sense in this context, but why it is hard for me to swallow. It seems unfair to the world at large. Not to mention the problems of determination and free will and the God who cannot do both.
It was odd for me to sit there and think about the way that I had been so enveloped in the passion and love of the music and then became oddly uncomfortable as soon as the doctrine supposedly espoused in those same songs was made more plain in the explication of the pastor. I guess that is the point from which my journey germinates. There is conflict in this beauty. There is despair in my hope. And there is, and always will be, contrast in the grand design.
T
At this point in my life, my parents have surrendered their half of the battle to make me go to a Sunday school class before morning worship. This is a thankful reprieve found in the wake of countless similar visits and awkward hours spent in small church classrooms with people I don't know well and smiles that say "I'll never tell" shooting around the table. I do not blame any such pretense on the religious leanings of the people around such a table. Rather, I find that it is human nature to hold one's cards close to the chest, at least until trust is built and the fear of judgment diminished.
Nevertheless, I found myself slipping into the foyer of the church and discreetly up the side aisle to my mother's spot on the right-hand side of the sanctuary. I found her big, blue, nylon zippered study Bible on the itchy pews from the 1970's. I plopped down and made the requisite greetings to the people in my vicinity. Mom came and sat next to me for a moment before shuffling off to the choir loft.
A prelude played and then the pastor, a man in his late 50's or early 60's, mounted the platform and welcomed those congregated to the service. He asked that everyone tear out an information card from their handout, and that new visitors would put it in the offering plate when it was passed later in the service.
Next, a middle-aged man in khakis and a polo shirt got up and led the choir, musicians, and congregation in a series of hymns and more modern praise songs. The theme of the music seemed to be the blood of Jesus and the grace that it imparts to sinners, and how that is what brings us to God. The music itself was nothing out of the ordinary. A piano, an organ, and an electronic keyboard played along as the lyrics were projected onto a screen above the baptistery. However, the joining of voices was transcendent in a plaintive, beautiful, hopeful, conflicted but joyous celebration of God and the possibility of a paradise beyond this world.
In singing, my heart rose, and my voice melded with the others in the sanctuary. A tingle ran across my skin as I was swept up into the emotion and the true belief of the people there. It was such a beautiful moment. I could have gone on singing with these people, my people, the ones from my childhood and my formation. The music ended, though, and mom came down from the choir in as unobtrusive a way as she could. Normally, I assume, she would stay in her spot, but with my presence she had an excuse to come down and sit next to me. It was nice to be next to my mother in the house of worship we'd shared for many years.
The pastor went to the pulpit again and began his sermon. The subject this particular Sunday morning was the nature of faith. What a perfect start to my own escapades in what there is beyond myself. His scripture reference was from the eleventh chapter of Hebrews. This is one of the more famous texts from non-Gospel New Testament. "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen..." The pastor went ahead and expounded on what faith is and is not, how it isn't a blind leap or an ignorant wandering into what we don't know, but a trusting movement into what God has promised. Without my notes at hand, I cannot be too specific (they got lost between here and there, as I drove with a hyper-active puppy and no air conditioning for a few hours on the interstate). But I remember thinking about the claims of exclusivity and supremacy of Christ. I remember why that makes total sense in this context, but why it is hard for me to swallow. It seems unfair to the world at large. Not to mention the problems of determination and free will and the God who cannot do both.
It was odd for me to sit there and think about the way that I had been so enveloped in the passion and love of the music and then became oddly uncomfortable as soon as the doctrine supposedly espoused in those same songs was made more plain in the explication of the pastor. I guess that is the point from which my journey germinates. There is conflict in this beauty. There is despair in my hope. And there is, and always will be, contrast in the grand design.
T
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
As college progressed, I found myself completing a degree in film with a very liberal interdisciplinary studies minor. And I loved it. However, the freedom of exploration that I carved out for myself in my undergraduate career led to a new discomfort with the absolute certainty I found in my Baptist church.
I began attending an Episcopal church with some friends who had begun their search for a new kind of Christian expression. They, too, were Baptist exiles. They, too, had become uncomfortable with the spiritual places from whence they came. So, I fumbled and flailed and copy-catted my way through a few Episcopal services with the grace of the ballet-dancing hippos from Fantasia. I learned to bow and kneel and cross myself. I became comfortable with my female vicar and even the taste of real wine during communion (which is taken EVERY WEEK!).
