Don't Make Me Lie in a Church
My mom's old pastor is a sweet old man, and I have always liked him. He and his wife met my mom when she was ten years old and they were much younger, and they've kept in touch all these years. He and his wife have reminded me of my grandparents like few other people because they share the faith with which my grandparents lived and died. When the pastor's wife died last summer, we went to the funeral and were reminded of how my grandmother died before my grandfather. The good pastor has fared much better than my grandpa did, however; he stood up and performed a long sermon on his 89th birthday last night, and he only seemed to have more energy as it went on.
My mother and I don't usually go to church, except for funeral services, and that's been the case for years. Last night, being in church was increasingly a matter of culture shock, like being in a foreign country. The people there knew who belonged and who the outsiders were and though they spoke words of welcome, they felt hollow because I simply did not belong. They prayed a lot, and the parishioners spoke over each other a bit with amens and thank you Jesus'. I've never minded group answering in prayers, but there has always been something showy about the way some congregations seem to compete with each other for who says amen the most, or the most enthusiastically. I didn't think the congregation was praying just for show, but I spent too many of my girlhood years listening to hypocrites pray not to feel a ripple of unease.
The people were in earnest, though, and you could tell that the church played a big part in their lives. They attended regularly enough that everyone knew them and they interpreted their lives through well-established rituals and symbols. And though I knew many of the rituals and symbols and the power behind them, they weren't really mine and never had been. As I grew up, I thought intensely about religious things because I was trying to understand the way they were meant and used. When people use God as a screen to hide their own wrongs and wield scripture as a hammer meant to pound you into line, I suppose you don't just question the people but also their tools and weapons. And I knew the people around me were wrong in many ways, but I saw the inconsistencies and ugliness in the dogma, as well.
I wanted so much to believe in Jesus who was good and Satan who was evil, and in the whole world as it was painted for me on a brilliant backdrop of sin and redemption. Sin I instinctively understood, and redemption I instinctively wanted. When they called people up to the front of the foursquare churches I attended as a very small girl, I went up repeatedly to accept Jesus and be saved. I wanted the experience they described so badly and I was so young that no one begrudged me another go, but the vital connection was never made. I walked up with tears behind my eyes and walked away with the same sins and questions. It wasn't until I started to realize that I wasn't a Christian that things started to make some kind of sense. By the time I lost my faith in my 20s, I had accepted that the faith of my grandparents wasn't my own.
Last night, they talked about Satan as the same old figure of menace and I felt no stirring at all. I wanted to believe in Satan for so long, but the only thing I found behind people's cruelty was humanity in its starkest terms. Chaotic emotions, mistaken perceptions, misfiring synapses; we seem to be designed to err and harm. The propensity for sin is part of our DNA and our destiny. Our internal controls can help us with frequency and degree, but if we live long enough, we're going to do something careless, no matter how well meaning. That understanding has led me to the most forgiving I've ever been. That understanding has taught me a whole new framework for making amends. I don't forgive people for being under the sway of Satan - I forgive them for being what they are. I ask for forgiveness because I am what I am - and I can do better, but I will never be perfect.
Last night, the preachers preached to those who felt lost and discouraged, they called to those who felt disappointed to give their life to Christ - and they looked at me. (Anyone who knows me for long knows that I wasn't just feeling a persecution complex; religious folks have sought me out of crowds all of my life.) And last night I looked back, sitting firmly in my seat. The old urge to go forward did not return. Whatever salvation I might receive will come through life and living, and perhaps through dying, but not through making promises I don't believe.
I was dismayed, then, when we went to give birthday wishes to the old pastor and he insisted not just on praying with us, but that I parrot back the same old promises. I had no problem with praying with him, as I have no problem praying with most people; I say at least one prayer a day, sometimes more. But I was disappointed when he started with the speech I had heard so many times before and when he paused for me to fill in the lines. I knew he meant well. It was the greatest goodness he could bestow. But he knew I'm agnostic and he left me no way out when the prayer was done and he asked me, point-blank, if I meant it.
I did not like lying to his face. I did not like it one little bit, but I did it and walked away feeling dirty.
My ex is an atheist and when I told him about the incident, he was interested that I should feel bad about it. He said that he never felt bad about lying in such instances, when there was no other way to make people happy. At the time, I didn't know how to explain why I felt bad about it.
I think that it has to do with acceptance, or lack thereof. I never told my mother's parents about not being a Christian because there would have been no way out of that discussion. They would never have accepted it. My mom usually tells me that as long as I believe in God, I'm okay by her, but the way she talks makes it clear that she doesn't fully grasp my situation. She sometimes urges me to talk to the pastor so that he can make me understand the way things ultimately are, and that tells me she doesn't get it - but she doesn't force me to lie to her, and she loves me regardless.
My sole remaining grandparent wrestles with the idea of an agnostic, mostly because a nonreligious person doesn't figure into her world view, but I told her because I want her to know who I am. I don't want to have to hide such an important thing from her, too.
