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