Done with Church? (Part 2)

So.  You did it.  It's official.
No more church.

Now that that's out of the way, you'll have some time to figure out how this all plays out in your life, without at least some of the confusing messages from everywhere around you.  You've got some time to think, if you do that sort of thing.  (You're reading this, so it's probably safe to say that you're already doing that.)  You can think about all the reasons you left church, and where to go from here.

Maybe it became too political; the involved members with the most money to give thinking they could buy the decision-making power, their purse-strings being a direct link to the will of God; but only if the will of God matched their personal desires, thoughts and agenda.

Maybe it's because after that glorious moment that the heavens opened up and accepted you in as one of their own, most often called "salvation", you realized that, in church, you spent more time questioning your salvation instead of moving beyond it, into sanctification.  That salvation was presented as this amazing doorway that was opened up before you, promising mountaintop highs, and a companion that could grant you any wish along this journey called life.  Salvation came, emotions waned away, and the faith spoken of so frequently in reference to the ancients became a dirty word, only because of the guilt and "christian service" attached to it.  I'm sure you've wondered at some point in time, what happens after salvation?

Now that you think about it, you can almost point out what the church expected to see in you once salvation came; quietly slipping in their subtle cultural expectations of you, sometimes making indirect jabs during sermons at the person you are, whether it's how you look, or dress, or how you talk; as if these are the determining factors of whether or not you're "saved".  The thought of the church's preoccupation with appearing normal and/or acceptable haven't left your mind, they've just been suppressed.

Come to think about it, you're not even sure if the church knows, or cares, who you are, where you came from, why you do what you do or did what you did, or even what kind of life you live outside of Sunday morning.  Instead, your tithe has come across as more important than your person.  George Thorogood comes to mind as you realize the similarities... "she said that don't confront me, long as I get my money next Friday".  Never mind the demons you fight to suppress, never mind the struggles you're going through, never mind the doubts, the questions, (pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!)... as long as you give your ten percent next Sunday.
A bourbon, a scotch and/or a beer might even sound good right about now in your thought process, once you realize and accept that there's no one from the church there with you to tell you it's a sin.
Jesus Christ.  (-clink- pop!) 
You didn't think you'd end up here, but nevertheless, here you are.

The sin management means of control you're so familiar with isn't jiving with the paramount notion of grace the church seldom mentions, but you can't help but feel like that is something they should be talking about, and a lot more, judging by how little you know of it.

You might even be getting kinda pissed, like you, and others, are and have been getting fleeced in this whole deal.  If grace is so great, why doesn't anyone talk about it?  Wouldn't grace imply some sort of freedom?  And what does that freedom look like, since you don't think you've heard anyone ever mention it in church?

So, for the first time in...well, ever, you pull out your Bible.  Not out of obligation or duty or expectation, but to actually learn something.  To find answers, just like all the commercials and billboards claim.  Out of all those pages, there has to be something in there that talks about life on a level deeper than a baptismal font.
Your eyes gaze over words, hungering for truth.  It might not happen right then, that first time, but something begins to stir.  You read from books never talked about from the pulpit, and for some reason, it's beginning to make sense.
You come to learn that life isn't about this radical and instantaneous transformation you've learned the church wants, but it's about a life-long process.  No relationship on earth begins at the same level as one that's endured a lifetime; hell, you even realized that the nation of Israel, the people God chose, weren't being transformed right away either, or even if ever!

You can now see that these conversion factories aren't interested in anything other than the conversion, so they pay little attention to the process that gets you there, and even less to the process that begins after you've reached the end-zone they've established.  And if you stick around long enough afterwards, they'll put you to work.
     It's funny how the church took on the characteristics of the people in it, looking to get something from the church.  Or is it the other way around...?

As time passes following your departure from the institution, life throws curve ball after curve ball at you.  None of the platitudes or chants you were taught to regurgitate apply; in fact, you find yourself sickened by your own hypocrisy for even muttering the words.  You've become hyper-aware of the possible thoughts and questioning looks on the faces of others who might hear you.

