Oh, Reader, what a day.
It will be a feat of heroic proportions if I can make it to the end of this work day in one piece because I’ve been ready to go home and curl up in a blanket fort since I got here. (This is unfortunate.) Part of that is that I simply don’t like my job and so want to go home every day (not necessarily to a blanket fort), a dislike made so much harder to bear with every new sortie into pieces of the Church because I see what gives me life but I can’t have it (yet). That was thrown into sharp relief this week because of Annual Conference (which I posted on last week and about which I will post further next week) and the moments of being mad as hell at the Church and loving it still. To come back to a job where I do not fit, where I watch myself becoming someone I don’t like out of frustration and disenfranchisement, is a quiet form of torture.
But it is also that this week follows Orlando, this week holds the ninth-longest Senate filibuster, this week has been my heart breaking over my country once again saying that we are more afraid of our government than our weaponry, more determined to protect our right to have guns than our right to continue breathing with lungs not torn asunder by hot lead blasting through our bodies. I have been unable (not that I’ve tried very hard) to keep myself from continually getting into this conversation—not out of a desire to antagonize but out of sheer befuddlement that this is still happening. Again and again I have been asking how this works, why even the smallest steps of gun control are shunned outright, and to their credit my more conservative friends have responded. We still don’t understand each other, but it has mostly been civilized.
Even when my newfound “liberalism” makes them question my faith.
Reader, I came to Christ in college and fell into a beautifully loving country Christian church with all the insularity you might expect. God, guns, and the American way are very important in that church; gay folk are sinners to be loved, divorce isn’t spoken of, women don’t become pastors, and abortion is an abomination against God. Even then I disagreed on some things but I was loved there, and I will spend the rest of my life pushing against the stereotype that people who think these things are horrible human beings without hearts. They were my family, they were my support network, they quite literally fed me and gave me a home after I finished college and realized I had no idea what I was doing next. I worked part time there, I built the foundation of my faith there, and they wept with me when I left.
Since I’ve moved away we have all changed, and though that love is still there we are far more prone to seeing the places where we disagree than the places we are family. So for some to question my advocacy of gun control and my stance against violence and my blatant feminism in the frame of lovingly correcting me in faith and steering me back to Jesus…God, Reader, it breaks my heart in half. I see still their compassion and understand that they believe wholly in this gentle remonstrance, but I cannot stand by and accept these tenets anymore. I will not wash my hands of this gunpowder and blood, especially not when a life of professional, pulpit-based ministry beckons me forward. But this…this is my family who look at me in concern and sorrow. These are the people who taught me what love looked like in the first place, and every rift between us hurts that much more precisely because I cannot mend it and (to the extent that it would mean walking back my beliefs) will not try.
Add to this, then, betrayal by my very body. Perhaps one of the cruelest things the Church has done in terms of doctrine is to tie women’s menstruation to Eve’s sin, ’cause damn, this shit sucks. (If you’re uncomfortable with talking about this because you think it’s gross, skip to the next paragraph. Then go apologize to all the women in your life whose bodies and voices you’re denying by refusing to acknowledge this as a biological reality.) Beyond that fact that it can feel like someone is attempting to pull out your spine through your abdomen while twisting the surrounding muscles in an unpadded vise, going on your period really can and does screw with your mental state. I realize it’s a social stereotype to show the wigged-out woman eating a pint of ice cream and crying at nothing in particular, but seriously, your chemical balance is getting thrown off and you can’t stop it. So it’s been a legit intense week and today my brain is magnifying everything a thousandfold because its busy trying to overhaul its entire hormonal state. Once I figured out that was a factor it made the day slightly easier because I can tell myself to step back, breathe, and reevaluate the way I was reacting to people, but before I got there I thought I was losing my damn mind today.
The spiritual implication of all that? We are not only spiritual. I would love to be, trust me, but we are living in mortal, political, social, emotional, and physical plains as well as the spiritual one, and that is a hot mess sometimes. And somedays—many days—we carry the grief of the world on top of our own and we shudderstep underneath that weight.
Good think God keeps telling us to give it to Him. In so many ways, Lord, we pray for healing.
“Teach me and I, for my part, will be silent;
explain to me how I have been mistaken.
How painful are honest words!
But what does your reproof prove?
Do you intend to criticize mere words,
and treat the words of a despairing man as wind?” (Job 6:24-26, NET)