I'm not entirely comfortable in the Episcopal church, though. I do not think it is the Anglican Communion that makes me uneasy, though. I think there are deeper personal and spiritual issues. I think that the fire in my soul, the fire of a love of God, is down to a faint ember. I can't really put my finger on it, but I am lost in a way that has shaken me. There are so many questions of belief as opposed to symbolic understanding. There is a sort of non-literal truth and community tradition reality that has made my Baptist-rooted consciousness uncomfortable. I'd thought that if you took any of the pieces away, the whole house of cards fell. But maybe the house isn't made of cards at all, and these crazy Episcopalians are trying to tell me that it's something else. That God isn't as worried about that one magic prayer as God is worried about how we treat others. And it just adds to my confusion.
So, I'm starting something different. I'm going on a pilgrimage of sorts. It isn't a pilgrimage to a physical place, but it is a pilgrimage to the farthest reaching places my soul can go. I'm going to visit houses of worship, meetings of practitioners, and have conversations with true believers of all different stripes. My hope is to genuinely connect with people of different backgrounds and traditions, and to see what it means to these people to believe what they do. I want to see this fire in others, regardless of what it's rooted in. I want to see if people actually are what they say they are, or if everyone is just spinning his or her wheels. I may even talk to some fervent atheists and agnostics along the way, you know, for perspective.
Brace yourself, though, because I get the feeling that this could be truly weird as I tramp through churches and temples and Kingdom Halls and synagogues and covens and circles and mosques. I'm sure I'll blunder through the majority of it, but I'll do my best not to be some sort of ridiculously insensitive asshole. My promise is to try.
The point of this is not buffet-style religion or some Po-Mo amalgamation, but to experience what it is that makes people believe. What keeps people coming back, and what orders the worlds of these believers? Is there something else out there?
So, hold my hand. It's time to go to church.
T
I began attending an Episcopal church with some friends who had begun their search for a new kind of Christian expression. They, too, were Baptist exiles. They, too, had become uncomfortable with the spiritual places from whence they came. So, I fumbled and flailed and copy-catted my way through a few Episcopal services with the grace of the ballet-dancing hippos from Fantasia. I learned to bow and kneel and cross myself. I became comfortable with my female vicar and even the taste of real wine during communion (which is taken EVERY WEEK!).
I'm not entirely comfortable in the Episcopal church, though. I do not think it is the Anglican Communion that makes me uneasy, though. I think there are deeper personal and spiritual issues. I think that the fire in my soul, the fire of a love of God, is down to a faint ember. I can't really put my finger on it, but I am lost in a way that has shaken me. There are so many questions of belief as opposed to symbolic understanding. There is a sort of non-literal truth and community tradition reality that has made my Baptist-rooted consciousness uncomfortable. I'd thought that if you took any of the pieces away, the whole house of cards fell. But maybe the house isn't made of cards at all, and these crazy Episcopalians are trying to tell me that it's something else. That God isn't as worried about that one magic prayer as God is worried about how we treat others. And it just adds to my confusion.
So, I'm starting something different. I'm going on a pilgrimage of sorts. It isn't a pilgrimage to a physical place, but it is a pilgrimage to the farthest reaching places my soul can go. I'm going to visit houses of worship, meetings of practitioners, and have conversations with true believers of all different stripes. My hope is to genuinely connect with people of different backgrounds and traditions, and to see what it means to these people to believe what they do. I want to see this fire in others, regardless of what it's rooted in. I want to see if people actually are what they say they are, or if everyone is just spinning his or her wheels. I may even talk to some fervent atheists and agnostics along the way, you know, for perspective.
Brace yourself, though, because I get the feeling that this could be truly weird as I tramp through churches and temples and Kingdom Halls and synagogues and covens and circles and mosques. I'm sure I'll blunder through the majority of it, but I'll do my best not to be some sort of ridiculously insensitive asshole. My promise is to try.
The point of this is not buffet-style religion or some Po-Mo amalgamation, but to experience what it is that makes people believe. What keeps people coming back, and what orders the worlds of these believers? Is there something else out there?
