Start this series from the beginning, then come back here.
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So, now you know my story. Most of it, anyway. And now it's time for a little explanation. Some tying of loose ends, perhaps.
I'm not a "heathen" in the traditional, dictionary sense. I haven't totally abandoned my faith. What I've abandoned is the so-called faith of my fathers. The faith that says I have to be subservient and meek.
I will not be a "weak" woman. I will not be an obedient housewife.
I will run through the forests, and climb the trees. I will fight pirates, swim with mermaids, and dance with the Indians. I will fly.
I will not sit at home and cook and clean while the boys have all the fun. I did not come all the way to Neverland just to grow up.
I came to live, for as long as I possibly can. And when there is no more living to do, then, and only then, will I return home.
I also will not judge the women who do cook and clean and obediently serve. For some, that is their calling. As I long to fly, some long to serve. That, too, is honorable. "To thine own self, be true."
I will not follow an exclusive faith. I will not deny entry. That is not my job.
Mercy is not for the worthy, healing is not for the whole.
My faith is the faith of the broken. The unworthy. The ones who don't belong. The runaways from a faith that wanted them to grow up too fast.
My faith takes you where you stand and says, "Come in. We've been expecting you." It reaches with open arms for anyone willing to step in. There are no membership fees, no tickets required, no ceremony required before you can be deemed worthy. There is only hope. Only home. Only here.
It's a scary thing, admitting that the faith you grew up in might not be for you. You're told your whole life that one thing is right, and everything else is wrong, only to find out that you might, perhaps, disagree.
And that might be okay.
And it might also not be for everyone.
For some reason, the faith of my fathers has endured, and that has to mean something. For centuries, this is how My Mother's Jesus was passed across the generations. It became the faith of my fathers by being the faith of my fathers' fathers. And their fathers. And maybe even their fathers before them.
But somewhere down the line, things changed. Faith wasn't always this way. Somehow, somewhere, someone disagreed. Maybe even more than once.
Before my father, and my father's father, the faith of the day included slaves. Someone changed that.
Before that, the faith of the day required you to pay for forgiveness in gifts to the church, and confess your sins to man, rather than to God. A man named Martin Luther changed that.
In our own holy text, the Bible on which our faith is based, outspoken women are stoned, kings have hundreds of wives, and the only one worthy to talk to God is the high priest. Someone changed that too. When? And why, when our collective faith is already so radically different, is it so wrong of me to question my own?
Didn't Jesus call us to love, above all else? Why then, is the primary influence of the present day church to shame and accuse? Why is the call of the missionary, "Come as you are," but the message of the church, "Change, first. Then, forgiveness?" It can't be reconciled.
For this reason, I deny the faith of my fathers, and substitute my own. A faith that believes, not in the clean White-Jesus of the modern day megachurch, but in the filthy, controversial man who was called the Son of God. I choose a faith that loves, equally, and with abandon. A faith that doesn't guard its heart, but opens it. Vulnerable, honest, and imperfect. And totally mine.
So, yes, in a sense, you can call me a heathen. If this is your impression of me, that's okay. I don't need your permission. You don't need mine. You and I can continue to live our lives in relative peace, we can agree to disagree, and the world will continue to turn. Life will go on. One day at a time.
There is so much more to the story. Maybe in the end, I'll tell you mine.
Until then,
Fin.
I will not be a "weak" woman. I will not be an obedient housewife.
I will run through the forests, and climb the trees. I will fight pirates, swim with mermaids, and dance with the Indians. I will fly.
I will not sit at home and cook and clean while the boys have all the fun. I did not come all the way to Neverland just to grow up.
I came to live, for as long as I possibly can. And when there is no more living to do, then, and only then, will I return home.
I also will not judge the women who do cook and clean and obediently serve. For some, that is their calling. As I long to fly, some long to serve. That, too, is honorable. "To thine own self, be true."
I will not follow an exclusive faith. I will not deny entry. That is not my job.
Mercy is not for the worthy, healing is not for the whole.
My faith is the faith of the broken. The unworthy. The ones who don't belong. The runaways from a faith that wanted them to grow up too fast.
My faith takes you where you stand and says, "Come in. We've been expecting you." It reaches with open arms for anyone willing to step in. There are no membership fees, no tickets required, no ceremony required before you can be deemed worthy. There is only hope. Only home. Only here.
It's a scary thing, admitting that the faith you grew up in might not be for you. You're told your whole life that one thing is right, and everything else is wrong, only to find out that you might, perhaps, disagree.
And that might be okay.
And it might also not be for everyone.
For some reason, the faith of my fathers has endured, and that has to mean something. For centuries, this is how My Mother's Jesus was passed across the generations. It became the faith of my fathers by being the faith of my fathers' fathers. And their fathers. And maybe even their fathers before them.
But somewhere down the line, things changed. Faith wasn't always this way. Somehow, somewhere, someone disagreed. Maybe even more than once.
Before my father, and my father's father, the faith of the day included slaves. Someone changed that.
Before that, the faith of the day required you to pay for forgiveness in gifts to the church, and confess your sins to man, rather than to God. A man named Martin Luther changed that.
In our own holy text, the Bible on which our faith is based, outspoken women are stoned, kings have hundreds of wives, and the only one worthy to talk to God is the high priest. Someone changed that too. When? And why, when our collective faith is already so radically different, is it so wrong of me to question my own?
Didn't Jesus call us to love, above all else? Why then, is the primary influence of the present day church to shame and accuse? Why is the call of the missionary, "Come as you are," but the message of the church, "Change, first. Then, forgiveness?" It can't be reconciled.
For this reason, I deny the faith of my fathers, and substitute my own. A faith that believes, not in the clean White-Jesus of the modern day megachurch, but in the filthy, controversial man who was called the Son of God. I choose a faith that loves, equally, and with abandon. A faith that doesn't guard its heart, but opens it. Vulnerable, honest, and imperfect. And totally mine.
So, yes, in a sense, you can call me a heathen. If this is your impression of me, that's okay. I don't need your permission. You don't need mine. You and I can continue to live our lives in relative peace, we can agree to disagree, and the world will continue to turn. Life will go on. One day at a time.
There is so much more to the story. Maybe in the end, I'll tell you mine.
Until then,
Fin.
This.
ReplyDeleteThis is so much.