There was a saying that I used to hear growing up in the Methodist church and I absolutely detested it from the first moment I heard it. "Ladies and Gentlemen, during the worst most unbearable moments of our lives, all we have to do is give it over to Jesus." I heard it a lot. In a lot of different sermons. In a lot of different seasons. Lent. Pentacost. Christmas. Easter. I never liked it. It wasn't what I ever needed to hear. I believed in Christ and I believed in God with my entire being, but I never saw it as "giving it over to Jesus". I shared my issues with God, and I prayed for help when I needed it. I always knew I didn't have to explain things to God because Christ was within me. Enough said.
Then I went to college and began this crazy quest I'm on. I started going to a Catholic church in November. I instantly felt welcomed there and I started to think that maybe this time I'd ended up at the right place. The services were solemn and different than anything I'd ever experienced as a Christian. I prayed every day, "Is this right God? Can I have a sign, please?" I didn't get a sign. After several church services I decided to convert to Catholicism. Like flipping a light switch. I went to my first confirmation class on Monday. I went to bed and prayed more then ever, "Is this right?? Seriously, I don't know why I'm being led here but there must be a reason (right???)" Still no sign. I woke up on Tuesday and went about my day, but through every class, through every lecture, through every trip back upstairs to the practice room, I was thinking about catholicism. About Mary and the Saints and hell and everything just swirled endlessly like I was completely losing control of my beliefs.
That night I walked to Murphy Hall. I stood outside the building and called someone I loved and told them that I couldn't become catholic. I was laughing into the cell phone, casually making jokes, and before I knew what I was doing, I started crying. And I completely lost it. The person on the other end of the line just listened to me try repeatedly to catch my breath and talk again. It was like every emotion I'd felt in the last twenty four hours was suddenly pouring out of me, like the final drop in the full water bucket that finally tips it over. I was happy because I suddenly felt free to once again embrace my original beliefs, but I was scared that I had come so close to selling my soul to a denomination that was wrong for me. It was like my mind had become temporarily brain-washed, yet I was the master of it all and I had somehow brought it all upon myself. Ten minutes later, the person on the phone finally said something that I needed to hear. They told me that maybe it was time to let God figure it out for me. That maybe it was time to give it over to God instead of letting it lie heavy within me. The quest needed to be paused momentarily. It was time to give it over to a higher power, to the force that sent me on this quest. My sign had come and it had come within my own thoughts. Within my own misery, God had finally spoken to me.
I guess you could say that I finally "gave it over to Jesus". I'm letting it lie for awhile, letting the source take control of my destiny as it always has.
God does not play dice with the universe.
"All our progress is an unfolding, like a vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason." Ralph Waldo Emerson
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Praying with the fierce strength of the bear
There have been a few times during the quest that I’ve been pretty close to the edge. I’ve been pretty close to getting up and leaving during a worship service. I’ve been pretty close to losing my composure when I was feeling crummy about the whole thing. And I’ve been pretty close to wishing I just had more strength to completely give up the quest for good.
The first time I was close to the edge was at a Unity church. My father had always been intrigued by their teachings of Christianity and over the years, I was too. Their principles were few and their emphasis of Christ as Savior AND teacher was their greatest strength in my eyes. As soon as I was in my new college town, I found the local Unity Church. As I walked into their doors a few weeks later (after already trying three church-failures in the quest), I felt confident that this was going to be the one. This would be the right fit and everything would fall into place.
It would be too strong a word to say that I hated the Unity church. I think fear would be a more practical word. Everything seemed fairly normal on the outside, but it was when a long haired woman started burning sage during a Native American ritual at the altar that I started to wonder. I wouldn’t say I started to fear until she was chanting prayers to the eagle and beaver spirits.
Maybe it was the sage. It filled the sanctuary in a thick haze. Everyone was asked to pray in meditation (to who, the wild buffalo?) while the woman was performing the ritual, but I kept my eyes glued open. I looked around at all the church-goers bowed solemnly in prayer in astonishment. Were these people thinking straight? Shockingly, I found one man who, like me, had his eyes open. He was looking straight at the woman at the altar and at one point, he let out a small silent chuckle. I felt like I had been saved. At least one other human in the room thought that Native American rituals had no place in Christianity (or maybe he just thought she had an impressive wingspan when she mocked the actions of the eagle spirit).
I knew at that point that all credibility was gone in my mind. As soon as the service was over, I sprinted towards the exit (those same reassuring doors I had entered not an hour before) and ran to my car.
Sometimes I still think it was just the sage’s effect on me. Whatever it was, it pushed me just close enough to the edge to make me really think about what I was doing. Those are the moments in the quest that I thank God for giving me an intuition to think.
The first time I was close to the edge was at a Unity church. My father had always been intrigued by their teachings of Christianity and over the years, I was too. Their principles were few and their emphasis of Christ as Savior AND teacher was their greatest strength in my eyes. As soon as I was in my new college town, I found the local Unity Church. As I walked into their doors a few weeks later (after already trying three church-failures in the quest), I felt confident that this was going to be the one. This would be the right fit and everything would fall into place.