So, hold my hand. It's time to go to church.
T
Baptism by firing squad
I grew up Baptist.
Not just Baptist, but in a small association of Baptist churches in the south. We were a family proud of our deep roots in this association. Both of my parents' fathers were Baptist preachers, and my father grew up in Alaska as the son of a missionary who was sent from this same small association.
I went to the same church in my hometown the entire time I was growing up there. It never occurred to me that there was any reason not to go to that church. We knew everyone and had our spots and our ministries and our friends and our jobs. At different times in my adolescence, I took up the offering for the Sunday night services, I ran the sound board, I ran the projector. Sometimes I was called on to pray aloud. I had been saved and baptized in this church. I outlasted a handful of pastors, youth ministers, music directors, and the like. It would not be overstepping to say that I was a rising star of exemplary church membership in this particular congregation.
Except, I wasn't.
I had questions. I had concerns that gnawed at my insides. I had issues and desires and guilt and disillusionment and ethical problems. So, I went to my spiritual mentors. I talked to them about the failings I found in myself, and they offered advice and reassurance. I was told more than once that salvation is not an emotion, but a state of being, and that nothing could take it away. I was also reminded that I could continue to pray for forgiveness and continue to read my Bible and commune with God through my daily life. So that's what I did.
I moved off to college. I created a new social circle and decided upon a church in my new locale that was in the same association as my home church. I struggled with a decision to join it or not, and decided to retain the voting and communion privileges at my parents' church.
I found a girlfriend and we went to college ministries and churches together. We pushed the limits of our chastity and almost died with guilt. Repent, fail, repeat. We talked about how amazing it would be if we were to grow up into godly people and work in a church and be able to share love and peace with the world full-time.
We even ventured into a non-denominational church regularly. Once, we got tricked into joining a friend in going to a Charismatic church. As one might imagine, my parents were mildly scandalized.
Then, in the midst of all of this, I fell into a deep depression. I knew that I was a guilty, dirty soul. Not only was I pushing my own limits with sex, but I was leading my girlfriend into sin, too. And that was the tip of the iceberg.
Internally, I was struggling with the battle of my life. I had dealt with the temptation and predilection and anguish of the deepest darkness. I had begun looking at gay pornography when I was in high school. And I liked it. Not just that, but I was beginning to realize that I might actually like men. You know, sexually.
So, in the midst of this, I prayed and studied and hoped that God would change me. And God didn't. But that isn't to say that it was all in vain. My personal understanding of God was pretty healthy, and I was happy to be a super-Christian. And then I was selected to go on a year-long mission to China. I hoped that this would be just the break I needed. It was not.
Instead of making things better, living abroad, learning a new (and difficult) language and culture was stressful beyond what I could have possibly anticipated. And some things went down. Fast-forwarding through an extremely formative year in my life, I returned home to the States. I had my heart so tightly wound about a wrongly found target that I could hardly tie my own shoes without thinking about him. And I got to tell the panel of white-haired preacher-men who were in charge of my time abroad about my homosexual experiences on their dime.
This sent me running into the arms of a mentor who I knew would be non-judgmental if not completely accepting. We talked through it, and we wrestled with what it meant, where it could lead, and how to move forward. It was truly a breath of fresh air. In the end, though, the ultimate answers were that I had to change. God could change me (though I'd been trying that for years), or I could be celibate.
This led me to question the efficacy of this Baptist tradition. There had been lots of claims to truth that were sort of unsubstantiated. And the fundamental beliefs were sometimes hard to swallow. How could a good God be all-powerful, and yet horrible things happen to innocents? This one question is probably my biggest hang-up of all. I know Nietzsche has answered this one, but his answers don't work, either.
So, I'm embarking on a journey. I've loved God before. I've felt God before. And I knew God to be good. I knew God to be love. I knew God to be the bringer of peace. But I've lost that God. That God has been replaced with an angry God who disapproves and gnashes teeth and banishes and damns. I'm not sure the exact process through which God was transformed to me. But God was and is, at this moment, changed.
I want a new God. A new breath of life. I want to dance before a God that delights in me. I want to revel in my humanity and the goodness of a creator who sees the beauty I do. I want to rekindle the fire. I want to suscitatio incendia.