You find yourself praying out of desperation, rather than obligation, often in disgust, or anger, or frustration.  And to your surprise, you're finding that those are the prayers that seem to elicit a response from a God who doesn't seem quite so far away now.  Instead of perfected and wordy prayers, you've come to rather enjoy the breath-of-fresh-air unscheduled conversations with the One who made you.  For the first time in your life, you don't feel the pressure to change, because God hasn't told you that you need to, after all.

You realize that as the church went from being the 'expression of God in the world' to the self-titled 'sole authority of God's word', it removed the possibility of a relationship with God from the masses, and enslaved its members to its own law once again.
But now, now that you've removed yourself from that, you experience freedom.  You hear the words "there's no condemnation in Christ," but sort of chuckle when you think 'there sure is in the church, though.'

In your conversations with the Big Guy, you discuss things that plague you, most of which end up boiling down to matters of your fear, your selfishness, or your pride.  Or all three.
Yeah, all three.

The immensity of the stranglehold those have on your life bear down on you, and suddenly, the cross doesn't look so bad.  An exasperated, half-joking, "God you'll have to do this for me" lights off a million light bulbs in your brain, one of which illuminates a distant memory that the church never said anything about this.

Welcome to Faith.

Done with Church? (Part 1)

For those who are "done" with church:

You have no idea how excited I am for you!  I'm sure that's probably the last thing you were expecting to hear from anyone, especially since making the decision to walk away from church. 

If you have already announced your decision, in no matter which form, you've probably caught some static from the people around you.  If you haven't made your decision a matter of public record yet, don't worry, you'll be catching all kinds of crap when you do.  Whether it's from the people in the church, or family, or neighbors, or whoever; whether it's in the form of people questioning you, or talking behind your back, or even people completely writing you off and never talking to you again; your social circles will probably change.

This is going to be an exciting time in your life!  No more bondage to Sunday mornings!  One more day on the weekend you can sleep in, one more morning to catch up on the Sunday news shows, one more morning you have to do some recreational Walmarting.  

I totally feel your pain; I have been in your shoes before, standing right where you stand right now.  I know what it's like to be involved in a church.  Have the family involved, be at all the functions, show up when the lights are on.  Doing your Christian duty, doing the God-thing on Sunday mornings, tithing and praying and reading your Bible and serving, or at least trying to...

Yet something's not right.  You can't really put it into words, or even put your finger on what it could be.  There's no fulfillment from any of the serving and attending and bible studies you're doing.  Every once in a while you get the idea in your head that you're really not doing anything more than going through the motions.  This can't be all there is to being a Christian... is it?  

You tried ignoring those feelings, and agreed to push through the uncertainty, listening to sermon after sermon on mustard seeds and proper behavior and giving and being holy and blessings of prosperity, knowing that none of these are addressing the growing void in your gut.  

Depending on your determination to push through this. or your tolerance of self abuse, whatever you like to call it; this "phase" could last weeks, months, or even years.  But when the end of your church-going era comes, you know that you know that you know.  You are DONE.

Ice Storm. Ha.

Journal Entry 1
Winter morning.


     Ah, my backyard.  The mundaneness and wildness dissatisfy me to no end, yet it draws me here quite consistently.
     Dreams of taming the wood-fenced sandpit spurn me to visions of a self-sustaining utopia, but lack of finances (and always a lack of time) force the changes to be minuscule and somewhat unnoticeable.

     I should be recovering from the mental onslaught that is college algebra, but God answered my desperate and fear-filled prayers with weather that, as usual, forces this southern state to shut down in anticipation of an icy armageddon.  The world wakes up with hopes of a thick blanket of crippling ice, but the reality is that we've received heavier frosts.
     The determining factor in whether I drive anywhere or not is if my dogs slip as they rush out the back door to relieve bladders.  This morning was no different than the last.  Maybe they could smell the chill as I opened the door for them; maybe the arctic air that rushed in at their feet was enough to tame the call of nature -to remind them that despite their four legs, despite their animal instincts, the blankets and pillows on the couches would be much warmer.
     They are spoiled, and therefore, not rushed, so no one slips.
     Even now, all I can see is eyeballs emerging from the corners; buried in piles of plush blankets, fluffed on newly mangled pillows; my companions, my babies wait for me.

