Losing My Religion

I chose that title just so everyone would get that REM song stuck in their heads, and also a little bit for click bait. Click so you can see whether I'm losing my religion or not! In a way, it is true, I'm losing a part of my religious identity. I'm still trying to figure out what that means, what it looks like.

When my family came for Thanksgiving, my sisters and their family stayed with me while my parents stayed at a hotel. One night, after my parents had left, the kids were asleep, my sisters, their husbands, and Jason and I sat up late talking. 

I have a confession. I intentionally took myself out of the conversation. I closed my eyes like I was falling asleep, only I hadn't really fallen asleep yet. Granted, I was exhausted and I did eventually fall asleep since closing your eyes often leads to that. It wasn't pretty: to preserve room, I was sitting on my husband's lap, which means when I did fall asleep I ended up sprawled out over my husband's seated body- like a too large child who won't let their parent put them down. It wasn't super comfortable.

Why did I close my eyes? Because the conversation turned to religion. Church. Theology. Here's the sad part. I love thinking about and talking about theology. But I closed my eyes.

My older sister started talking about her and her husband's spiritual journey. The last few years have been years of growth, exploration, and drastic change from their church where my sister's husband had worked over a decade. They talked about theological differences, leadership styles of the pastors, and even liturgical differences between their old and new churches. I could feel something happening within me. I felt myself shrinking, becoming invisible (or wanting to become invisible). My younger sister talked too about how she and her husband struggled to find a church that gave them a sense of community and purpose, that gave space for their questions. My younger sister expressed her need to sort of break up with the church for a while since it had been such a towering and controlling presence for her life. She needed to regroup and ask some hard questions about what church and God meant for her. I felt myself making a conscious effort to get smaller and quieter, to stifle my thoughts and feelings and story. Then they asked Jason a question about his role as a minister. And that's when I closed my eyes. 

I closed my eyes because I had been feeling something growing inside me: the pain of not having church or ministry as an identity. The pain of it never really sticking. I've told the story of when I felt called by God to "be a minister." That happened almost 18 years ago. Holy crap I just did the math. 18 years!! And I have nothing to show for it but struggle. I have this pain inside me because I never doubted (other than the panic in the moment) that God was speaking to me, calling me. I never doubted that I was to have some response to match this high calling. But the pain is that the identity never stuck. I never figured out a way to become a minister. No one in my family ever really saw me as such. None of my friends really did outside of being "a nice person who listens." 

For 18 years I've been wrestling with that calling to be a minister, and in that conversation that night, when my heart was bursting with longing to talk about my own journey, my own thoughts- I knew that it wasn't important. Or that it was too important to me. I also had so many feelings swirling inside me that I didn't quite understand, but they were too big for this fireplace chat. I didn't want to ruin what was a lovely conversation with my own issues. I made myself close my eyes so I could disappear from the conversation. It was far easier to disappear than to care. Caring was too painful. Caring meant I would want people to suddenly recognize this minister identity in me that had never stuck. I would want them to ask me what I thought because of my experience and theological education. Caring meant that I wanted people to see and honor my journey and my struggles. I felt like somehow I needed to be recognized- which was flat out selfish and stupid. So I disappeared, because I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know how else to handle my grief. Caring meant feeling the anger - and I wasn't ready to do it.

I heard Jason saying "If it makes you feel better, Sarah's kind of struggling. She's kinda over church." And I don't think it made anyone feel better or worse. 

I am losing my religion. I've lost the minister identity- not the loss of someone who had something and then lost it- I never had it. I think I'm finally giving up on the thing ever sticking. Maybe God made a mistake. Maybe it was just a ploy to get me to do other things in the pursuit of being a minister. Maybe it was a three year calling and I tried to make it stretch 18. All I know is that it hurts too much to talk about religion right now. I don't want to insert my pain into someone else's journey. I don't want to be the old hag telling the travelers - "been there, done that- you'll see it leads nowhere soon!" That's not really what I think but it is in a way. That doesn't even make sense, but it makes sense to me. It's not a linear journey, but my journey has led me here: nowhere. I've been in the wilderness for so long that I call it home now. The best thing I have found for connecting to God is silence. SILENCE. Maybe I'll be a minister of the wild. I won't get paid for it. No one will ask me about my role as a minister. No one will ask me to pray. No one will wonder about my own theological studies or knowledge. But I can maybe give some water to a fellow wilderness survivor. Tell them that they aren't alone. And they'll shrug and thank me for the water and being a good listener.

The more I allow myself to think about this, the more I think that perhaps part of my problem was that I had an image in my head of what it meant to "be a minister"- and that involved authority, title, respect. Hilarious when I think about it because I have a lifetime of bucking the system and rejecting authority, titles, and blind respect. Oh the irony.

