Saying Goodbye

I don’t miss much about Christianity.

I don’t miss the hypocrisy, the encouragement to base your treatment of others on what you perceive the eternal impact of their current actions to be, the never-ending questions, the denial of basic human desires: sex, self esteem, adventure, abandon.

I don’t miss going to church, standing around afterwards and gossiping about your fellow saints in the name of “righteous concern.”

I can’t imagine fitting all that I am inside the box that religion forced me to survive in. I could barely breathe when I believed Christ was the only source of oxygen… now that I’m free to fill my lungs with the vastness of the World’s truths, how could I waste a moment longing to be constricted again?

I can’t.

I don’t.

I’ve put away my old beliefs. Behold, I am new.

I say these things. I believe these things.

I am content with the choices I’ve made and the people I’ve left who look for life in an empty tomb and wait for their Salvation and validation to descend from the clouds.

And then days like Wednesday happen ~

The building was brick, as many of god’s houses seem to be. The air conditioning and muted organ music hummed quietly in the background, a perfect harmony to the somber, “I’m sorry’s” and “the last time I saw him” ‘s.

My only thoughts were for my father, who to this point had seemed so strong in the face of losing his own. I didn’t know when or if he would finally break now that the last goodbyes were to be publically and officially pronounced, but I had a foreign sense of urgency to make sure he knew I was there.

Ignoring every impulse I’d fought so hard to hone – I entered the sanctuary and found him at the head of the aisles. My need was satisfied, he knew and appreciated I was there, and was still holding it together.  Only when this mission, the only I’d had on my mind, was completed did I stop and assess what was actually about to happen.

I was in a church. I was about to take part in a Lutheran memorial  service for my grandfather who died believing I was a lost soul. Surrounded by people who still hold the confines of a 1,520 page novel to be worth living and dying for, I grasped for my mother – my only known ally in sight.

Although marginally sad, I  brought no tissues believing I had no tears to shed. Five minutes into the service renegade tears were streaming down my face, uncontrollable, regardless of what safe mental topic I tried to fight them with.

I was mourning with the rest of the congregation – but not the loss of a grandfather, father, husband, friend. Mine was the grief of a child with no hope. The gaping chest wound that had been slowly healing from the moment  Truth  ripped Faith from my chest four years ago was being torn open fresh with each verse of  “comfort” scripture, and every note of the familiar hymns. When the pastor read the ancient passage, “And God shall wipe every tear from their eyes,” it took every ounce of self-control not to sob.

Living  a life free of Christ brings me a daily peace I never would have imagined possible while still locked in its grip four years ago…but peace at the end of a life?  Mine or anyone else’s?  Hope is nowhere to be found. A life free of Christ means goodbyes are final. Goodbyes are forever. There is no mystical realm in which we’ll meet again, the only tears tears of joy. There is no place where pain, fear, imperfections, sadness, and illness are absent.

I knew I should be paying closer attention to the service, but as the salty wetness seeped through the front of my dress, my mind raced with memories – painful memories – the easiest to recall, and the strongest defense against the onslaught of desire for my old beliefs.

” Remember how faith in this God dooms you and all the friends you know and love to eternal pain? Remember how every good thing you’ve ever done means nothing if you don’t give Him credit? Remember how loving this God, the one you’re missing right now, means abandoning Reason and chosing Myth? Remember Moscow? Remember the agony these people put you through in the name of their savior? Remember. Remember. Remember.”

And then we were standing. The Apostles’ Creed swam before my eyes. I opened my mouth to recite the phrases that will never quite fade from memory. I started –  then clamped my mouth shut.

These weren’t my words to recite any more.

Everyone around me, save my precious mother, recited: 

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
    Maker of heaven and earth,
    and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
    born of the virgin Mary,
    suffered under Pontius Pilate,
    was crucified, died, and buried;

He descended into hell.

The third day He arose again from the dead;

He ascended into heaven,
    and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
    from thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;
    the holy catholic church;
    the communion of saints;
    the forgiveness of sins;
    the resurrection of the body;
    and the life everlasting.

Amen.

And just like that, the pain began to fade to a dull ache. Hearing the souls around me recite those words reminded me quicker than anything what I was not missing out on. 

This was not a god to be missed. This was a crutch to discard for people weaker than myself. I’ve learned to walk and run through life free of limitations – and even if it’s painful at times…why would I wished to be crippled again? 

No comfort, no matter how beautiful, complete, or convenient was worth affirming those words. 

Every tear after the Creed I shed in pure, profound empathy for the pain of my suffering family facing the loss of its patriarch. After the service was over, I mingled with family, feigning disinterest in the dairy laden delicacies people kept pushing on me, and counting the minutes til I could exit the scene without reeking of disrespect or rudeness. I just wanted to escape to my car where I could be by myself and not have to worry about aunts, uncles, cousins misinterpreting my grief with a silent skeptical, “They weren’t even close.”