     The weather has afforded me a few extra hours to catch up on some reading for tomorrow, but the window beckons.
     My fear with returning to school was losing my mornings, the time where my brain flows in its most creative mode.  Mornings remind me of the beauty of life, the perseverance of life, regardless of our best efforts to control every moment of it.  Mornings are my worship, and sometimes that worship responds.
     As the mornings slip away, so too, the words that flow from grey matter to hands, hands to pen, pen to paper.
     If it is necessary that I travel during this creative time, I am naked if I leave my house without any one of my trillion notebooks.  (Should I die tomorrow, I pray that my husband and closest friends could find all I've written, and miraculously publish it all, hopefully to the end of providing the Waldenesque life my husband so desires.)

     This particular morning, and the extra time it has awarded me, are giving way and releasing the looming clouds of frustration; offering as a peace-treaty with my inner battle, clarity for all I'm involved in.  Whispers of purpose, and all things tying together, no matter how brief, give me new excitement for the next few months of my life.  Sure, I'll be busy, and sure, I'm really going to have to prioritize what needs to be done.  Those thoughts, those things that are new to my schedule that have a tendency to overwhelm me, cannot find a stronghold in my thinking on a morning like today.
     There is a god in heaven, and he is merciful, if only for the reason that of all my reading assignments, and all my projects, and all the (forced) paper assignments to write, there is one class that requires a journal.  Be still my heart!  The creative juices will not be dammed up this semester!

     The damp, the cold, the slick outside can't crush my spirits this morning, as they are usually able to.  The lack of unobstructed sunlight outside doesn't matter today, for the morning shares revelation in brief moments, snapshots of purposes, and big picture understanding, which all make way for the light to emanate from me today; giving me the intestinal fortitude to press on and not give up.  I can't control the weather, but every once in a while, I can let the weather not control me.

     I should be reading about Hinduism right now.  As fascinating as it is, or some think it should be, nothing beats the call of the backyard.
      It has the familiarity of home.  Consistency.  Convenience partnered with purpose, so to be useful and enjoyed, all at the same time.
     But it always shows me something different.  Some days it shows me peace, other days it shows me possibility; in itself, and in the world around me.
     Darkness and light both speak to me in the backyard.
     The trees erupting from beyond the fence, although never losing leaves, serve as a surprising canvas that changes almost daily.  As much as I claim to hate the long-leaf pines of North Carolina, they continue to surprise me; gracing me with new perspectives, never in my face but always there; stoic in that no matter which birds land in their branches, which animals rub and destroy their lower barks, or which machines run into them by accident, they remain.  Quiet.  Strong.  Growing.  Such a combination that seems inevitable for the natural world, but so nearly impossible for humanity.
     If only I could be so quiet, that pride and arrogance would never plague me.  To be so strong that small things could rest on me, or big things run into me, and remain undamaged.  To be growing, patiently, rolling with what's thrown at me, strengthening my roots, forming my shape, but not determining my identity.
     The beauty of the trees is what I'd like to see in me.  It's easy to see it in them; they aren't corrupted by arrogance, polluted by free will...  But, in the hindsight perspective of the life I've lived, how much fun would life be without those things?

      My morning ponderings reveal greater truths, things my soul needs to be reminded of.  This new phase of my life, this midlife return to academia, is a means to an end, albeit an end I may not see clearly yet.
     The morning shows me what it is.  Enduring, persevering.  I can imagine myself there.  Morning reminds me of the experiences of my life that have made me enduring, experiences where necessity showed me that I too can persevere.
     The morning also shows me that she will always be the morning, no matter what we wake up to: snow, ice, rain, warm, cold, sweltering, wind, calm.  She is the morning.  The things that adorn her don't make her any different that what she is, she is morning.  
     I am reminded, thankfully, that I am who I am, too.  That no matter what I do in this life, it is merely a decoration; an adornment.  It doesn't change who I am at the core.

