Losing My Religion

I went to church on Saturday. I wasn’t thrilled about it but it had been a while. Last time I went I got surprised by one of those close encounters with my past, and I handled it poorly – it caught me off guard and I fumbled it. I really hope that person didn’t take it personally, though it probably just confirmed the perception that I’ve turned into my own evil twin. Oh well.

Church is, as usual, a conundrum, a perplexing mix of memorized responses and a huge filter that scrutinizes everything and stops most of it at the door. I’ve been struggling so hard lately with the dichotomy between the things I thought I knew and the realities of life, and the brutal, often terrifying way that the “Church” responds to different points of view. I’ve been reading a lot and I’ve been so disappointed…dismayed…disheartened by those who are supposed to be marked by their love for one another. People get all hysterical (in a very non-funny way), passionate, vehement, acidic when members of their own family (the Church family) dare to posit an independent thought.

I haven’t been able to articulate this struggle very well recently. To my friends who are still in the Church, I’ve nearly turned into an un-Church, an unreached people. I’m sure there’s a campaign under way to rescue me, though thankfully most are giving me the space I need to wrestle without too much pressure. They don’t understand why I can’t just trust and obey. To my friends who are outside the Church, they aren’t entirely sure why it’s bothering me so much. They don’t understand why I keep picking at the scab when I know it’s going to hurt. And my answer to all of them is…I don’t understand either.

Several years ago my Christian therapist (yep, been to therapy, probably need more) told me it was sort of a wonder that I hadn’t wandered farther from my religious roots, and this while I was actually still a card-carrying member of Church. At that time, before life blew up, I was already feeling like one of those inflatable punching bag dolls that always pops back up but gets slower and slower as time and frequent pummeling leech the air right out of it. This side of Kristi-shima and the total destruction of life as I used to know it, I feel like a refugee. That’s the best way to describe it. I feel like I lost my country, my culture, my religion, all the things that I thought defined me, and I’m now figuring out how to survive in a new world, still me but also not-me.

I have zero answers right now. All my questions only lead to more questions. The things I’ve read lately break my heart in myriad ways – both because they’re so arrogant and judgey and mean and conversely (and confusingly) because I just can’t swallow it anymore. From the outside looking in, it’s not a place I want to be – and that’s even with a background understanding of some of the issues. If I had no religious upbringing or experience, there’s no way I would even try.

Internal growing pains are far more painful than the aches I endured as a kid (and yes, I know I’m short and therefore didn’t suffer that much… it’s called concentrated awesomeness J). The first thing I had to do was decide to be ok with where I am in the process. It’s mine, so I need to actively participate, and not worry so much about what other people think.  

I’m trying to hold on to the things that are important, and most of it’s not that important. I know there are people that will read this and already have a counterattack planned before they get to this paragraph. Before the hyperbole starts flying, take a breath. Relax. Please don’t send any platitudes or sermons my way – chances are I’ve already preached them in the past. Losing my religion is perhaps the best thing that could have happened to me, because once the trappings fall, I can find a place to put my feet and stand up.

This was hard to write. It’s hard to be in this place. And there will be more conversations, harder than this one. Stay tuned.