There
was a time when religion saturated my world. I was raised in a very rigid,
uncreative church that did not nurture my need to question, discover,
synthesize. It stifled. It pounded me into a box, taught me shame and guilt,
which are very hard to shed. On the other hand, it taught me compassion and
humility and a sense of responsibility for carrying my share of the burden that
comes with being a member of the human community. Inadvertently, it taught me
tolerance for the flaws of humans – except my own. It set impossible
standards: strive to be like Christ
although you can never be like him.
Such
cognitive dissonance did a number on my head and was the beginning of my doubt.
I struggled with my mother’s god through my late teens and mid-twenties. I
railed against him, turned my back on him, ignored him. Gradually, I discovered
a kind of faith that religion eschews. I found god at my center, pervasive in
my world. Not my mother’s god. Not the jealous, vengeful god of the Bible,
rather a force of life that exists in everything, that says life is good simply
because it does exist. No judgment. No guilt. No shame.
I
am no longer uncomfortable when people speak to me about their faith, assuming
that I am a “religious” person like they are. I don’t have to say to them that
I don’t follow an organized religion. I understand what faith is, and I feel
the impact of grace every day. I simply do not require a face to believe in
something greater than myself.
One
of my dearest friends is a very religious person. She has struggled with her
own version of a vengeful god and, as a result, has found a god full of
unconditional love and mercy. We both understand and accept the other’s
position on religion, and when she talks about God’s love, I understand what
she means, just as she understands when I speak about an abundant, life-loving
Universe.