I drove down 5, struggling to get my emotions in check and turn on the auto-pilot smile which is my only saving grace at work. I was rattled and exhausted. Fighting the good fight of Sanity over the hypnotizing ease of Christian Insanity took its toll.

But like all things worth having, it’s worth battling for.

Goodbye Grandfather, you will be missed.

Goodbye Faith, one day you will not.  

 

2nd

Lines are being drawn.

Sides are being chosen.

Admissions, long overdue, are finally being made.

The gloves are off, if only in my head –  and fists fueled by anger and shock orbit my face protecting the ears and eyes and mouth… doors to senses that once were thrilled by her.

Accusations, founded on nothing, rage through my mind – and lashes, justice questionable, are prepared for the giving.

On This Day

I am thankful that this day holds no enchantment for me other than seeing my family and eating a large chocolate rabbit.

Today I am thankful that this is the fourth year of Easter Sundays I no longer answer, “He is risen indeed!”

Today I am thankful I am not part of the hypocritical masses that slink into some unholy building in order to murmur through hymns they don’t remember from last year,  and dig crumbled fives out of pockets for the collection, and feel awkward and somehow ashamed for how tenderly I hold the mythical blood of Christ in a plastic thimble.

I am thankful to be free of the devastating doctrine of original sin, its price, and its savior.

I am thankful for the strength it takes to forsake the belief of eternal security in favor of belief in myself.

Grateful or not, though, Easter is a hard day. It fills me with a bitterness and resentment towards the Christian world that I truly hope will fade in time. I hope one day I will not grudge them their lovely story and blind faith and they will not grudge me my lack of it.

Enough hoping for one day.

Here’s to a happy Easter.

 

Screw you, Disney Princesses.

So. This is it, huh?

I had a bad night’s sleep,  grouchy groggy morning followed by a shitty day of work,  and finished it off with one too many glasses of wine to dull the monotony of the customers and ease my irritation with my boyfriend.  We turned on a show that innocently touched on a topic which lead to an intense “discussion” of a matter we disagreed on.

Discussion. Words. Tears. Disbelief. Words. Devil’s Advocate. Shut downs. 

The absence of a resolution was so tangible I could name it – and then it was time for bed. My breathing slowed to the point of a continual sigh and we heaved ourselves from the couch and brushed our teeth.

Teeth brushed. Faces washed. I fell in bed beside my boyfriend, ten minutes previous enemy, and promptly fell apart.

Is. This. IT?

Is this what marriage/co-habitation/long term commitment is? The monotony of good/normal days only broken by nights like these…fights about important issues that are only significant enough to make you doubt your relationship – not leave it? Fights that end without a resolution followed by trudging to the bathroom to wash off the day then lay down besides each other, just to get up the next day to another 18 hours of the same thing? Another 18 hours to replay what SHOULD have been said, and flounder back and forth on whether maintaining the delicate balance of happiness and harmony is worth swallowing the bitter pill of knowing you’re right but keeping your mouth shut?

Of course, I know there are plenty of benefits to monogamy…Togetherness. Support in times of crisis and joy. “Unconditional” love. Someone to take care of you when you’re sick, and open your jars, and make Mom’s manicotti. The Good Days.

But, let’s face it. Commitment isn’t about the good days. It’s about the bad days. It’s about the bad days that you are laying next to each other – but you are both alone.

I’ve known commitment wasn’t easy for some time now. By why is it such a difficult concept for me to wrap my head around? Somewhere, deep-seated in me, I keep expecting things to be easier than this.  Who sold me the idea that somewhere out there, there is someone PERFECT who I will never disagree with?…and why for the love of god, do I keep thinking there is although I know, so entirely, that there isn’t?

For some, commitment with another person is something they enter into gladly. They find a beautiful completion of themselves with another person that could not be achieved if they were alone. These people, to me, are the inspiration for fairy tales, romantic comedies, and epic tragedies. Very rarely does this occur in a pure form in actual life.

For some, commitment is duty, a way of life, the way it is. A duty willingly undertaken because of the benefits and the misconception that their worth is dependent upon honoring their social/religious/familial obligation to marry, procreate, work, sleep, fight, make love, and die with one person.  

For me, commitment is a challenge. Monogamy, especially a lifetime of monogamy, seems an unrealistic thing to expect out of a person.  For as much as I detest change, the knowledge that I might one day be stuck in a lifestyle that can’t or won’t change is ultimately more terrifying. A husband, mortgage, dog, and beautiful yard peppered with children’s toys and gardening equipment holds as much enchantment for me as a straightjacket….the idea of wandering this amazing world alone though, is even worse.

I’m so lucky to have found and adore who I’m with now, that to turn down this challenge would be to  waste everything I endured to finally find someone worth the hard work. So, I’m taking everything a day at a time. Learning, slowly learning, what love really looks like – and hoping, cautiously hoping, that if this is it, then it  will be enough for both of us…good days and bad.