the naming of belief, part two

We live out stories rooted in belief systems.

How we tell stories with our lives is a result of how the stories of our religion were told to us.

Even if a person grew up non-religious, belief systems still existed around them, and stories were told about how to live. We are always being told stories about how to live, not always with words, but constantly. These stories are not always right or good. Sometimes they are.

I have been labels:
Born again
Lutheran
Methodist
Baptist
Christian

I could tell you stories about those labels, and maybe I already have and I’ve forgotten and I know there are more. Maybe I will tell you more. I’m sure I will, in one way or another.

The truth is that defining myself with labels scares me because no one under any label is the same and there are so many people doing harm with labels. So much harm. So I don’t want to be lumped in. I don’t want assumptions made about me. But here I am. Let’s talk about it.

I know Christians that are pure and true and selfless and love, love, love, no exceptions. I know Christians that don’t fit that bill. I know which one I want to be, and I know people are all messed up no matter what their labels, I am just so tired.

What comes to mind for others when they hear a label is none of my business, but I won’t lie. It matters to me. It matters that people find out right away that I have an endless heart that sees people, hears people, accepts people, all people. I love the people so much, my friends.

I also want people to know right away that I’m not preachy or certain. That I’m full of faults and I will wear them on my sleeve and stop apologizing for them. That all the good that I am was created in some Big Magical God-image Way but also, I can be grateful to myself too, for striving and seeing and being open to learning, listening, giving, surrendering. I am learning to love myself despite a lot of the stories I was told about how undeserving I am. (Common Christian story, in case you did not know.)

I’ve been realizing lately that what I have to say on this subject is big. Putting words to it is far more difficult than I imagined. I’ve been realizing that I’m still going to try, but I’m not sure when or in what way other than today. I guess I’d rather show with my life than tell by words but I also think words are super important. (In case you could not tell. heh.)

You see, I don’t want to condemn Christianity, not at all. Despite evidence to the contrary, there is so much good in my life because of it and its people. I don’t want to condemn anything, or anyone. Then again, I want to stand up for the hurting. I need to stand up for the ignored, abused, hungry, marginalized, kicked out, left out, condemned. Because harm is part of Christianity, too. It just is.

Christianity is a beautiful thing that people have re-created, redefined and systemically and insidiously infiltrated. So, as well all know, there are now versions of it that people fear, make fun of, reject. And I understand.

That’s it. I understand.

I am a Christian. I don’t feel defensive of that religion. I am a Christian. And I feel the need to defend and protect people from much of what Christianity can be because it’s a religion.

I hope I live my life stories in a way that tell a tale vastly different than what a lot of people have experienced with religion. I hope my stories are always filled with a humbling recognition that faith is not certainty, faith is hope with question marks. That being at peace and living surrender and acceptance does not require a perfect lifestyle or all the answers. It’s the opposite of all the answers.

I hope that my stories keep me at the center of the human struggle, right in the middle of it. Right there, with my hand on a dear friend’s aching body as she moans, with my lips pressed gently to the top of my sick child’s head. With my heart exploding with compassion for war torn places and my hands giving over money to those that have lost because of racism, homophobia, xenophobia and more.

I hope I give and get something at church. Both. But I will never let it end there.

I hope my children see that this weary woman did not wear out a path from her front door to the church door and back and forth and back and forth without service outside of it. But that she wanted to live Church outside its building even more. So much more.

I hope they also see that service to fellow addicts was deeply meaningful to their mother, and that meant she got to know the best people, all kinds of weird and wonderful people. I hope they see that I was willing to live in service to anyone in pain, anyone, anyone.

I hope they also see that I figured out how to value and love myself too, even if it took a very long time.

They talk to me sometimes, as they’re growing up, and I hear the echoes of love in their stories. I hear them speak up about injustice, like when one shy boy of mine barreled into the principal’s office to say, “[So and So] is wearing a confederate flag sweatshirt. Here. At school. It’s wrong and not acceptable.” I hear them rail against racism. I hear them call out homophobia, demanding that their friends not make cruel ignorant jokes. I hear them. I hear them at work in the world, being love.