It would be too strong a word to say that I hated the Unity church. I think fear would be a more practical word. Everything seemed fairly normal on the outside, but it was when a long haired woman started burning sage during a Native American ritual at the altar that I started to wonder. I wouldn’t say I started to fear until she was chanting prayers to the eagle and beaver spirits.
Maybe it was the sage. It filled the sanctuary in a thick haze. Everyone was asked to pray in meditation (to who, the wild buffalo?) while the woman was performing the ritual, but I kept my eyes glued open. I looked around at all the church-goers bowed solemnly in prayer in astonishment. Were these people thinking straight? Shockingly, I found one man who, like me, had his eyes open. He was looking straight at the woman at the altar and at one point, he let out a small silent chuckle. I felt like I had been saved. At least one other human in the room thought that Native American rituals had no place in Christianity (or maybe he just thought she had an impressive wingspan when she mocked the actions of the eagle spirit).
I knew at that point that all credibility was gone in my mind. As soon as the service was over, I sprinted towards the exit (those same reassuring doors I had entered not an hour before) and ran to my car.
Sometimes I still think it was just the sage’s effect on me. Whatever it was, it pushed me just close enough to the edge to make me really think about what I was doing. Those are the moments in the quest that I thank God for giving me an intuition to think.
Monday, November 10, 2008
If the bra's too tight, buy a new one.
When I started college, I knew that along with my toothbrush, favorite blow-dryer, trusty bed quilt, and textbooks, I had also packed God with me. In fact, I knew that I needed a sense of spiritual connection at that time more than I’ve ever needed it before. What I didn’t know was how frustrating it would be to keep this connection once classes started and I began to lose my mind in a world of authority telling me I needed to work harder and suck it up already. I still prayed (thanks to my first music theory class). I still thought that I was doing the right thing by continuing to be Christian in college. I still believed that harbored somewhere under all of my insecurities, Christ was still lurking, waiting to guide me in my seemingly obscure life.
In Sunday school at the United Methodist Church I was raised in, I would always try to think up really tricky questions for my Sunday school teachers. I tried desperately, even as I child to find cracks in what they were saying. I would ask why we even needed church. I could pray at home just as easily as I could sitting in our Methodist church (usually while grimacing at the hideous blood red 1960’s carpet that coated the entire sanctuary-and pew covers). To be honest, going to church for fellowship didn’t really make a whole lot of sense to me until I went to college.
Being religious at home was fairly simple. Pray. Think. Love. That was it. I figured that once I moved to a different town to start my education it would be pretty simple. I would still be a Christian and I would just hook up with some Methodist church I found from the Google search. Besides, going to church was just a side note in my spirituality. And somehow, in my naïve little head I still thought it would be simple and painless and easy. Easy like buying a new bra. Hey, that one looks nice and it looks fairly comfortable and I really like that color. Is that lace? I bet its supportive (feeling the straps), ah yes, it is. Is that too much padding? I don’t want to feel too attractive when my fifty year old professor calls on me tomorrow morning (ugh, awkward). I hope it’ll be durable enough to withstand the hell it will be subjected to in the dryer each week, but we’ll figure it out as we go along. Alright, it’s a winner. See? Simple and (almost) painless.
So I went to the first Methodist church I found on Google search. I dressed up, I dusted off my bible, hopped in the car and, thanks to the inaccuracy of my map quest directions, got there with seconds to spare. I sat down (alone, another feeling I had to come to terms with later in the quest) and the service started. Everything felt okay for the first few minutes. Then, while we were singing the first hymn, a very bizarre feeling started to come over me. It came out of nowhere, like when you realize in the middle of the night that you forgot to buy sour cream at the grocery store. I had definitely felt it before though I was unsure where and how and I knew it never had anything to do with religion before this exact moment. Then, I pegged it. I felt like I had been tricked. Dooped. Booby-trapped. This didn’t feel right! In fact, it wasn’t right at all! My bra was the wrong size! Somehow I had picked up the 34A on accident! What a nightmare! I didn’t like this church. I didn’t like it at all. I thought in my panic-stricken mind, it said Methodist on the front door, right? It felt like a Methodist church, but suddenly it wasn’t right anymore. It wasn’t what I wanted in a service anymore. It wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wasn’t sixteen, sitting happily in my adult Sunday School class discussing the contents of Revelation. I didn’t know what I even thought about religion. I sure as hell wasn’t Methodist anymore. What were they even preaching about? I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention because I was no longer interested. Where is this coming from, I thought? I knew I was still a Christian but I was not longer Methodist. I was liquid JELLO that was poured pre-maturely out of its Bundt-pan mold. And I wasn’t going back in.
And right then I knew it. This was going to be frustrating and tedious and exhausting. I had to start over. Figure out which JELLO mold I truly belonged in. I felt scared and the most uncertain I’ve ever felt about my faith. The status quo had changed.
