#01032020

Art 2020 - 01.03.2020

Cat, I’m a kitty cat

"I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me."

-- St. Paul of Tarsus, Galatians 2:20

"Holy fire burn away My desire for anything That is not of You, And is of me I want more of You And less of me, yeah

Empty me Empty me Empty me --"

-- William Murphy, "Empty Me"

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I don't feel I'm overstating my case when I refer to my parents as "religious extremists" (though I will concede they are less extreme now than they were during my childhood, by a fair margin). I grew up in a series of denominations (or, in some cases, 'non' denominations, which were always a very specific sort of denomination in disguise) which almost invariably allowed for such things as female clergy, and who (at least theoretically, which is itself still rare in extremist circles) considered all those who "accepted Jesus" to be part of the Christian Church.

But they also, and my parents with them, believed that any Christian who was sick or injured (in body or mind) could simply pray or be prayed for, and "the infirmity would flee them, by the power of Christ Jesus". Incidentally, this particular view didn't vibe well when it came up against the anxiety disorder I have suffered from since childhood. No amount of prayer, sticky anointing oils, or exorcistic commands could send "the Spirit of Fear" from me. Which is not to say that it stopped my father trying. And trying.

And, eventually, implicitly, blaming it on my own lack of faith.

I suppose, after a while, I believed that, too.

So my faith wasn't strong enough to keep the Spirit of Fear out. I could live with that. I would just do my best in all other aspects of my faith life. After all, we all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. The important part was to do our best.

One's best, the church taught, should always be toward the goal of giving oneself entirely over to the will of God. The less there was of 'you', the more room there was for God to do good through you. To that end, our church practiced fasting, either as simple spiritual practice, or with an intent and request of God. Yes, even the children (though they were encouraged to give up something other than food). The message came through loud (though anything but clear, among the conflicting messages of 'be yourself!' and 'God has given you many unique gifts!'): Self was bad.

When I came to my teenage years, the message was reinforced. Unable to curb my personal oddity enough to cultivate many friendships outside of church, I decided that, if I couldn't figure out how to make God my identity, then making church my identity was the next best thing. I was the awkward, uncomfortable kid in Christian tee-shirts who invited everyone to special church events and called out their church fellows in front of everyone on their 'un-Christian' behavior.

It didn't prepare me for my self to fight back, this time with a new ally: puberty.

Not that I was too concerned with any lustful thoughts towards boys I might have had. I was an incredibly naive teenager, and was unfamiliar enough with sex that I hardly even knew how to fantasize about it. Boys made me giggly and overbearing, but nothing more.

Only… so did the girls.

Immediately, I knew: the Spirit of Fear had gone out, just like in the Gospels. It had found no rest, and decided to come back to me. I hadn't filled myself up with God, so it settled back in, this time with seven friends more wicked than itself!

I was oppressed by a Gay Demon!

I can't tell anyone about this! I thought. But the Bible said to confess your sins one to another in order to be healed! How was I going to un-gay myself without ruining my reputation? I knew for sure that anyone I told would never see me the same again, and most of them would spread the word, and not the Good Word, if you follow me.

They'll never let me teach a devotion at church again. I probably won't even get to go on the mission trip. Or camp! They'll never let me room with girls!

A proper misery set in. My identity was the weird church kid, and I didn't have anything else to fall back on. I was full up with a brainload of doctrine that couldn't help me at all in the face of actual, real-life people.

I hadn't filled myself with God. I hadn't filled myself with Me. I had filled myself with a rule book, and one that neither I nor anyone I knew could follow.

I did try for a few years. I struggled against my sexuality, all the while pushing the youth of my church to truly embrace the spirit of love and devotion that I felt underpinned the scripture. I drove them toward a passion for God, all as I suffered in His absence, an absence for which I believed myself to blame.

It seemed that I simply wasn't a proper vessel.

Adulthood joined the fray, throwing a few punches of its own: I had made it to the age of eighteen without forming any identity for myself outside of "weird church kid". No goals, no intentions. Those sorts of things were for people without God leading them; how could I say I had faith if I planned my own life instead of letting God take the reins? Surely he had some great plan for my life. That's what countless adults had been telling me since I was old enough to understand the words.

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At the last church I attended regularly, there was a woman we'll call Miss Lee. She has multiple sclerosis that, while I was attending there, was just then beginning to affect her mobility. She went from walking confidently on her own to needing to use a wheelchair most weeks. Nearly every week, we would pray for her, begging God to heal her, and demanding that the damage leave her body. And every week, nothing would happen. Well, not nothing. Sometimes the nerve pain in her toes would diminish slightly, or, more rarely, someone would say they'd had a dream or vision in the past week of her being healed. Once, she had a vision of her own that she would dance at the front of the church with one of her friends, someday.

That church dissolved some four or five years ago. Miss Lee's condition has progressed to the point where her mobility is severely impaired and she is often confused. She semi-frequently texts my mother asking for help because she's fallen and there's no one in the house to help her up.

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I gave up my birth religion gradually, over the course of a decade, and if you asked my what I believe now, I would not be able to tell you. I can tell you, though, that ten years has taught me that I cannot find healing in mea culpas, in prayer, or in waiting to see what God has planned. I have to acknowledge the makeshift self I have gathered together, and fill myself with it.

끄아앙 유비들 잘자❤️🙋🏻‍♀️

👉 youtu.be/hG9MthsRDEg

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