     Surrounded by youth, and those who share their wealth of knowledge with a corner of the world willing to pay for it, I am glad that this reminder of who I am came early in my academic journey.
     I am not plagued by a need to belong, so the usual calls of campus student life have no appeal to me.  Teacher's pet is no use to me either, for so much identity is lost in trying to be some one's favorite, not to mention exhausting.
     I am, however, a common ground person.  No matter the relationship, I try to find, and build on, common ground.  I have to remind myself that this isn't a "me-jump-into-your-world" exercise, because that only works when both parties in the relationship are willing to go all in into the life of the other.  There's an intimacy, a trust, and a deeper friendship; a brethren, kindred spirit kind of dynamic that I really don't think will surface in this place, with these people, in this period of my life.  Well, as far as I can tell; it is, after all, only the third day of classes.

     Do I approach my new assignment as a period of time where I glean everything I can, or do I embrace who I am in this; learning as I go, rolling with the punches, growing, staying humble, and keeping quiet...
   
     My answer is written in the morning.
          Be who you are.  That cannot, nor will it ever, change.
               But enjoy the adornments, for they will come and go.

     The sheet of ice melts, the water drips from the roof, and morning fades into afternoon.
   

Beginnings

Blanketed by darkness, the air is so frigid that it glistens; hanging on with all its might to maintain its icy grip with each passing minute.

But the sun rising is inevitable; revealing its power across the expanse with achingly slow patience.

As the light creeps through the sky, stretching from one horizon to the next, the first rays reach more than just the sky; thin and wispy ribbons of clouds are the first to give evidence to the new day.  Their contrast to the lightening sky are the first strokes of this day's brush; the calling card of the artist; singing of possibilities so endless, and all by design.

The darkened shadows of the newly exposed treetops are the next in line to stand out, giving more definition to an uneven horizon.

Sunrise casts a veil between the sky and the earth, woven in brilliant threads that disperse the light into millions of tiny flashes; each sparkling as if the air itself was made up of the dust of all the diamonds of the world.

The dust settles where the sunlight lands; from behind the veil the wind sways the new horizon.

The cold and the dark are helpless here; bound to lose, but hanging on to their last moments as if they could change the inevitable.

The sun peeking over the horizon releases the veil, and gently drops it to the ground in a silent billowy show; sure to be missed if not witnessed.

As the veil descends to earth, the full and direct rays of the sun hit the top edges of the shadowed horizon, giving clear identification to all that marks the landscape.  The needles of the pines brush up against the sky on the whim of the winds, the light revealing the glory of the colors and complexities of creation.

The darkness loses its grip.  The light, as it shines brighter and higher in the sky, only shows its strength in its brilliant difference from the dark.  The shadows only grow deeper and darker in their retreat, preventing any revelation of what it hides.

As the light hits the trees, with no veil to protect its fullness, creation becomes the veil.
     Glory revealed... through colors... light and shadows... wind... shapes... sounds... movement... reflection.... purpose.

With everything now visible as a reflection of the expression of light, the darkness has no escape.  The risen sun begins to illuminate formerly hidden places; revealing what's there, but without the distortion, without the cover, and without the deception that darkness can bring.

The winds, unseen, serve in their dual purposes of whisking away the vestiges of the shriveling dark, making room for and ushering in the light; light that filters through creation, and slips in where it will... bringing heat... bringing life.

New

Oh, how positively cliche of me to write a blog on the first day of the new year.  But I have to capture some stuff floating and bouncing around in my grey matter, and you, dear reader, are the second benefactor of my brain barfings.  (The first benefactor being myself, of course; writing is how I snapshot and process what's going on in my head.  If you know me well, you know this already. If you don't know me well, then, welcome to my dementia.)

I don't get all sentimental at typical celebrations, or on particular dates.  Holidays (& holy days) are very atypical for me; our tradition in our house is to not have traditions.  Or something like that.

New years is no different.  After many years of drunken debauchery, in a rare glimpse of sober clarity, I realized that I felt no different on new years day than I did on new years eve, or the 364 days prior to that, other than the hangover that took me longer to recover from year after year.