Quick caveat (or note?)- I process my thoughts by writing, so if I start a blog in one place and end it in another- that isn't because I didn't edit for clarity- it's because I figured things out as I kept writing. It might be messy and less crisp- and I hope you'll forgive me. I like naming each part of the process. I don't want to reject the beginning, or the middle, because for me there never is an end- I keep most thoughts open for debate... I don't do final wrapped up finished conclusions very well.

So as I engage this idea of letting go of the "be a minister" identity- which I was ready to completely and utterly chuck over a cliff- I'm thinking I need to let go of the image I had in my head. And embrace the ways I have answered that call- in my own weird ass way. I wasn't called to be a pastor of a church, leading committees, ordering roof tiles, and appeasing people who care too much about the color of the carpet. I don't have the patience for that. And at this juncture- I don't believe I ever really want to have the patience for that. As a woman trying to answer a call- I never knew whether I didn't want to do something because I didn't think it was possible (or didn't get the support) or if I really just didn't want to do it. I have felt good about every vocational decision I have made in my life. As a dear fried said to me today: "nothing is lost." All of it has been my jazz-dancing through life, not in some linear upward track, but in a whirling dervish sort of way. Although sometimes I do less jazz dancing and more silent brooding.

But here's the thing, the book that made me want to go to seminary is "The Preaching Life" by Barbara Brown Taylor. If you have never read anything of hers- go do it- she is exquisite. In her books, she talks about her own struggle with her calling. She felt God telling her that she could do literally anything she wanted- as long as she belonged to God. I remember absolutely loving that part (should have seen that as a bigger sign). In that moment, she decided to become an Episcopal priest. I believe she is now a professor (although she may have left that post). The point is- she changed her answer- but the calling remained the same. Maybe in God's wisdom and also joy- I was given an annoyingly vague calling. Because God knew I wasn't going to do something normal and predictable or even logical. I have this insanely logical part of myself which is constantly at war with the other part of myself that is certifiably insane- but beautiful. I tried to make my calling fit into the logical section. My pretty insane self said over and over "fine, but let's take a little break to do this experiment." And my logical self said: "OK- here's a logical explanation for why that is ok."

I sound like I have split personalities, but I think I've pitted these two parts of me against each other to torture myself, when I just need to blend it all together. I will be insane, and also make wise financial decisions. I can do that. I will not try to make everything check out with both sides. Sometimes I need to be logical, and sometimes I need to take a leap of faith.

God knew that. So in 18 years I have been a youth director, a Congregational Care coordinator, a caregiver for elderly, a stay-at-home mom, a writer, and a hospice chaplain. Yes, I ended on hospice chaplain because it makes me sound like a freaking saint. I confess and I don't care. I loved it and also might have enjoyed the respect I got just as much as the job. Now I am writing.

My call to be a minister was more than be a nice person. I am perfect for the wilderness. I have always wanted to be in the center of town because it is safe, comfortable, and organized- and as a minister- you get respect. I don't belong there. I want to, but I just don't. I get restless. I've KNOWN this about myself. But I always thought the wilderness was temporary, and soon I would find "my place" where I would finally settle, I'd get ordained, I'd have some perfect vocational epiphany and finally everyone would recognize me for the minister I was called to be. But that's not happening, because that's not my calling. I'm the minister to the people who hate titles. To the people who have too many questions. To the people who say shit and pray. For the people who would rather die then listen to another stupid sermon. I am a minister with no authority- because I need to fucking humble myself and take up my task. My task is to belong to God- in the evolving way I see God and myself, and to greet people on the journey. To tell you you are not alone. Not because I have authority- but because I live here too. Because the wilderness is home, not a place for outcasts. The wilderness is home. It is a place to stay and wander freely around. And that is sacred, and it doesn't matter if you worship Buddha, Allah, or Beauty itself. I've been here long enough that we have a lot in common, and my humility is what will allow that connection to continue.

And maybe in 5 years I'll change my mind- but I'll still belong to God- whoever that is. And I'll still be a minister to whoever is running around me. And I'll have years of experience.

The Truth

I was going to title this one "Trump was Right" but I couldn't stomach it, even for the click-bait. And even now I'm thinking I might delete that line because it's so terrible to look at.

When Trump said that there were "fine people on both sides" of the Neo-Nazi march in Charlottesville, people got really angry. And for good reason- because politically Trump was equating NAZIS with ... well- not Nazis. And that is a terrible thing to do as a president- and in general.

