My Journey of Faith -first in a series of posts.
I’m going to be doing a series of blog entries about my spiritual journey. I’m doing this for a couple of reasons. The first is to get it out of my system. I have so much bottled up inside me that I need to let out. The next is to share in the chance that someone who has had similar trials might find encouragement or a brother. What I am not doing is evangelizing or trying to convert anyone. While I consider myself a Christian, I also feel that faith,relationship and the search for truth are most important in spiritual life, rather than a belief system, church rules, or dogma.
This may be a bit hard for me, as I’m going to open myself up as I never have before. The chance of being hurt is great, but this is something that I feel compelled to do. That said, feel free to ask questions or to comment.
For me, the path to my faith has been a long strange trip with bumps, obstacles, and many side trips before arriving at a point where I could claim it as my own. Like most people of this day and time, I found religion to be off-putting, even offensive, in my twenties and thirties. Occasionally, I’d take a step toward the church, but would back way uncomfortably. I had to deal with the past to move toward the future.
My father, who’d been raised in church, claimed to be an atheist when I was young. I remember commenting to him that life seemed like we were inhabiting someone else’s dream. When we died, the dream ended. He said that about summed it up. Then he went and surprised me by claiming God's healing of a life threatening illness . He said that he’d been called to the ministry. He transplanted my family from North Carolina to New Mexico to do ministry among the Navajo people. We spent the better part of five years, working mainly with alcoholics. As my dad was a recovering alcoholic and drug abuser himself, he understood what they were going through.
During this time we lived meagerly. We never went without, thanks to some good church folk who were willing to help, and to my grandparents, who supported us in a big way after Dad had fallen out with most of the church leadership.
Our church was about as fundamental as you get. No jewelry or makeup for women, and only dresses were allowed to be worn. Everyone wore long sleeves all year round (I still remember my grandfather mowing in long sleeves and a t-shirt underneath). Only the King James Bible was the correct translation. Television and movies were evil, and if you committed a sin you would go to hell without asking forgiveness and obtaining salvation again. If you were a Christian and had the Holy Ghost in your heart, you did not sin. Period.
Eventually, as the church support dwindled. After Dad had a heart attack and subsequent surgery, we left the ministry and came back to North Carolina. Dad returned to substance abuse and was a very bitter man. Mom was hurt and angry. I decided that God either did not care about us to allow all this to happen after we’d faithfully served, or God did not existed. I leaned toward the latter. I knew that there was a scar on Dad’s head that was not there before he went into the hospital before his conversion. I was easy enough to me to believe that the “healing” was the doctors and not God. I also believed as I got older that Dad’s entry into the ministry was a result of trying to please his father. My grandparents had not missed a chance to tell him how badly he’d been living his life. So, yes, atheism was seemingly an easy for me to swallow.
Dad’s death would begin my turn around…
This may be a bit hard for me, as I’m going to open myself up as I never have before. The chance of being hurt is great, but this is something that I feel compelled to do. That said, feel free to ask questions or to comment.
For me, the path to my faith has been a long strange trip with bumps, obstacles, and many side trips before arriving at a point where I could claim it as my own. Like most people of this day and time, I found religion to be off-putting, even offensive, in my twenties and thirties. Occasionally, I’d take a step toward the church, but would back way uncomfortably. I had to deal with the past to move toward the future.
My father, who’d been raised in church, claimed to be an atheist when I was young. I remember commenting to him that life seemed like we were inhabiting someone else’s dream. When we died, the dream ended. He said that about summed it up. Then he went and surprised me by claiming God's healing of a life threatening illness . He said that he’d been called to the ministry. He transplanted my family from North Carolina to New Mexico to do ministry among the Navajo people. We spent the better part of five years, working mainly with alcoholics. As my dad was a recovering alcoholic and drug abuser himself, he understood what they were going through.
During this time we lived meagerly. We never went without, thanks to some good church folk who were willing to help, and to my grandparents, who supported us in a big way after Dad had fallen out with most of the church leadership.
Our church was about as fundamental as you get. No jewelry or makeup for women, and only dresses were allowed to be worn. Everyone wore long sleeves all year round (I still remember my grandfather mowing in long sleeves and a t-shirt underneath). Only the King James Bible was the correct translation. Television and movies were evil, and if you committed a sin you would go to hell without asking forgiveness and obtaining salvation again. If you were a Christian and had the Holy Ghost in your heart, you did not sin. Period.
Eventually, as the church support dwindled. After Dad had a heart attack and subsequent surgery, we left the ministry and came back to North Carolina. Dad returned to substance abuse and was a very bitter man. Mom was hurt and angry. I decided that God either did not care about us to allow all this to happen after we’d faithfully served, or God did not existed. I leaned toward the latter. I knew that there was a scar on Dad’s head that was not there before he went into the hospital before his conversion. I was easy enough to me to believe that the “healing” was the doctors and not God. I also believed as I got older that Dad’s entry into the ministry was a result of trying to please his father. My grandparents had not missed a chance to tell him how badly he’d been living his life. So, yes, atheism was seemingly an easy for me to swallow.
Dad’s death would begin my turn around…