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Amazing Grace and PTL Patty
I spent my formative years in a church that considered hymnals a slippery slope towards Catholicism and saint-worship. Thus, through a tiny lyric misunderstanding, I believed myself to be a wrench until Mrs. Arnolds– known around our Christian school as “PTL Patty” (due to her affection for the phrase, “Praise the Lord!”)– kindly took it upon herself to teach all the third-graders timeless hymns. During recess.
I realized my mistake in Praise-the-Lord Patty’s classroom while reading the lyrics of Amazing Grace from a musty hymnal. According to the song I was a wretch—not a wrench. Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I gazed out the window, jealous of the second and fourth-graders on the playground, and decided I would much prefer to be a wrench on the swings than a wretch singing hymns. I’d never really understood the whole wrench metaphor anyway, but when you live in a world where angels and demons are warring over your soul, you have bigger things to worry about.
I spent my twenties actively disliking Amazing Grace. (Actually, the hymn got off easy because I was too busy hating all other Christian music, most especially religious-coma inducing praise songs.) “How can you dislike a hymn?” a puzzled reader might reasonably question, if said reader had not spent years contemplating the theology behind the song, which goes something like this: I am a worm that deserves to be smeared on the bottom of God’s sneakers, but He chose not to step on me, Praise the Lord! (Ick.) I had a major problem with a God who created worms then left them wriggling on the sidewalk with the expectation that said worms would then write and sing hymns about the unending love that made him sidestep us. I was not on friendly terms with Amazing Grace.
How interesting it is, then, to reflect on the fact that when I stood in church yesterday morning singing that timeless hymn, I felt tears gather in my eyes. Happy ones. Tears of thanks. Because Grace truly is Amazing. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see. If there any better phrase to describe my winding spiritual path, I would be hard-pressed to find it. In the space between my recognition of worm theology and yesterday, my experience of Grace has changed. The same 360-degree view of God that healed me from Post-traumatic Church Syndrome now informs my understanding of the hymn.
My Faith is no longer linear, an if-then scenario where, if they pray the right prayer, God gives Grace to worms by not stepping on them. My faith is now circular, unending, and Grace is given in a continuous revelation of freedom. ‘Twas Grace that brought me safe thus far and Grace will lead me home.
When we finished singing, I was back in Mrs. Arnold’s classroom for a moment– the journey all still ahead—winking at my younger self, “You’re right about the wrench thing. Faith requires assembly, and no one can do it for you.” I wouldn’t have understood that then, but I certainly do now. Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wrench like me.
PS: PTL Patty also encouraged us to treat our Bibles like American flags. “Never let those Bibles touch the floor! It is the Word of God, Praise the Lord!” She never did comment on what should happen if our Bibles did touch the floor. I assume she would not have wanted us to burn them, but one never knows…
Saturn Returns
After my CNN article was published, I received an inquiry from a reader, Leisa, who practices Astrology. As I have no experience with Astrology, I was naturally curious about her conclusions. She identified my story as a perfect example of a “Saturn Return”, which according to this article by Maritha Pottenger means: “Certain astrological patterns occur universally — that is, everyone gets them at approximately the same age. One of those astrological patterns is the “Saturn Return” which occurs when transiting Saturn (where it is in the sky now) returns to the same position in the zodiac which Saturn occupied when you were born. Everyone experiences a first Saturn Return around age 28-30.”
Click HERE to go to Leisa’s site to see her interpretation of my Saturn Return story in her post, “Finding Faith by Age 30.”
This is the super-cool birth chart she made for me:
You can find Leisa’s article and more Saturn return stories here. Thanks Leisa!
Gangster Modesty
In my year+ of spiritual seeking, I’ve found one inalienable Rebecca-Truth. If I have a severe reaction to something, it’s either A) Spiritual shrapnel that needs to be removed or B) Progress yet to be made. Either way, it needs digging out.