And that's what I hope to do.
T
Not just Baptist, but in a small association of Baptist churches in the south. We were a family proud of our deep roots in this association. Both of my parents' fathers were Baptist preachers, and my father grew up in Alaska as the son of a missionary who was sent from this same small association.
I went to the same church in my hometown the entire time I was growing up there. It never occurred to me that there was any reason not to go to that church. We knew everyone and had our spots and our ministries and our friends and our jobs. At different times in my adolescence, I took up the offering for the Sunday night services, I ran the sound board, I ran the projector. Sometimes I was called on to pray aloud. I had been saved and baptized in this church. I outlasted a handful of pastors, youth ministers, music directors, and the like. It would not be overstepping to say that I was a rising star of exemplary church membership in this particular congregation.
Except, I wasn't.
I had questions. I had concerns that gnawed at my insides. I had issues and desires and guilt and disillusionment and ethical problems. So, I went to my spiritual mentors. I talked to them about the failings I found in myself, and they offered advice and reassurance. I was told more than once that salvation is not an emotion, but a state of being, and that nothing could take it away. I was also reminded that I could continue to pray for forgiveness and continue to read my Bible and commune with God through my daily life. So that's what I did.
I moved off to college. I created a new social circle and decided upon a church in my new locale that was in the same association as my home church. I struggled with a decision to join it or not, and decided to retain the voting and communion privileges at my parents' church.
I found a girlfriend and we went to college ministries and churches together. We pushed the limits of our chastity and almost died with guilt. Repent, fail, repeat. We talked about how amazing it would be if we were to grow up into godly people and work in a church and be able to share love and peace with the world full-time.
We even ventured into a non-denominational church regularly. Once, we got tricked into joining a friend in going to a Charismatic church. As one might imagine, my parents were mildly scandalized.
Then, in the midst of all of this, I fell into a deep depression. I knew that I was a guilty, dirty soul. Not only was I pushing my own limits with sex, but I was leading my girlfriend into sin, too. And that was the tip of the iceberg.
Internally, I was struggling with the battle of my life. I had dealt with the temptation and predilection and anguish of the deepest darkness. I had begun looking at gay pornography when I was in high school. And I liked it. Not just that, but I was beginning to realize that I might actually like men. You know, sexually.
So, in the midst of this, I prayed and studied and hoped that God would change me. And God didn't. But that isn't to say that it was all in vain. My personal understanding of God was pretty healthy, and I was happy to be a super-Christian. And then I was selected to go on a year-long mission to China. I hoped that this would be just the break I needed. It was not.
Instead of making things better, living abroad, learning a new (and difficult) language and culture was stressful beyond what I could have possibly anticipated. And some things went down. Fast-forwarding through an extremely formative year in my life, I returned home to the States. I had my heart so tightly wound about a wrongly found target that I could hardly tie my own shoes without thinking about him. And I got to tell the panel of white-haired preacher-men who were in charge of my time abroad about my homosexual experiences on their dime.
This sent me running into the arms of a mentor who I knew would be non-judgmental if not completely accepting. We talked through it, and we wrestled with what it meant, where it could lead, and how to move forward. It was truly a breath of fresh air. In the end, though, the ultimate answers were that I had to change. God could change me (though I'd been trying that for years), or I could be celibate.
This led me to question the efficacy of this Baptist tradition. There had been lots of claims to truth that were sort of unsubstantiated. And the fundamental beliefs were sometimes hard to swallow. How could a good God be all-powerful, and yet horrible things happen to innocents? This one question is probably my biggest hang-up of all. I know Nietzsche has answered this one, but his answers don't work, either.
So, I'm embarking on a journey. I've loved God before. I've felt God before. And I knew God to be good. I knew God to be love. I knew God to be the bringer of peace. But I've lost that God. That God has been replaced with an angry God who disapproves and gnashes teeth and banishes and damns. I'm not sure the exact process through which God was transformed to me. But God was and is, at this moment, changed.
I want a new God. A new breath of life. I want to dance before a God that delights in me. I want to revel in my humanity and the goodness of a creator who sees the beauty I do. I want to rekindle the fire. I want to suscitatio incendia.
And that's what I hope to do.
T
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