Warning: God Ahead?
I was born in a culturally Christian country, to a nominally Christian family. My parents dutifully took me to a Presbyterian church when I was a very little kid, back before the first divorce, and after the chaos of the divorce years, my dad took us to a Congregational church at least some of the time, and my mom took us to a Presbyterian church fairly often. I had Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, and a collection of paperback Bible Stories for Children with nifty late-60's illustrations. I even had my very own Bible, with my name printed in gold letters on the cover, Jesus's words in red ink, and a section of color illustrations of vaguely hippie-ish Moses and Joseph and Abraham and Jesus, maps of the Middle East, and pictures of Roman coins.
I was baptised when I was four, with my little sister, who was new born. I remember the baptism, the coldness of the water, the minister's black and purple robes, my baby sister's insanely long dress.
In high school, after I'd moved back to my father's house, I sang in the choir at the Congregational church for a year, and then at the Presbyterian church - the same one where I'd been baptised all those years ago. I especially loved that Presbyterian church, because the music minister shared my aesthetic for the Baroque, and often played Bach on the magnificent 19th century pipe organ. I liked the minister, too, who was an intellectual scholar and always had something thought-provoking to say; always asked us to bring our minds to church, not to check them at the door.
And yet.
And yet none of it stuck. None of it. Not from day one. Church felt like an empty place, where I'd only every now and again catch a glimpse of the spiritual reality I knew was there. I found a lot more grounding for my spirituality in nature, in life, in my own experience and introspection, and in music.
I yearned for the Holy. Believed in it. Knew deep in my soul the reality of it. But Christianity didn't seem to have much of it. It had formalism and platitudes and contradictory messages. It had misogyny and inequality, an angry and forbidding God of the Old Testament, mindless practitioners, leaders who used it to justify discrimination and war and hatred, and a massive disconnect from everything I experienced as holy.
There were two pieces of the Christian message that stuck with me, and maybe - no, definitely - they were the two most important ones: "Love God, love one another, and love yourself as God loves you", and "Treat others as you yourself wish to be treated. Do not judge. Do not condemn. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Give, and you will receive."
They stuck not because they were Christian, but in spite of it. They stuck when all else washed away, because they were the kind of abiding universal truths my soul could recognize. They are also the teachings of the Buddha, of Mohammad, of Zoroaster, of every wise and good leader of every tribe, every family, every civilization that has come before.
For years I stayed away from the Christian church. I saw the centuries of violence and hatred that had been spread in Jesus' name, and I rejected it. I saw bigots and zealots and judgmental tyrants of every size and stripe cloak themselves and their authority in the Christian mantle, and I utterly rejected it.
My soul, though, continued to yearn for that connection with the Holy Essence, the Divine, The Great Spirit of Creation, the Meaning and Oneness, the All. I have felt the touch of the Holy over and over in my life, even in times of my deepest despair. I have glimpsed, as through a hole torn in a black paper, for an instant there and then hidden again, the Light. Enlightenment.
There is something, too, about the story of the life of Jesus, that is profoundly moving to me. When I think of Joshua of Nazareth, the man, the human incarnation of the Holy, and the men and woman with him, when I meditate on the meaning of that incarnation, that life, that death, there is something that draws me in and moves me to gut-deep tears that I can't begin to understand.
But I also felt, knew deep in my soul, that the Divine had betrayed and abandoned me.
On January 8, 2007, I went to Peninsula Metropolitan Community Church for the first time. It was the first Christian church I had set foot in for any reason other than a wedding, a funeral, or a gig as a singer, in something like twenty years. And I kept going back, because something happened to me there. I could feel that pull. I heard that voice within. I cried those heartbroken, utterly bereft tears that were far beyond my understanding again, and again, and again. And slowly, with every tear, I have been healed.
Something is calling to me. I feel a pull as terrifying and inexorable as the tide, perceive something as vast as the ocean reaching for me. I don't know where it is calling me to go, what it is calling me to do. But I am trying to listen. Trying to set aside fear and reach for trust.