And, in the case of this blog article on Christian modesty “I Was Confronted For Being Immodest” ? It’s shrapnel.
When said post recently went viral, I allowed myself to be sucked into its downward spiral.
(Progression: Read Post. Read comment thread. Get ANGRY. Slam doors. Slam more doors. Read more. Get angrier. Say aloud: My whole damn project wasn’t worth anything! Why? Because I have trouble just saying Live and let live—when a nice young mother–with an innocent heart– if an ill-fitting wardrobe– is being bullied in the name of the Lord for her church-dress choice. And submitting to said bullying without a fight!)
Upon expressing my frustration with the article and with myself, I had this conversation with a friend. Me: Is it judgmental if this post makes me go Uggggggghhhh! ? Friend: Why can’t you just say that’s one way to do it and move on? Me: That’s totally easy if it isn’t personal. Friend: You’re making it personal. Me:UGGGGHHHHH!
I considered his point—albeit huffing and puffing with disdain. I recognized that this post had nothing to do with me. I do not know this woman, nor am I involved in a religious environment that would pass this type of judgment. ( And I highly doubt the all-loving Divine wastes time being incensed over an allegedly improper skirt choice. Isn’t He kinda busy, like, running the Universe-at-large?)
So why did reading this feel like an MRI machine, pulling up bullet fragments from long-forgotten wounds? Why did it feel so personal?Because this post magnetized my every memory of being shamed in the name of God, every time I was bullied for the Cause of Christ. Every time I had submitted to spiritual abuse because I needed to have a teachable heart, and God clearly wasn’t happy with my learnin’.
This article called up a militia of bad memories, ready for action and lined in a neat row stretching back as far as kindergarten. It made my heart do an involuntary quick-draw, pointing my weapon at a viewpoint that had decimated my faith. It inspired me to raise my gun of rationale, wave it in the face of all that hurt, and demand it step aside because You are SO not allowed in my space anymore.
It also caused my newfound faith to briefly falter because due to my past pains, I briefly forgot my belief that there is Truth in all genuine viewpoints. And instead of gently untangling my feelings and simply moving on,—Live and let live–I got stuck in a mental battle, the kind that never has a winner.
This is how it is between me and this viral blog post on modesty. I would much rather have a pentagram drawn on my forehead than have a deacon’s wife bully me about the choiceness of my dress… or let anyone else be thusly shamed. (Hell, I’d rather eat rat meat sacrificed to an idol!) This post and its comment thread? It’s my ex-est of ex-boyfriends, armed with a firearm that’s pointed straight at my temple.
After a few days of mulling over my reaction though, I realized ANY judgmental beliefs, even (and especially!) mine, are like raising a gun to the head of someone else’s worldview. Just take one menacing step towards me, and I blow your brains out, sir.
But for every gun you have pointed at someone else, there’s an infinite number pointed at you. It’s like a gangster movie stand-off, if said gangsters were clad in self-righteousness instead of leather jackets.
For example, if you say a skirt touching the knee is godly, there are a hundred ladies who would declare you immodest. For those who think mid-calf length is appropriate, plenty of sects would tell you that God only approves of ankle-length skirts. And don’t forget the Amish, who believe a woman may only worship in a head covering. There are even religious guns pointed at their bonnets because many think them too religious (bound up by codes that presumably jumped off the deep end when they declared electricity to be evil). This struggle is not unique to Christianity–no– it is pervasive in most faiths, the veritable What Not to Wear of religion.
Today, I’ve decided that if crying about your clothing choices and tossing an offending dress in the garbage makes you feel like a better person and makes you feel closer to honoring your God in spirit and in truth, who am I to say it doesn’t?
So I’m laying down my weapon, kicking it aside, and waving my (possibly immodest!) clothing –depending on who’s judging my sweatpants & t-shirt— in a gesture of surrender. Granted, I’ll still be at the mercy of everyone else.
