Baptized Among the Elements: A Release of Rage and Despair

I found an old church bulletin in a binder, filled with the names of people who had betrayed their own alleged values so egregiously that when I discovered their betrayal, my world spun out of control. Leaders who turned a hurting woman's testimony into a knife and held it against her throat, lest she dare speak again. The reprimands and lack of support leading to shallow reconciliation and diluted repentance, when the victims deserved much deeper restorative justice.

New Year's Eve was a rough day for me personally. My struggles with my health had steadily improved, and then I was suddenly hit with a fever and intense cough. But I felt empowered by watching Tarantino films all day, and resolved that in the New Year, I would let go.

So while the fireworks exploded around me, I stood in my yard with a lighter and tin bowl full of water. I watched as the names of particular leaders burned and I let out all of my rage, my heartache, my despair.

The ashes hissed as they fell into the water. I submerged the remainder of the paper into the bowl, and went into my yard. I knelt down and took soft, drenched earth into my hands and began to dig, and dig, and dig. I pulled the soggy remnants of the paper out of the bowl and threw them violently. I filled in the hole with the soil, and then poured the ash-laden water on top.

It was at this moment I lost my mind, but in the most beautiful way possible. I splashed around in the mud and puddles in my yard as it turned midnight. I covered myself in mud and water and danced. I prayed my favorite prayers, Christian and Pagan, and I stood up on the deck with the light behind me and watched as my frame cast a large, feminine shadow onto the yard. I thanked the Goddess.

Baptized by fire, by smoke, by earth, by water.

And I let it go. It wasn't forgiveness. As I've said before, fungelical brainwashing has so entirely destroyed that concept by harming my young psyche that I don't know if I can ever reclaim it. But I let go of expectation that others would care, or would have their hearts broken by the same injustice, or would try to change it, or would ever change within themselves.

I stopped caring if they thought I was a heretic, or a sinner, or a flake for being ill, or "too" sensitive, "too" deep, as if depth and empathy were character flaws.

As Elsa sings in Frozen, distance makes thing seem small, and the fears that once controlled me can't get to me at all. It was a symbolic fuck you to those who proclaimed love/grace/justice, but only on their own terms, and I drenched it in the sacrament of nature. 


Craig saw me and was horrified and laughed at me as I came in the house. The logician philosopher shook his head at his mystical poet.

I took a warm shower and scrubbed and cleansed and put on essential oils.

I scrubbed my feet with an exfoliating lavender and honey scrub, because in the New Year, I am standing in new places.

And then I put on my black clothes and placed a rose quartz stone around my neck. 

Standing in new places. 

I finally had a baptism I can be proud of. 1/1/2016.

Midnight.

Reborn among the elements.

A Dream of My Grandmother

Source

You are alive again, and my sister and I are under your tyranny. In the dream I try and I try and I cannot live up to it, so I finally give up. I have had enough. I leave.

The dream changes. We are riding in an old truck. You are holding me in you arms and crying, and I am crying. We acknowledge the pain and the hurt and it's power, it's hold over us, dissipates.

I can't tell you that I forgive you. I've honestly never known what that means.

They tell me it means to stop feeling anything negative about you. But every time I think I'm over it, the pain comes back to me, bubbling and caustic. They use the word forgive as if it happens at once and the resentment is over. They use the word as if it's something I can simply fake until it is true.

But I've never been able to do that. Pain comes in waves. I remember, then I work through it, then I remember something else again, and I have to work through that. I peel away layer after layer of the pain until I can get at what used to be my own open, childlike heart.

I cannot forgive. Instead, I release. Because I still feel the pangs of you in my soul. I probably always will. And as long as I do, I will keep releasing these emotions into the world and releasing myself from the grip you've had on my throat.

My Little Life

The headlines are splattered in blood, and I am in my home.

I awake, drowsy. I light a candle, I sprinkle the room with blessed water, I say prayers as I run my fingers over smooth holy stones.

I take pills out of bottles swallow them out of hope.

