This I know.
I don't even ask for forgiveness anymore. When I pray, often, the buzzing in my head drowns out, well, the other buzzings in my head.
Tonight, I was reading blogs again, stewing at all the quiet, persistent sexism (and, not so quiet. it's estimated 1 in 4 women will be raped/sexually assaulted worldwide), the kill-the-gays bill in Uganda, the fact that so many times, the church has perpetuated oppression instead of working to relieve it, my own depression...
To be honest, readers, though, I am not as tolerant as this "bleeding-hearted-liberal-guilt"y language might suggest.
Usually, I can't even tolerate hearing about any of this bullshit.
Christians talk about knowing that something is amiss in the world, as if we all have an ancient memory of something we can't forget, no matter how hard we try. There is definitely some overdeveloped sense of justice in me that cries foul repeatedly, hell, a million times, each day...
At the end of this rabbit trail, invariably, I am left alone with hatred, my thoughts a hive of royally pissed bees.
Invariably, I also forget that God is still lurking around the cosmos. And then, something as cheesy as the lyrics of an old pop song crop up on a web page and, suddenly, S/He has shown up again, and all is well...
Ironically, God tends to speak to me through music from the seventies. Knew S/He was a hippie!
I'll be back to my political commentary next post, perhaps, having risen up from this momentary bout with fatalism. Or, having been pulled back onto my cripplefeet by Hir strong and tender hands, as it were..(actually, next post will touch on theology. get ready for your eyes to glaze over! Holy Pelagius!)
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Talk To Me
This post will most likely branch into a several part series since my thoughts are, likewise, dividing in several different ways. No one wants to read endless paragraphs of script.
My parents, uncle and I stayed, the last three nights, in Missouri with my octogenarian grandfather. On the fifteenth, he lost his wife, my (step) grandmother, to whom he'd been married since 1964.
I wasn't expecting this visit to raise so many questions for me, so much ambivalence. Perhaps much of it has to do with the part of the south in which we stayed. The folks in the somewhat depressed town of Ellington are kind; several times this week neighbors trooped over with covered dishes (chicken and dumplings, hamhock, chilli, etc...) to lay at the feet of the widower. The town itself is littered with dirt road and surprising snatches of running water. Most of the buildings haven't been renovated since the seventies, giving even the church with it's paneled walls a dated, if not warm, feel.
Ellington is quintessential "God's country."
And, I admit, Ellington is where the light of my faith went on eight years ago, in my grandparent's church with the red carpet and the back lit mural of mountains at the altar. It was as if I entered alone that night, and left knowing I would never be alone again. I admit the Jesus of my tradition has always played a large role in my life. I also admit that all week, it's seemed as if God were as close as my elbow, that even the mention of Hir name elicited joy.
This being said, I'm not longer sure I'm completely comfortable with the concept of "God's Country." Ani Difranco puts it well: "This may be God's country/but it's our country too/so move over mr. holiness/let the little people through."
A few nights ago one of grandpa's friends stopped by to share some "country rap" poetry, most of it dealing with God. Soon, the group of us were engaged in a lively discussion. My uncle, an agnostic, confessed his belief that there were so many different interpretations of scripture that it was difficult to cobble together a coherent theology. I agreed, and suggested that perhaps we Christians tend to focus on the words of the Bible to the exclusion of the intent of it's Author (assuming the author is the Author. That, of course, is a matter of some debate). At this comment, I saw the light in my grandfather's eyes turn from HappyGlow to SendUpAFlare!
I guess this cow wasn't honoring the electric fence, there, I suspect. If I hadn't dropped the conversation, I'm sure yet another fight about religion would have ensued and, well, it's been a little touch-and-go after 9-11, the "God Hates Fags" picketing of funerals, and that whole crusades incident...
I hate the fact that because of religion, because of the tradition which has sustained me, there may be some things one cannot discuss. Usually, the things which need to be discussed (the meaning of the Bible, the exact nature of God, gay rights, gender roles, a woman's right to choose. Hell, sex?) become taboo and off-limits. Silly things become inviolate and written in stone as the ten commandments, and we write off people we love.
If you disagrees with me, please, don't build a fortress around "God's Country."
Just talk to me.
My parents, uncle and I stayed, the last three nights, in Missouri with my octogenarian grandfather. On the fifteenth, he lost his wife, my (step) grandmother, to whom he'd been married since 1964.
I wasn't expecting this visit to raise so many questions for me, so much ambivalence. Perhaps much of it has to do with the part of the south in which we stayed. The folks in the somewhat depressed town of Ellington are kind; several times this week neighbors trooped over with covered dishes (chicken and dumplings, hamhock, chilli, etc...) to lay at the feet of the widower. The town itself is littered with dirt road and surprising snatches of running water. Most of the buildings haven't been renovated since the seventies, giving even the church with it's paneled walls a dated, if not warm, feel.
Ellington is quintessential "God's country."
And, I admit, Ellington is where the light of my faith went on eight years ago, in my grandparent's church with the red carpet and the back lit mural of mountains at the altar. It was as if I entered alone that night, and left knowing I would never be alone again. I admit the Jesus of my tradition has always played a large role in my life. I also admit that all week, it's seemed as if God were as close as my elbow, that even the mention of Hir name elicited joy.
This being said, I'm not longer sure I'm completely comfortable with the concept of "God's Country." Ani Difranco puts it well: "This may be God's country/but it's our country too/so move over mr. holiness/let the little people through."
A few nights ago one of grandpa's friends stopped by to share some "country rap" poetry, most of it dealing with God. Soon, the group of us were engaged in a lively discussion. My uncle, an agnostic, confessed his belief that there were so many different interpretations of scripture that it was difficult to cobble together a coherent theology. I agreed, and suggested that perhaps we Christians tend to focus on the words of the Bible to the exclusion of the intent of it's Author (assuming the author is the Author. That, of course, is a matter of some debate). At this comment, I saw the light in my grandfather's eyes turn from HappyGlow to SendUpAFlare!
I guess this cow wasn't honoring the electric fence, there, I suspect. If I hadn't dropped the conversation, I'm sure yet another fight about religion would have ensued and, well, it's been a little touch-and-go after 9-11, the "God Hates Fags" picketing of funerals, and that whole crusades incident...
I hate the fact that because of religion, because of the tradition which has sustained me, there may be some things one cannot discuss. Usually, the things which need to be discussed (the meaning of the Bible, the exact nature of God, gay rights, gender roles, a woman's right to choose. Hell, sex?) become taboo and off-limits. Silly things become inviolate and written in stone as the ten commandments, and we write off people we love.
If you disagrees with me, please, don't build a fortress around "God's Country."
Just talk to me.
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