But at least I won’t be the one with the gun.
Eclectic Beltane: The Maypole
Continued from Pagans, Wiccans and Druids
One item of clothing I never considered church-appropriate?A poncho. But that was before I considered Nature as a Place of Worship—which it is for Pagans of all varieties (and for me, last Saturday).
O, poncho, why must you forsake me in my time of need?
Due to forecasted downpours and Wiccan weather protocol: “It might rain, and we don’t care!”, I found myself scouring closets for storm gear last Saturday before leaving for the Beltane camping celebration, held at a local state park. Whilst searching, I wondered how many religious folks would attend church if it lasted 24 hours and required rain boots? Alas, as neither poncho nor rain gear were found, I settled on heavy layers, a water-resistant jacket and old tennis shoes.
{Sidenote: My outfit was an excellent fashion choice on multiple levels! As a Champion Procrastinator of All Things Clothing, I left the task of finding a church outfit until Saturday night, 5pm, a mere 13 hours before I was to speak at King Ave. Methodist. Thus, I had to bear The Shame of mall shopping in my nature-friendly rain attire. And hell hath no fury like a women on a fashion mission, late for a Pagan party, slowed down by gaggles of teen mall-rats (where are their parents?! And why do they have to walk more slowly than an elderly man with a walker?!), then asked by a pristine saleswomen, “May I help you?” (Translation: You look like a bag lady and clearly can’t afford our clothing, but the terms of my employment dictate that I must ask if I can help you, and I don’t want to lose my job because I am still paying off my Botox!) Hmmph. “No, thank you.” Translation: I’d rather wander around aimlessly than watch you judge me! I lost some self-respect, but I found appropriate pants.}
May Crown (Better than mine, but not by much!)
Though not mall-friendly, my outfit perfectly matched the natural setting of the celebration. After being warmly welcomed campfire by the High Priest and Priestess, I found myself near the campfire, weaving Mayday crowns with a lovely Persian woman. We picked flowers to beautify the crowns, which would be placed on the heads of the May King and Queen (representing the God and Goddess) in the upcoming ritual.
When the Beltane ritual began, the group (about 15 people) formed a circle by holding hands. The Priest invited Father Sky and Mother Earth to join and bless our celebration of spring. Then the guys and gals separated to bless and crown the May King and Queen .We encircled the Queen and sent her positive energy by extending our hands to her (like a Pentecostal prayer service!). We invited the Goddess to descend upon the May Queen, and formally named her the representative of the Divine Feminine. Then we led the May Queen back to the clearing, walking two-by-two in front of her so the May King/Embodiment of the Divine Masculine couldn’t see her. It was very much like badly-dressed (but not for the weather!) bridal procession. We parted, allowing the men and the May King to see her. Collectively we walked between the fires and formed another circle around the King and Queen. They danced to the beat of a drum while the rest of us cheered/chanted along. (I was told this represented the meeting of the Divine which created the earth.)
How to thread a Maypole
Maypole
Then came the threading of the Maypole, which was super fun: I highly recommended it for anyone willing to dance about in the woods, but not recommended for anyone impaired because it does take a fair amount of concentration! Half of people (ideally all men) walk one way and the other half (ideally all women) walk the other, requiring one to dip under a ribbon every other step (which, like the limbo, gets progressively harder as the ribbons get shorter!). It’s all very symbolic of the joining of the Divine to create, and you end up with a great-looking stick!
To be continued...
I absolutely loved the Beltane celebration of Spring. This should not be a surprise: I’ve found this year that the more I fear something, the more I end up getting out of it. (Reference Hindu Diwali and Native American Sweatlodge experiences).Everyone was so nice and very welcoming, and everything we did was very natural and enjoyable… so I felt extra bad about being afraid of witches (last post)… until about five minutes post-Maypole, when I collided headfirst with a Pentagram.