The dog bowls get filled and hungry once homeless mouths feed happily. The cats weave in and out of my legs, down the hall, out the door, and bathe in the sun.

I follow them out and sit. I read a book that feeds my spirit. I shield my eyes and soak in the rays, trying to give myself nourishment from the sun my body desperately lacks. I worship under blue sky and sunlit leaves. My vision blurs.

I run my hands over thick, soft, red chow fur. I make a cup of tea. I load the dishwasher and feel drained, so I lay down again under soft blankets at the cats and dogs arrange themselves about me. I talk with friends on my phone, I make plans for later in the week, knowing that I need community desperately. Then I pull the blanket over my shoulders and nestle my face in the fur of my boy kitty and sleep.

The headlines are splattered in blood, and I am sleeping.

I dream of floating down a purple stream in the night sky, surrounded by stars. I dream about being pregnant. I dream about a million abstract ideas that are fun while I sleep but make little sense when I rise.

The headlines are splattered in blood, and I am dreaming.

I check my phone. Natural disaster, animals in need of rescue, lead ripping apart flesh and bone, interspersed with news of babies and family get togethers and jokes and news of upcoming films.

A world filled with such stark juxtaposition, in digital form, in my hands.

The headlines are splattered in blood, and I am web surfing.

Is this my life now, I wonder. a long tread toward death riddled with survivor's guilt? For not being able to do more?

The blind dog needs her eye medication. The dementia dog needs a massage. The friend needs a shoulder to lean on. The cabbage plant needs water.

"My work is loving the world," said Mary Oliver.

I resolve to love the small sphere I have been given, knowing that caring for myself is just as important, even though in this world of racing, I only stroll.

The headlines are splattered in blood, and my blood flows through me.

So I do the work I can do.

Shipwreck: Part 1

The figurehead of four crosses on the prow of the ship
Has smashed to pieces against the rock
And washed ashore.

Somehow, despite my best intentions,
I have survived.

My hands splintered
my lungs filled
but my eyes wide open.

I crawl onto the shore
gasp and cough
and claw the sand
to get back home.

Deficient Religion

The man who has no use for the Prophets or the Poets
will see no reason to protect the child who leads the lion and the lamb.

Ignited

You don't know it
but you set off the spark
that ignited the wick in my heart
And now you're trapped and have no way
to put out all the refining flames.

Στεφανος, a dream I had

He will come through you
pale and thin
and holding a single red rose
he'll let the world know
that
there is so much we can't know or understand or fathom
there is so much pain
but he will always be certain
his mother loves him.

This will be the undoing of the legacy your ancestors handed you

As Far As I Could Get

I went to the woods to run back home.

I went to the stones to so I could lay a weight on my heart that held it in place with comfort rather than crushing it with rules.

I went to the trees to tell me the old, ancient questions
No more easy answers, no more easy answers, my soul pleads.

I went to the moss to feels it's velvet comfort my mother's heart.

I went to the streaming waters to remember the oldest songs, to have them get stuck in my head again
to drown out the modern hymns.

I went to the sunlight so I could see myself as I truly am.

I went to the animals, so that I could have friends who expected me to be kind, compassionate, and loving, but not correct.

When I lost you I went back to the last version of me I could remember
the one who pressed her face deeply into the open bodies of the fragrant flowers
feeling their plush petals against her flesh
and inhaled.
Daring to hope
but not to know.

Black Sheep

The wounded black sheep look into the stain glassed windows, and say,
"Christians are..."
and then tell the testimony of their painful experiences.
It is heart-rending,
and speaks of hate and closed-mindedness,
bullying and abuse,
anti-intellectualism and brainwashing
their tender souls have endured.

The defensive white sheep come out baying,
"Not me, not my church!
You're prejudiced!
You want a license to sin!
You won't listen to the truth!
See, this world just wants to believe what isn't true!
They're beholden to evil!"

Scared, defensive, white sheep,
that's not the way of your Shepherd.