Something is compelling me to re-examine the stories of Jesus. Of his life and death and the meaning of it all. Of the men and women around him. Part of me is utterly terrified by it. Terrified that if I keep looking at it, I might start to believe it. And part of me is aware that I already believe the important parts, and this re-examination has some other purpose.
I guess, like the swirling foam at the crest of the waves, all I can do is ride the tide and see what shore I wash up on.
I was baptised when I was four, with my little sister, who was new born. I remember the baptism, the coldness of the water, the minister's black and purple robes, my baby sister's insanely long dress.
In high school, after I'd moved back to my father's house, I sang in the choir at the Congregational church for a year, and then at the Presbyterian church - the same one where I'd been baptised all those years ago. I especially loved that Presbyterian church, because the music minister shared my aesthetic for the Baroque, and often played Bach on the magnificent 19th century pipe organ. I liked the minister, too, who was an intellectual scholar and always had something thought-provoking to say; always asked us to bring our minds to church, not to check them at the door.
And yet.
And yet none of it stuck. None of it. Not from day one. Church felt like an empty place, where I'd only every now and again catch a glimpse of the spiritual reality I knew was there. I found a lot more grounding for my spirituality in nature, in life, in my own experience and introspection, and in music.
I yearned for the Holy. Believed in it. Knew deep in my soul the reality of it. But Christianity didn't seem to have much of it. It had formalism and platitudes and contradictory messages. It had misogyny and inequality, an angry and forbidding God of the Old Testament, mindless practitioners, leaders who used it to justify discrimination and war and hatred, and a massive disconnect from everything I experienced as holy.
There were two pieces of the Christian message that stuck with me, and maybe - no, definitely - they were the two most important ones: "Love God, love one another, and love yourself as God loves you", and "Treat others as you yourself wish to be treated. Do not judge. Do not condemn. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Give, and you will receive."
They stuck not because they were Christian, but in spite of it. They stuck when all else washed away, because they were the kind of abiding universal truths my soul could recognize. They are also the teachings of the Buddha, of Mohammad, of Zoroaster, of every wise and good leader of every tribe, every family, every civilization that has come before.
For years I stayed away from the Christian church. I saw the centuries of violence and hatred that had been spread in Jesus' name, and I rejected it. I saw bigots and zealots and judgmental tyrants of every size and stripe cloak themselves and their authority in the Christian mantle, and I utterly rejected it.
My soul, though, continued to yearn for that connection with the Holy Essence, the Divine, The Great Spirit of Creation, the Meaning and Oneness, the All. I have felt the touch of the Holy over and over in my life, even in times of my deepest despair. I have glimpsed, as through a hole torn in a black paper, for an instant there and then hidden again, the Light. Enlightenment.
There is something, too, about the story of the life of Jesus, that is profoundly moving to me. When I think of Joshua of Nazareth, the man, the human incarnation of the Holy, and the men and woman with him, when I meditate on the meaning of that incarnation, that life, that death, there is something that draws me in and moves me to gut-deep tears that I can't begin to understand.
But I also felt, knew deep in my soul, that the Divine had betrayed and abandoned me.
On January 8, 2007, I went to Peninsula Metropolitan Community Church for the first time. It was the first Christian church I had set foot in for any reason other than a wedding, a funeral, or a gig as a singer, in something like twenty years. And I kept going back, because something happened to me there. I could feel that pull. I heard that voice within. I cried those heartbroken, utterly bereft tears that were far beyond my understanding again, and again, and again. And slowly, with every tear, I have been healed.
Something is calling to me. I feel a pull as terrifying and inexorable as the tide, perceive something as vast as the ocean reaching for me. I don't know where it is calling me to go, what it is calling me to do. But I am trying to listen. Trying to set aside fear and reach for trust.
Something is compelling me to re-examine the stories of Jesus. Of his life and death and the meaning of it all. Of the men and women around him. Part of me is utterly terrified by it. Terrified that if I keep looking at it, I might start to believe it. And part of me is aware that I already believe the important parts, and this re-examination has some other purpose.
I guess, like the swirling foam at the crest of the waves, all I can do is ride the tide and see what shore I wash up on.