Maybe I drank into the new year to numb the impending personal let down; knowing deep down that I'd yet to stick with any new years resolution.  Ever.  Who knows.  Nor do I care; at this point in my life, if I was to go on a new years bender even remotely resembling new years benders of the past, it would take me all of January to recover.  And frankly, I don't have time for that.

What I can say, clear-minded, is that just like everything else I've tried to shrug off in the past year, something's different now.  Maybe because I'm in a constant state of learning; of history, of tradition, and the meanings and context behind things.  This has been the case for my holidays and most of my experiences this past year.  As I've learned to meanings of and histories behind specific days, whether seasons or holidays, celebrations or rituals, I've tried to pay them no mind, not let them sink their hooks into this girl.

Alas, despite my best efforts... well, not really.  I should say, despite my best efforts at just getting out of God's way, all of these special days on the calendar have been affecting me, but not in the expected ways.

Normal church holidays, for example.

Easter has gone from a once-a-year holiday to a daily celebration; one that has deeply and most profoundly affected my life.  Rather than be a day of remembrance, it has become a new way to live.  This itself has probably been the biggest life altering mindset change in my life.

The days of Christmas being a consumerist's dream are gone.  We only have my stepson on Christmas every other year, and it's been that way for the last ten years.  So Christmas has always been a creative holiday, in that we've had to come up with new fitting ways to celebrate.  Only a few of those years were "Santa" years.  Believe it or not, we've had the most fun in the "not Santa" years.  But nothing has ever been consistent in our last ten Christmases together; whether it was the different days we opened gifts, or the different income levels which drastically dictated the thought put into each gift, or even the locations of where we'd open gifts.  Even the anticipation for Christmas morning, no matter what day we celebrated it on, has changed.  It went from the typical "can't wait for the boy to open his presents"; to the less than spectacular "let's just do this because it's expected" as we each learned about the history of Christmas, the roots of the celebrations, the religious ties, and the cultural contexts; then back to the "can't wait to open presents", as we found ourselves comfortable in the midst of the cultural celebration that Christmas has become in this country.
You won't find anyone in our household jumping on the 'Jesus is the reason for the season' bandwagon.  But you will notice two distinct levels of the celebration; one played out to the mimic the American Christmas, and then the deeper, and immense event that stirs the marrow-deep gratitude that can only be manifested in our daily lives in a way that makes our cultural Christmas look like a gross mockery.

Holidays had to be undone, made unholy to me for the obvious reasons.  Then God had to re-make them holy in my life.

Sooo....

I went to bed before midnight last night, knowing that when I woke up, it would still be 2015, whether I watched the transition from one calendar to the next or not.

I woke this morning with new ideas.  New inspirations, new motivations.

It's one thing to declare what I want to do in the coming year, or what changes I want to make.  When I'm the one driving the best of my own intentions, I'm sure to let myself down.  But when I give up the reigns, and quit trying so damn hard to do or be something I'm not supposed to be, even if it's just "yet", then I remain surprised at the way life happens.

I thought  that I had one big thing coming up in 2015, and that was to return to college as a full time student.  That's what I fell asleep to last year.  I woke this year with a new anticipation.  (I love playing with words, as if last year and this year were separated by anything more than a mere second in the midst of the eight hours I slept.)

The new year I awoke to promises more than I expected.  They usually do.  In fact, they always do.

I see new projects.  Why I'd wake up with a project in mind (that my right mind says will probably be way too much for me) is beyond me.  Even if it's for no other reason than to envision the project and immediately ask God how the holy hell I'm going to find time to do this; then realize it's gonna be Him anyways, so why worry.

I had no 'great expectations' of, or for, the new year, other than what I'd already planned.  (This year being no different than the last few years, I made no resolutions.  I didn't want to set myself up for disappointment by resolving to be or do anything better, or more, or less.)
I'm excited about school, but school itself isn't the passion I'm chasing.  But one of these projects keeps my passions moving forward; not out of necessity, but out of desire.  Not the end goal, but part of the process.
I knew I'd be getting more deeply involved in community, but awoke this morning with different and new ideas to engage community.  My passion for the vision of what community looks like in our setting was stoked overnight by a holy wind, flames building and spreading.  Again, not the end goal, but more pieces in the process.