I don't like hiding something that big. I don't like lying in order to render myself acceptable, because then that means that the real me is unacceptable. I don't like being forced to recite an oath I don't believe, but I like being told what I must believe even less.
I might be as lost as Alice down the rabbit hole, but I am worth loving even in my wandering.
I might be a sinner but I have a conscience, and it tells me such lies are not good things.
My mother and I don't usually go to church, except for funeral services, and that's been the case for years. Last night, being in church was increasingly a matter of culture shock, like being in a foreign country. The people there knew who belonged and who the outsiders were and though they spoke words of welcome, they felt hollow because I simply did not belong. They prayed a lot, and the parishioners spoke over each other a bit with amens and thank you Jesus'. I've never minded group answering in prayers, but there has always been something showy about the way some congregations seem to compete with each other for who says amen the most, or the most enthusiastically. I didn't think the congregation was praying just for show, but I spent too many of my girlhood years listening to hypocrites pray not to feel a ripple of unease.
The people were in earnest, though, and you could tell that the church played a big part in their lives. They attended regularly enough that everyone knew them and they interpreted their lives through well-established rituals and symbols. And though I knew many of the rituals and symbols and the power behind them, they weren't really mine and never had been. As I grew up, I thought intensely about religious things because I was trying to understand the way they were meant and used. When people use God as a screen to hide their own wrongs and wield scripture as a hammer meant to pound you into line, I suppose you don't just question the people but also their tools and weapons. And I knew the people around me were wrong in many ways, but I saw the inconsistencies and ugliness in the dogma, as well.
I wanted so much to believe in Jesus who was good and Satan who was evil, and in the whole world as it was painted for me on a brilliant backdrop of sin and redemption. Sin I instinctively understood, and redemption I instinctively wanted. When they called people up to the front of the foursquare churches I attended as a very small girl, I went up repeatedly to accept Jesus and be saved. I wanted the experience they described so badly and I was so young that no one begrudged me another go, but the vital connection was never made. I walked up with tears behind my eyes and walked away with the same sins and questions. It wasn't until I started to realize that I wasn't a Christian that things started to make some kind of sense. By the time I lost my faith in my 20s, I had accepted that the faith of my grandparents wasn't my own.
Last night, they talked about Satan as the same old figure of menace and I felt no stirring at all. I wanted to believe in Satan for so long, but the only thing I found behind people's cruelty was humanity in its starkest terms. Chaotic emotions, mistaken perceptions, misfiring synapses; we seem to be designed to err and harm. The propensity for sin is part of our DNA and our destiny. Our internal controls can help us with frequency and degree, but if we live long enough, we're going to do something careless, no matter how well meaning. That understanding has led me to the most forgiving I've ever been. That understanding has taught me a whole new framework for making amends. I don't forgive people for being under the sway of Satan - I forgive them for being what they are. I ask for forgiveness because I am what I am - and I can do better, but I will never be perfect.
Last night, the preachers preached to those who felt lost and discouraged, they called to those who felt disappointed to give their life to Christ - and they looked at me. (Anyone who knows me for long knows that I wasn't just feeling a persecution complex; religious folks have sought me out of crowds all of my life.) And last night I looked back, sitting firmly in my seat. The old urge to go forward did not return. Whatever salvation I might receive will come through life and living, and perhaps through dying, but not through making promises I don't believe.
I was dismayed, then, when we went to give birthday wishes to the old pastor and he insisted not just on praying with us, but that I parrot back the same old promises. I had no problem with praying with him, as I have no problem praying with most people; I say at least one prayer a day, sometimes more. But I was disappointed when he started with the speech I had heard so many times before and when he paused for me to fill in the lines. I knew he meant well. It was the greatest goodness he could bestow. But he knew I'm agnostic and he left me no way out when the prayer was done and he asked me, point-blank, if I meant it.
I did not like lying to his face. I did not like it one little bit, but I did it and walked away feeling dirty.
My ex is an atheist and when I told him about the incident, he was interested that I should feel bad about it. He said that he never felt bad about lying in such instances, when there was no other way to make people happy. At the time, I didn't know how to explain why I felt bad about it.
I think that it has to do with acceptance, or lack thereof. I never told my mother's parents about not being a Christian because there would have been no way out of that discussion. They would never have accepted it. My mom usually tells me that as long as I believe in God, I'm okay by her, but the way she talks makes it clear that she doesn't fully grasp my situation. She sometimes urges me to talk to the pastor so that he can make me understand the way things ultimately are, and that tells me she doesn't get it - but she doesn't force me to lie to her, and she loves me regardless.
My sole remaining grandparent wrestles with the idea of an agnostic, mostly because a nonreligious person doesn't figure into her world view, but I told her because I want her to know who I am. I don't want to have to hide such an important thing from her, too.
I don't like hiding something that big. I don't like lying in order to render myself acceptable, because then that means that the real me is unacceptable. I don't like being forced to recite an oath I don't believe, but I like being told what I must believe even less.
I might be as lost as Alice down the rabbit hole, but I am worth loving even in my wandering.
I might be a sinner but I have a conscience, and it tells me such lies are not good things.