Itsipi (Sweat Lodge) Ceremony
In the course of Thirty by Thirty, I’ve jumped headfirst into many an uncomfortable situation. But never have I been ACTUALLY afraid, nor reduced to shaking, anxious tears in my car until yesterday, directly before the Nemenhah Itsipi Sweat Lodge Ceremony. In entering the lodge, I would be piling into a tiny space with twenty strangers, plunging into darkness and nearly unbearable heat, and thereby be facing several major fears: claustrophobia, severe heat/bodily pain, darkness AND the unknown. (Points of reference: I once had a panic attack in a small, crowded airplane, and I’ve nearly passed out in hot yoga class.)
Now. With 33 experiences and a thirty-day fast behind me, you’d think I’d be ready. Courageous. Able to face any challenge! And you? Would be wrong. Because I was a sniveling mess: cry-dialing my husband, my mother and my best friend for a pep talk (none of whom answered). So, it was between me and God in the car: with the choice to peal outta there, tires squealing… or face my fears and see what the Great Spirit had to say in the Sweat.
So, I dried my eyes and listened. And I could almost hear the Divine sigh. After this entire year, do you not believe I can sustain you through a little heat? Ok, Ok, I get it. Come to the end of myself (again). Blah,blah,blah. See how You miraculously work. Blah, blah, blah. Ugh! For a person of faith, I certainly lack it and am often in need of a Major Spiritual Attitude Adjustment(MSAA).Which I received… approximately five minutes after slamming the car door and marching my scared self straight towards that lodge.
[To explain MSAA Part 1 , I need to back up and explain this: On Day 29 of my fast, I had a revelation of truth...as a disco ball. (I know, I know, a Divine Disco Ball is a total cliché of the type of vision incited by severe hunger.) In reality, the picture was more like a prism, so not quite so dance-club chic. But for ease of use, I've been explaining this to people as a Disco Ball because it's easier to understand. Here's the short version: God is bigger than any one of us can see, because we only view one facet of Spirit (represented by each little mirror), based on all kinds of factors: birth, family, history, experiences, etc. So what we see? It's all valid truth...for us. But it isn't the full picture.]
So. I round the corner, and what, pray tell, is sitting on the Chief’s blanket-altar? A little DISCO BALL. I could hear the Divine laughter. After this entire year, do you not believe I can sustain you through a little heat? So I laughed too, out loud, and all my fear fled. When I told the Chief my story, and he tossed me the Disco Ball. It’s yours.
Then…the Divine laughter got louder. Because another Chief/Shaman showed up, laid out his blanket altar right next to me, and my mouth dropped open.
[To explain MSAA Part 2, I need to back up and explain this: Last month, I was led through a Native American meditation to find my spirit guide. And in my mediation this guy with long, flowing, silver hair, nearly to his waist, standing in a field: I am here to teach you to heal.]
I’ve been confused, because I haven’t seen him again….until yesterday, in the field outside the Sweat Lodge. Because The Chief? He was totally guy with the hair–a dead ringer. Except, I observed to him after relating my meditation, his hair was a lot shorter now. And he laughed: I just cut my hair…it was to my waist.
Of all the foreign (to me) traditions I have experienced this year, I identify most with the Nemenhah. The sweat called to me; it pulled me; it changed me. So…I was supposed to be there yesterday; it was completely incredible. (All of the above was in the first half hour! I hadn’t even crawled into the Lodge yet!)
So the moral for me, which has been a continuing theme this year, is:
The more afraid you are to do something you are called to do, and the more you don’t want to do it—read those emotions as a flashing, neon sign from the Divine–You need this more than anything else. Do it.
(Note: There is absolutely NO reason to be afraid of a Sweat Lodge as long as it is conducted by experienced spiritual leaders who understand the primary importance of health: physical, mental, emotional and, of course, spiritual.)
