You know, when I first realized that Christians lied, I was deeply upset. I had been fiercely fed the Catholic way of seeing and thinking from before I was born, by being born into the Legacy of Catholicism. As a teenager, I focused my opposition on one parent—she was the vigorous enforcer of “the faith” in our household.
Within this framework, the religious folks I knew extolled their version, delivered in their “house” of worship, and put on a friendly face while secretly believing that theirs was “the one true religion.” I remember a very influential person in my life being smug when she told me that the Baptist religion—and all Protestant religions, in fact—were derived from Roman Catholicism.
She had no clue that what she was talking about was the razor-sharp divide between her kind and the men and women who didn’t believe as she believed. Even if they had the same chapters in their book, more or less.
What I began to observe, in more subtle tones than the conflicts in Northern Ireland contrasted, was that it was us against them. I’d often hear: When you’re grounded in what you believe, other people’s preaching about their version of a Christian god won’t sway you.
This mindset allowed her to pretend to accept their version of god and to be friendly with other faiths, to the point of sometimes sitting in on a multi-denominational service meant to promote inclusivity of all Christian religions in our area. It was that version of superiority that got passed down to me. I guess we all must feel superior to someone, right?
That was the first lie.
To say it wasn’t her fault—that she was doing the best she knew how—didn’t change what could be reduced to fear-mongering… a lojacking of my spirit. She vigorously defended her faith and regularly made me the target of her righteousness. Step out of line, and you’ll be condemned, rejected, ridiculed, and sanctioned—steps the representative of her god regularly preached from the Catholic pulpit.
I got angry when I realized she, too, was just a pawn in an ancient religious battle. Even though it had the semblance of civility, the true wrath of her god was visited upon me. That was a battle she truly believed she had to win. A modern-day Joan of Arc, I would be her best work, her triumph over sin.
Much to her dismay, it didn’t work.
After a particularly tragic event that occurred in my life, an event that took her out of my life, some folks thought it prudent to invite me to go to their church. I understood that they thought it was an honor, but they didn’t know me. Not at all. One woman, when I said, “I do not belong to any organized faith,” muttered to herself but within earshot: “What happened to you that caused you to think like that?”
She assumed something must have turned me off of religion—a source of comfort for her, obviously. It was also obvious that she thought that the tragic event skewed my thinking. That the event made me angry at GOD, and that made me turn away from HIM.
Obviously, she didn’t have a clue who I was.
At that point, I was approximately ten years into my move away from any form of religiosity. I had rejected all versions that told me what to do, how to live, and how to think. Kierkegaard said, “When you label me, you negate me.” He gave too much credit to outside forces, to you, as I see it.
The best version of me revised his famous admonition to take back my power: “When I label me, I create me.”
It took me decades to declare, I’m not a Christian, and by that time, I was quite comfortable with stating my position on the sky-man-god. I tried to turn that woman’s offer down with class, but I don’t think she bought it.
There was a precursor, a setup for my anger: sadness. Disillusionment. Confusion. The discomfort of realizing I’d played right into their god’s hands in my desperate need for connection and Love. Granted, it happened before I had an inkling of what a god or a religion was—and that makes it even more insidious.
The worst part? It never worked. I was always rejected, mirroring the vision she reflected of her god. I’m sure that my resistance made her fear for her soul, too.
People who don’t stand for something will fall for anything. This is true, but not in the way that Christians believe. Consider that children are people too—people with highly neuroplastic brains, ripe for the picking. Children are forced to pick a side before they even know there’s a battle raging, because it rages out of their sight, and they don’t have the insight, the perspective, to realize it.
When we start considering catechism, Sunday School, homilies and sermons, and religious “universities” as training in spiritual warfare, we will begin to realize the true nature of corporate, organized, old-time religion.
I write this not because I’m attempting to force-feed you my perspective. To do that, my parent would win, and that’s not an option. My liberty has been too hard-won.
I write because writing is my form of protest. I see what’s happening in our world today, how old-time religion’s archaic values are the force behind the scenes for an authoritarian regime, and how confused the good citizens of that nation are when they try to tease out the knots of how it snuck up on them and usurped their version of reality.
It’s deeply disturbing to see sibling against sibling, partners turn on one another, and good women and men fight and kill for their right to worship a man they view as a demi-god.
In real life, it compels me to ask the same question that woman mulled over within earshot that day, “What happened to you that caused you to think like that?”
What caused you to allow your faith to be turned into a commodity?
What made you condone violence and suffering as long as it doesn’t come pounding on your door?
In the Nobel Peace prize-nominated tradition of Carl Rogers’ Unconditional Positive Regard, we must be willing to hear their answers.
Originally Published on https://akasha111blog.wordpress.com/