And so the quest began.
In Sunday school at the United Methodist Church I was raised in, I would always try to think up really tricky questions for my Sunday school teachers. I tried desperately, even as I child to find cracks in what they were saying. I would ask why we even needed church. I could pray at home just as easily as I could sitting in our Methodist church (usually while grimacing at the hideous blood red 1960’s carpet that coated the entire sanctuary-and pew covers). To be honest, going to church for fellowship didn’t really make a whole lot of sense to me until I went to college.
Being religious at home was fairly simple. Pray. Think. Love. That was it. I figured that once I moved to a different town to start my education it would be pretty simple. I would still be a Christian and I would just hook up with some Methodist church I found from the Google search. Besides, going to church was just a side note in my spirituality. And somehow, in my naïve little head I still thought it would be simple and painless and easy. Easy like buying a new bra. Hey, that one looks nice and it looks fairly comfortable and I really like that color. Is that lace? I bet its supportive (feeling the straps), ah yes, it is. Is that too much padding? I don’t want to feel too attractive when my fifty year old professor calls on me tomorrow morning (ugh, awkward). I hope it’ll be durable enough to withstand the hell it will be subjected to in the dryer each week, but we’ll figure it out as we go along. Alright, it’s a winner. See? Simple and (almost) painless.
So I went to the first Methodist church I found on Google search. I dressed up, I dusted off my bible, hopped in the car and, thanks to the inaccuracy of my map quest directions, got there with seconds to spare. I sat down (alone, another feeling I had to come to terms with later in the quest) and the service started. Everything felt okay for the first few minutes. Then, while we were singing the first hymn, a very bizarre feeling started to come over me. It came out of nowhere, like when you realize in the middle of the night that you forgot to buy sour cream at the grocery store. I had definitely felt it before though I was unsure where and how and I knew it never had anything to do with religion before this exact moment. Then, I pegged it. I felt like I had been tricked. Dooped. Booby-trapped. This didn’t feel right! In fact, it wasn’t right at all! My bra was the wrong size! Somehow I had picked up the 34A on accident! What a nightmare! I didn’t like this church. I didn’t like it at all. I thought in my panic-stricken mind, it said Methodist on the front door, right? It felt like a Methodist church, but suddenly it wasn’t right anymore. It wasn’t what I wanted in a service anymore. It wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wasn’t sixteen, sitting happily in my adult Sunday School class discussing the contents of Revelation. I didn’t know what I even thought about religion. I sure as hell wasn’t Methodist anymore. What were they even preaching about? I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention because I was no longer interested. Where is this coming from, I thought? I knew I was still a Christian but I was not longer Methodist. I was liquid JELLO that was poured pre-maturely out of its Bundt-pan mold. And I wasn’t going back in.
And right then I knew it. This was going to be frustrating and tedious and exhausting. I had to start over. Figure out which JELLO mold I truly belonged in. I felt scared and the most uncertain I’ve ever felt about my faith. The status quo had changed.
And so the quest began.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Lucky number...eleven?
I've been to eleven churches since I began my "spiritual quest". I had to start writing them down when I got to number five. I would have hated to waste a perfectly good Sunday on a church I'd already been to. Besides, if I had accidentally gone to the same church twice the congregation members would have noticed my awkward presence AGAIN and would have asked me to fill out the visitor card that I would have so easily pushed aside on my first visit.
Number one rule of trying out new churches: never fill out the visitor card on the first visit, or at least wait until the service is over to make your decision. I've been burned by not following this rule several times. And trust me, it hurts.
Over a year into this strange journey, I feel like I've learned a thing or two about trying out new churches that are outside of my religious comfort zone. It takes a lot of patience and (strangely) a great deal of humor. I needed both as I braved sage-filled sanctuaries, overcame my own paranoia about sharing a communion cup, and endured the countless bizarre stares of senior citizens wondering what the hell I was doing sitting alone.
As I sit here and write this blog, I remember every specific church as if each one has played a specific role in the decision I'm about to make. Churches one through ten were unsuccessful. I had no idea that it would be lucky number eleven that would lead me to take one of the biggest plunges of my religious life.
Number one rule of trying out new churches: never fill out the visitor card on the first visit, or at least wait until the service is over to make your decision. I've been burned by not following this rule several times. And trust me, it hurts.
Over a year into this strange journey, I feel like I've learned a thing or two about trying out new churches that are outside of my religious comfort zone. It takes a lot of patience and (strangely) a great deal of humor. I needed both as I braved sage-filled sanctuaries, overcame my own paranoia about sharing a communion cup, and endured the countless bizarre stares of senior citizens wondering what the hell I was doing sitting alone.
As I sit here and write this blog, I remember every specific church as if each one has played a specific role in the decision I'm about to make. Churches one through ten were unsuccessful. I had no idea that it would be lucky number eleven that would lead me to take one of the biggest plunges of my religious life.
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