The last few years has been a process of deconstructing what I think of everything, letting go of expectations in order to even be open to learning and extracting what I need.  The most interesting thing about it all has been as I've let go of my limited expectations, God's still meeting me where I don't expect Him to, and He's shown up in almost everything I've dismissed.  Nothing looks the same anymore.

What a difference a day makes!

Alone

The dream slips a knife in; the pain so real her eyelids slam open wide.
Her heart races as she recalls what she just saw.



Excitement and joy mixed together into childlike giddiness, at her inclusion in the planning and execution of their plans.  After what seems like years of waiting, she's thrilled to be able to participate in the activities of her people.  Finally feeling like she's equipped to do so, assuming that these are the things that guarantee her acceptance into this group of people she trusts.

Little snippets flash that don't make any sense, but she pays them no mind.

They arrive together, the thunder of their horses filling the air, breaking the predawn silence. She barely notices that half the group peels away, going somewhere else that she can't see.  Around a bend, through the trees; she doesn't know.  She dismisses it as she follows the ones she's always associated with the most.

Parked, dismounted and now seated at the picnic table, the smaller group squares off at the table.
One hums with gaining intensity, one speaks with authority she'd never noticed before; not recognizing their tune or words.  And one looks at her, as if waiting to speak to her.  Her eyes have no time to look elsewhere before he slides across the worn smooth bench, leaning in to her in feigned intimacy, and whispers tenderly that she's not supposed to be there; a bullet from a silenced gun.

The shock of the betrayal knocks her into immediate action.  She jumps back, nearly losing her balance while scrambling to gather her belongings in her retreat.
The rush of blood to her head intensifies the sounds entering her ears.  She can hear them behind her, continuing as if now they can do what they came to do.

Her attention drawn away from the pain of the expulsion, now focused on her exodus.  Trying to take everything in, she doesn't know where to go.  She doesn't know where the rest of the group disappeared to, and rather than risk further embarrassment looking for them, she stoically gets on her ride, and drives away, trying not to notice the lack of response to her exit.



Laying in the dark, replaying the dream to the cadence of the beating pain in her chest, she ponders the solitude, in scenes just like the dream, played out over and over and over in her life.
She accepts, through tears, the Alone.


The tip of the knife came in the form of the one she's closest to, life to life, soul to soul.  The tip of the knife was just a poke, the initial offense, slight pressure that breaks the surface, yet altering the surface forever.
The blade behind the point, however, slicing cleanly through flesh; made up of those she thought knew her, those she thought wanted her with them; opening the wound larger, pushing the pain in deeper.
But the blade, with its sharp point and double edged blade, is held together and driven by the molded and formed traditions of the lifestyles and cultures of her people; all people.
Just like church.

The unnoticed snippets and snapshots from the dream foretell how she wasn't really included from the beginning.  A mistaken addition to a private email; the women peeling away from the men.  It makes sense now.
It doesn't make any sense.

The acid of her tears forces her eyes shut as she retreats into the cave of her bed linens.

Burning

Endings and beginnings;
     hearing and not hearing;
          recognizing and wallowing.
Doubting.  Questioning.  Not knowing for sure, yet hoping; but not our own hope.

Peace reigns despite the unrest; flooding from all sides to counter the unknown.

Sparks ignite in unexpected places.
Do not fear the fire; it burns, yet brings no lasting pain.

Inescapable evolutions;
     ripping, tearing, breaking out;
          severing the facade from its root bound victim.
Exposing pain, exposing the raw, exposing the need for healing.
Exposing the entirety of self to the impending inferno.
Exposing the cleft that cannot heal unless grafted through flames.

Overcome.  Overwhelmed.  Undone.
Unaffected by what's outside the surrounding firestorm, flames dance around;  yet unconsuming.

The blisters erupt as the fire passes over.
In the midst of the unending, the unseeing; underneath the effects of the assault on the flesh, new life is shaping.
New life forms in its protective immersion, growing and waiting for the veil to lift.

One by one, the marks burn open, revealing the new creation...

Smoldering.
Shining.
Whole.