Religion

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.