Advent for those deconstructing their faith - Day 8

God, now that my eyes have been opened, I finally understand what so many others have been saying all these years – about the hypocrisy and the fear-mongering and the judgment and the misogyny among Christians. It feels as though I am now able to look from the outside in and also know how it is to be on the outside. The criticism and judgment is turned on me, now. These people who were my friends and family treat me like we used to treat others… gossiping about how I have fallen away and whispering that maybe my faith wasn’t that strong in the first place. They question my devotion and remind me of all the Bible verses we studied together, as if I hadn’t been listening or studying back then. They make it sound as though this radical shift in my faith can be remedied by a prayer or quoting a passage or sitting in a church service…

Do they think I haven’t tried that?

Do they think that I just woke up one day and said, wow, let me go wreak havoc on my life and up-end the world as I know it! That sounds like a good idea! Do they think that I haven’t fought for years to slay these doubts and put all my questions to rest? Do they think that I haven’t cried out in anguish and fear and guilt, longing to be one of those for whom faith is simple is straightforward?

Don’t they know that this feels like death?

That this is death?

My God, you are dead to me.

The You that I have loved and known for years, Who I read about and prayed to and sang of and worshipped with my life… You are dead.

And the me who studied Your word, and prayed with earnest and sang with purity of heart and worshipped with my life… that me is dead.

I don’t know how to do this life without You, but I cannot do it with You anymore.

We have died to each other.

How can they look at me with disdain and sadness and confusion when it is I who have suffered the worst loss? How can they question my faith and my devotion when I adjusted my entire life in order to please You?

I loved You!

And now, You are gone, and I am gone, and this amazing, beautiful, loving relationship that sustained me since I was a child has ended in an unceremonious divorce and it is all over.

And they don’t see my grief because they think I chose this. They think that I willingly walked away and murdered You and left our relationship in shambles. They don’t see that I was pushed into this, wrestled into this, tried my very hardest to find another way to make this relationship work.

Well, they can think I’m backslidden. They can gossip and text me passive-aggressive messages and invite me back to church and remind me of verses and psalms, and treat me like I was never one of them, like I don’t know the script. Because I can see it for what their act for what it is – if something like this has happened to me, then something like this could happen to them, and they can’t bear the upheaval to their own life, just like I didn’t think I could bear it. They don’t want to think that their entire life could ultimately come down to decades spent living a lie and catering to some angry jealous God who they sought to placate with sincere, loving, misplaced devotion. They don’t want to admit that perhaps they gave up their agency and power for the simple, basic experience of belonging to people who claim to love them, but would likely reject them in a heartbeat, just as they have me.

Me, them, us, we, them, me. We were one and the same, against them. Now, I am them and no longer part of us. I am belonging to both sides and, yet, belonging to neither. I thought we were united, until I split away, but by splitting away, I didn’t actually leave and join anyone else, but instead I find myself bridging the gap between them and the world, uniting us all.

It is so painful and tragic and lonely and scary and I don’t really want to be here, holding this space between faith in a God who seems so distant and inflexible and legalistic, and faith in a world where there is no hope and peace comes at such a great cost and I can’t make any sense of it.

I don’t want to be here in the middle, stretched between the two, trying to still love the me and them I left behind and reaching for the life and them that are before me.

I don’t want to be here, in this strange, dark, empty wilderness, hanging in the tension that looks an awful lot like a cross.

Words to contemplate:

If
If I could love as God loves
I would not fear the judgment of others
or the loss of my very self and would
know that God is the one who knows
and loves and desires himself
and all things
and loves me most
when I finally let go
of trying
and simply let myself
live love.
Meister Eckhart, “Book of the Heart: Meditations for the Restless Soul” (as collected and translated by Jon M. Sweeney & Mark S. Burrows)