–Reba
Taxi Theology
Friday night is date night, which usually means Trent and I can be found at Studio 35 (only the best historic, independent food-and alcohol-serving cinema!). After taking in a show and a few drinks, we call a taxi because A.) We are committed to obeying the law! Buzzed driving is Drunk Driving! (At least, according to the billboards). and B.) We prefer to avoid jail.
This means most Fridays around 11 pm, I can be found enjoying a fifteen-minute chat with a cab driver. I always make a point to nicely chat up cab drivers because A.) They have great stories hidden under those thick accents B.) I love great stories C.) They hold our lives in their driving little hands. (Ever wear a seat belt in a taxi? Didn’t think so. I, for one, prefer our lives to be held in happy hands!)
Being that I am, well, me, I can never resist inquiring about our driver’s religion after we’ve covered family and interesting stories. (I’m curious, OK? Especially after a few drinks. No buzzed driving remember?) Recently I’ve been fishing for the best Somalian mosque to attend, because Columbus has the second largest Somalian population in the US, and Islam is the religion of the vast majority.
So far, I’ve had one driver tell me, “You are going to hell…” because I’m not Muslim (In his defense, I did ask his opinion. And, he informed me nicely.) Another driver who had a Catholic mother and Muslim father said: “What I am you ask? Maybe…confused?”
Last Friday’s operator is my hands-down favorite though. Not only was he wearing a suit (I always wear suit for driving!), and supporting SEVEN children (Boys give me most trouble; girls, they easy!), but he was very forthcoming about his religious practices. This is the conversation, as close as I can recall.
So…if I may ask, are you Muslim? Yes. What is the best Somalian mosque to attend? It all same. Somali, Pakistani, any race… we not discriminate. Any mosque best place. I pray five times day. In Mosque if possible. What if you’re driving the cab when it’s time to pray? If I drive you to airport, I drop you off then go to close mosque to pray. What if you aren’t near a mosque? I pull over, pray in the cab. I can do this right here, in cab.See? What if you’re sleeping? I pray as soon I get up!
This is where it gets interesting.
The important thing not where pray, but pray in heart. That most important. Yes, I definitely agree with you. You pray, yes? You Christian? Yes.(I took the easy way out here and didn’t explain the whole Thirty by Thirty thing.) See you pray too, you pray in heart? Yes. It same. Very important to pray to God. I am Muslim which mean I honor all prophet and sacred book. Mohammad, Jesus, Qu’ran, Bible…I believe in all prophet and book. So you and me, we not so different. You pray, I pray. This all same. This important thing. So…you are Muslim, you pray to Allah, but it’s OK if I pray to Jesus? Yes, OK, all OK.
The gentleman is highly devout, very devoted to his faith. He prays five times a day! But yet…he holds his beliefs with his mind open to other faiths. I like him, I like him A LOT.
Post-payment and tip, we thanked him and I left the cab spiritually shell-shocked. Here I am: spending a year of my life in 30 thirty places of worship, looking for theology that fits…and I find it. On date night.IN A CAB.
Not from the pulpit: from the front seat. Not from a minister: from a foreign taxi driver. Not while sensitively journaling about my faith: while buzzed after a good film.
I doubt our driver will ever realize the impact he had on me in our short minutes together, but I’ll always remember he added a few sentences to my personal theology. And that was well-worth the cab fare.
30 by 30, 30 by 30 blog, 30by30, 30x30, blog faith, faith, Faith blog, faith blogs, faith in God, find faith, find your faith, God, interfaith, lose faith, losing faith in faith, losing my faith, muslim, recovering catholic, recovering christian, religions world, thirtyby30, washington post on faithUnitarian Universalists…Upset my Universe
During my pre-visit research on the Unitarian Universalists (UU), I was pleasantly surprised by how well their statement of belief aligned with my own. So I bounced into their service, happy about their seven tenants….
1. The inherent worth and dignity of every person 2. Justice, equity and compassion in human relations 3. Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations 4. A free and responsible search for truth and meaning 5. The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large 6. The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all 7. Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.