He goes out into the night to save the one, leaving behind the many.
He welcomes the runaway with a feast.
He lets the little ones come to Him freely,
He lets their grubby fingers caress His garment.
He does not blow out smoldering wicks or break bruised reeds.
He dies and rises being misunderstood and unbelieved.

It's up to Him to find black sheep in the wilderness.
Trust that He will.
When He hears their stories of pain,
His Tender Heart breaks open for them
and the blood flows out towards them,
pouring over the roots of the trees
pooling around the meadow flowers
and baptizing their small, dark hooves.

Tidy white sheep, as much as your heart can be like His,
do not fear to take to heart the words of those
with whom you disagree.

Losing Faith When Others Hurt You

Sophia's Back by the nakedpastor

There seems to be a trend of devaluing doubt that arises from the psychological and emotional aspects of faith, in particular hurts one experiences as part of a religious community. But if faith involves the whole person, then doubts can and do arise from more than the mere intellect. But we tend to interpret those types of doubts as less worthy reasons to leave one's faith. When someone is hurt by the actions of others there are quips of "That wasn't real Christianity," or, "This just proves that we all fall short and need Jesus." (Interestingly, when people from another religion behave poorly Christians often use that as "proof" that that religion is invalid, but when it happens within their own ranks it just reinforces beliefs about human depravity).

I guess what I'm trying to get at is, if I say part of why I lost my faith is because of the actions of others that hurt/angered/saddened/betrayed me, that's seen as an invalid reason, since it doesn't deal with the truth claims of the religion. But it doesn't feel invalid, it feels very natural and necessary. The painful or abusive actions of others wound and cause people not to want to be part of a group, and while that doesn't disprove the claims of the religion itself, it does cast a dark light on it. If the actions of others didn't influence our ability to find or lose faith, then there'd be no point in our faith communities. Religion is not an entirely intellectual exercise, thank God, but it seems that the only legitimate reasons to lose religion are intellectual only. I can convert because I felt a warm stirring in my soul, but if my soul feels arid and parched and wounded, that's not a reason to leave.

That's not to say people won't give you grief for your intellectual doubts; they most certainly will, particularly anti-intellectuals who say you think too much and should just pray. I've met my share of those. But it seems like as an ex-Christian, ex-evangelical, ex-fundie, whatever part of the spectrum you're on, in order to be taken seriously you have to be coolheaded and unaffected, otherwise some Christians just say you're hurt and have a chip on your shoulder. It's like a bait and switch. You can come to the Christian faith because of the emotions it produced in you (a sense of peace, belonging, rest, hope, acceptance) but you can't leave it because your emotions are not trustworthy (your heart is deceitful above all things, after all). It's also assumed that your woundedness makes you unfit to critique a religious movement or doctrine. In reality, it gives people insight: insight religious leaders are usually uncomfortable with because it upends the status quo.

It's like the religion-it's traditions, doctrines, holy books, leaders-has a knife in your back. And with each word or action they twist it more and more. The reality of the knife doesn't prove or disprove the claims of the religion, but damn it's extremely difficult to keep holding your back against the blade. The pain causes you to doubt why you're part of this group in the first place. I think Christians need to own the fact that their own behavior can be the gust of wind that blows out smoldering wicks and finally snaps the bruised reed in half. People can't be expected to stay in the midst of that.

We like to talk about faith as something that should exist in a vacuum and shouldn't be impacted by the behavior of others, but we also say our faith communities are important in the development of someone's spiritual journey. We can't have it both ways. We can't put the hurting and wounded through the bait and switch of,"You need us to have faith, but we aren't to blame when we hurt you so much that you want walk away from it." 

Part of what got me thinking about all of this was that in the past I've heard friends say they aren't angry ex-Christians, or ex-fundamentalists, or ex-evangelicals. That's a valid place to be and I'm a little jealous, honestly. But I can't help but be angry. I have intellectual doubts, but I'm also furious at the pain and damage I've experienced. And  the pain inflicted on dear friends. Emotion plays a valid role in the development of someone's spiritual journey. We can't expect people to endure abuse and trauma and then demand they not blame their abusers and traumatizers.