…What’s not to like?
Well, Nothing. And Everything. I discovered that, FOR ME (and me only), believing in Everything seems a lot like believing in Nothing. Not that I begrudge the UUs their Everything, but something about the Nothing left me feeling a little…frozen. And by Nothing I mean: no set of concrete beliefs about God. Because whatever you believe, man, it’s totally cool. He can exist, She can not exist. There can be an afterlife, and there can be none. You can be an Agnostic, Atheist, Buddhist, Pagan, Christian…Anything, or Everything, and be fully part of this place.
Given the intensity of my Openness to spiritual experience and the whole Interfaith thing, I should love this, right? Wrong. And I’m still not sure why. I walked in with the same tacit agreement with myself and the religious world-at-large: Whatever you believe, dude, I’m hangin’ with you. It’s cool. Yet, when actually face to face with the Everything-is-OK approach of a few hundred peace-be-with-you folks? I bailed. Not intentionally of course; it was a totally involuntary soul-jerk. Unexpected, unwelcome. Like when the doctor hits your knee a little too hard and you kick him in the shin. Oops.
The gender-neutral hymns featured politically correct lyrics saluting country and vague faith, but there was no mention of God. The special music jazzed and scatted with a rousing Spiritual, minus the Spirit. The Children’s talk, prior to dismissing them to [Sunday School? Themed Craft Time? Interpretive Movement?], given by the [Reverend? Lecturer?Director?] caused much laughter, but lacked any obvious moral. She wore a [Prayer shawl? Scarf? Drapery?] which I later discovered signified Nothing except its personal meaning to her. The building resembled a country club: wide windows letting in nature and streaming morning light, but lacked the look or feel of a Sacred space. 
The sermon and readings leaned to inspirational, but where was the transcendence? The familiar rhythm of liturgy? The tangible connection to centuries of history? I shivered spontaneously, but not because I was cold. I noticed the [Altar? Stage?] presented with multiple plants, a symbol of growth, of life. Yet I was shrinking, and feeling more lifeless by the moment.
Throughout the totally innocuous, completely uncontroversial, blandly unceremonious ceremony, my soul kept kicking me in the shin. And my mind kept trying to keep it still. This is good, I tried to sooth.See? Everyone getting along, Everything peaceful. Nothing to make you cry, scream or run for the door. This is eating plain, lukewarm oatmeal when other churches (the ones that give me Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome) are getting hot sauce in my contacts. I should love this. It should go down nicely, filling my belly with comfort. But it didn’t.
Please understand, this is not a reflection on the Unitarian Universalists; I still believe their premise of Peace is beautiful. This is me, gazing into a mirror, not recognizing myself. Who am I? What do I believe? Apparently not what I thought I did this morning. The same questions I started Thirty by Thirty with, still haunting me here, and causing me to wonder, Why am I still here, doing this at all? Not simply the service, mind you: this whole darn, difficult, exhausting project.
I did NOT realize all these Issues at the time, while happily standing and sitting, singing and thinking quietly (not praying, that would be too invasive a demand to issue from the [Pulpit? Lecturn?]). All This was swimming around in my subconscious, without my intention or knowledge, churning up ugliness I thought I’d packed away.
I left in a Very. Bad. Mood. I attributed The Mood to PMS, or a hangover, or a possibly brewing sinus infection (none of which I actually had), to everything except the blooming spiritual muckiness quietly overtaking me. Upon arriving home, I slammed cupboards and doors, growing annoyed (for no discernable reason) at Husband, Puppy, the couch, the messy countertop, everything within close distance. My sweet, amiable Trent, the one who usually adores me, declared, “I want to go to lunch, but I’m not sure I want to go with you.” Soul-jerk. Ooops. And I’m all apologies and sweetness on the surface.
But The Truth about myself? That the UUs smiling acceptance manifested? It socked me hard and fast, in the car on our way to lunch.
Read more about this in my next post…
Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome
Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome (PTCS) is the term I coined to describe the myriad of symptoms: mental, emotional and even physical, and aftershocks following a departure from a stringent religious culture. PTCS presents as follows: 1) Sufferer is exposed to a trigger, such as a televised minister, extreme talk show host, religious song or discussion 2) Sufferer experiences one or more of the following: disgust, mental anguish, flashbacks, anger, rage, sadness, depression, crying, headache, nausea, vomiting, and, in rare cases, hives. If the sufferer is somehow immersed in a religious situation, whether by accident or coercion (such as attending a church service or being blind sighted by a fundamentalist at a dinner party) all symptoms may occur simultaneously, causing the victim to run (possibly screaming) out of the sanctuary/cocktail party/dinner table and seek refuge in the nearest bathroom/car/basement/dark hole. The sufferer may or may not later experience a spiritual hangover for several hours or days, wherein the symptoms continue unabated.
Though the DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: the primary text used by doctors to diagnose psychological conditions) has yet to pick up on my idea, I am hopeful for the next edition. [And, while they're at it? I'd really appreciate a diagnosis for the neuroses I deal with when faced with large numbers of numbers, such as spreadsheets. Preferably one that would give me a doctor's note to avoid creating and/or interpreting said digits. Perhaps something along g the lines of Severe Numberlexia and Excelphobia? Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the psychiatric world, for your serious consideration!]
If you think I am being facetious, I assure you, IAM NOT. [Well, except about the numbers.] An occupational hazard of conducting a project like Thirty by Thirty is being verbally vomited on by fellow PTCS victims who are so glad to find someone who understands! (It is, quite frankly, exhausting. Especially since I am still dealing/healing from my own case. Still, I welcome my fellow sufferers because solidarity and support are important components of recovery.) My personal experience is that there are PLENTY of folks suffering from PTCS out there (of people I talk to, about 20%), placed along the spectrum from mild cases: my parents dragged me to church and I hated every minute of it!, to stubborn cases such as my own which require extreme measures such as Spiritual Shock Therapy (enter: Thirty by Thirty) for there to be any chance of recovering faith.
Many people assume the origin of PTCS is spiritual abuse: that is, being wounded by fellow believers/religious folks all in the name of God, and the spirit of brotherly love! This is not the case. Or, perhaps I should revise my statement: spiritual abuse is not the exclusive cause of PTCS. Typically, limiting theological beliefs and their attachment to the identity of the individual play a large role in the onset of symptoms. Not that spiritual abuse should be dismissed; it is a very serious issue running rampant in the church today, usually employed to cause members to conform or be punished. However, the core belief system, and the breaking away from it, comprise a large percentage of severe cases.
In my own life, the below beliefs (and my decision to cast them off) has caused the majority of my PTCS, perhaps as much as 70%. The balance was inflicted by fellow believers, but those are stories for another day. So, here goes:
1.) Everyone (except us!) is going to Hell. And if you don’t share the gospel with them, their blood is on your hands. Do you want to get to heaven only to see all those you could have saved from eternal damnation? Really? Everyone from the beginning to the end of time, regardless of race, family origin or life circumstances is damned to hell for all eternity? Even a democratic people who believe in their laws have judges and juries to make sure justice is carried out. And sometimes “justice” means setting a person free who did commit a crime, because of extenuating circumstances. Do we really think an all-powerful, all-loving God would not have some sort of sliding scale? That we have the exclusive corner on truth?
2.) Your identity is found in God and your family. These are the things you can always rely on! Everything else is temporal and will fade! So what happens when your family falls apart, or someone passes away, or you fail to believe in the God you were raised with? A shattered person. Very dangerous.
3.) It is better to be hot or cold in your faith, lest God SPIT YOU OUT OF HIS MOUTH!!! (Referencing Rev. 3:16) This is further extrapolated to mean God will quite literally vomit you up if you fail to be (their version of) a “hot” believer. [The common interpretation of this passage is that ‘hot’ means enthusiastic, wholehearted or zealous. ‘Lukewarm’ means half-hearted, uncommitted, wavering, indifferent. Someone who is ‘cold’ would then be antagonistic and hostile, rejecting the Gospel. Referencehttp://makestraightpaths.com/hot_cold_lukewarm.htm] Talk about social control!
4. Believe it all, or believe it none. This is intrinsically related to #3, but (for me) BY FAR the MOST DAMAGING. It was this ingrained belief in fact, that forced me to walk away from my faith completely and totally because I didn’t think I was allowed to consider options outside the (very clear) boundaries of what I should and should not believe. Special note on #4: Once I got past this belief, with the aid of Thirty by Thirty, my faith found a place to root and started to bloom.
So there it is folks: an explanation of PTCS and the origin of my Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome. Or, part of it at least. (And my confession that I hate numbers, spreadsheets, and most especially spreadsheets with lots of numbers. DSM-IV–here I come!)
My Very Bare-y Christmas
Sharenator.com
Sister #1: I got a remote start in my car for Christmas!
Sister #2: I got an IPAD!
Me: I got a pair of socks from the emergency room…
Brother-in-law: At least your present was the most expensive.
Henceforth this holiday shall be known as: The Christmas Rebecca Landed in the ER. (For a case of hives that migrated to her throat, which started swelling shut.)
It shall also be known as: The Year a Doctor Scares Trent. (When, upon our arrival at the urgent care clinic, we were immediately sent away by the attending physician to the “Real ER, where they can do something for your wife.”)
And this is why I do not have a post about attending a Christmas service.
On the bright side, I did pray fervently between the urgent care and the “Real ER”.
Lesson Learned: Only go to the urgent care clinic with urgency…not an emergency.
Bonus Lesson: If, in the excitement of a swelling throat, you fail to wear socks, the ER nurse will gladly provide you with a pair for the nominal astronomical price of your stay. But only AFTER you have bared your bottom* to your mother-in-law, your mother-in-law’s neighbor’s son [he is a doctor! I do not expose myself to visiting neighbor's sons for fun!], three urgent care nurses, one incompetent urgent care doctor, three ER nurses,two ER physician’s assistants,and a partridge in a pear tree.
(*My bottom would like to note that it prefers to remain covered. However, if it is called to duty, in such cases as it being eclipsed by welted, migrating hives and thus becoming a threat to the life of its owner, my bottom is very patriotic and willing to be bared, even if said baring causes much shame!)
Apology:
I realize this post has nothing to do with going to places of worship, except that I skipped going to church on the biggest church day of the year. So….sorry about that.
In my defense, I am certain more people find God in the Emergency Room in one day than find Him in some mega-churches on Christmas.
FAQ:
1. Do you know what caused the hives? No.
2. Have you eaten anything new or changed anything recently (add long list of things you think I may not have considered as a cause but, believe me, if you think your throat is swelling shut you ponder possibilities. Very.Very.Thoroughly.) No.
3. Can the doctor tell you what caused them? No.
4. Are you OK now? I am drugged up on Benedryl, steroids and various antihistamines. Everything is OK.
Shout-Out!
A big shout-out to Jen Lancaster, NYT best-selling author of multiple books (including my fav Bitter is the New Black),whose hilarious, sharp-witted voice I heard in my head while considering the absurdity of my Christmas Situation in the ER. Though I have not the faintest idea of Ms. Lancaster’s religious views outside of her former attendance at the Magnificent Mile Mecca,I believe we share an affinity for mild, mind-altering meds (Her: Ambien. Me: Benadryl). Thanks for your great sense of humor…it ( and the drugs) helped get me through My Very Bare-y Christmas.
- cheezburger.com
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