However, (ugh) I have to admit something. He wasn't completely wrong. And before you burn me alive, hear me out. NONE of us are perfect. I think I've talked about this before, the sort of black and white ultimatums we deal in when talking about people we disagree with (or who are terrible people). You can be a terrible person, have TERRIBLE values, and still act like a nice person. You may even do some very fine, nice things.

One of the sort of insidious trends of the neo-Nazi movement and other white-supremacy groups is to blend in. They wear khakis now. And here's the thing, most of them wore khakis before. They just changed the culture of the group to make sure that they started becoming less obviously deviant or different, or dare I say "evil." It's hard to look at a bunch of white guys in khakis and polo shirts and think- now there's a dangerous group. The reason for that is because our society has conditioned us not to be afraid of those guys. And they are using it to their advantage. Obviously there are people who have had experiences that taught them otherwise, but by and large, if you see a white dude with a clean haircut, khakis, and a polo shirt walking down the street, you won't even notice him. Because he looks "normal."

And that is the whole point, white supremacists are embracing their normal, and everyone is buying into it as evidence that they aren't that bad after all. Hmm- not so fast.

It's true- I bet you that a white supremacist has the ability to be a loving parent. I bet a white supremacist has the ability to do something nice for their neighbor. I bet a white supremacist has the ability to contribute to the community, give money to the poor, do good work in their career. Because a white supremacist does not exist only as a white supremacist. They are whole humans, with relationships, careers, and other hobbies. But it doesn't mean that they are incapable of doing bad things. Obviously, right?!

Let's go further. Let's take the actual Nazis. My Grandfather (Opa) was born and raised in Berlin. His mother was Jewish and his father was a journalist who was black-balled by the Nazi party. Opa had the privilege of perspective when understanding Hitler's special kind of terrible. Opa was able to escape to the United States, but some of his friends from school were drafted into Hitler's army. In fact, Opa was set to be drafted but managed to escape by being smuggled out of Germany before his number was called. It was privilege that allowed him to have even the means to escape! Men serving in the Nazi army were called Nazis. But not all of these men were serving by choice. Sure, they could have died rather than serve (likely the only option available) and then serving is about survival. After the war, the men and women civilians left in Germany were made to clean up the rubble as a sort of a punitive measure for their complicity in the Nazi reign. But I know one of those women was my great aunt, who had kept her daughter's Jewish ancestry a secret to protect her, and did everything she could to protect and care for my great uncle (her eventual husband and the father of her daughter) and my great grandmother who were Jews. Despite clear evidence of her help, she still had to do the punitive work. Because she was a German and she managed not to be imprisoned. Hitler came to power in 1933, and soon after the entire public school curriculum was rewritten with anti-semitic genetic lessons spread blatantly throughout. The war, and the Nazi reign, ended in 1945. So it would be possible for a child to have an entire public education based on Nazi curriculum, from k-12 grade. Do we blame them for believing what they are taught from 5-18 years old?

I'm not excusing anyone's behavior or lack of bigger resistance. (But seriously, what would you do in those situations in Germany?) I'm not even making the argument that there wasn't evil at work. I am just saying that it's never black and white. When we make sweeping judgments, we often miss a a chance at progress and possible solutions.

I AM mad that Trump said there were very fine people on both sides, but not because he was wrong, he was actually kind of right, but because it DOESN'T matter. Because life, history, politics, is not that black and white. Very fine people do terrible things and should be held accountable. Very terrible people can do wonderful things. The point is that we cannot depend on a tattoo or consistently terrible behavior to help us decide if someone needs to stop. This actually can be spread into the whole rape-culture problem too. Just because the rapist is a really wonderful student and all-star athlete, does not somehow make them not also a rapist. It can be applied to the issue of black people getting shot- just because he stole candy or made bad choices does NOT mean he is "bad" or deserves the death penalty without trial.

Our tendency to polarize people into "good" and "evil" creates an impossible situation. If you see only the good in people, then you sentence yourself to never holding them accountable. If you see only bad in people, then their lives are no longer equal to yours or others. It doesn't work. It's bad politics, it's bad theology, it's bad human-ing.

So yes- there are probably some really stellar citizens in that torch-bearing crowd. If you call for all Nazis to burn in hell, then you are no better than they are. THEY hate, YOU hate. So let's throw away the unhelpful unilateral good vs evil argument. Let's be smart. Let us hold every person accountable for the shit they do- no matter how much money they make you or themselves. No matter how many medals they have received. Let's also listen to the story of that kid in the gang. Yes- he did some baaaad stuff. Yes he should be accountable to that. But yes, he is a human and if you hear his story, you might actually learn something. At the very least you may learn that we are all human, we all make mistakes, and what we look like (and our financial status) often determines how we pay for those mistakes. It's not about good and evil- so stop that game.

The truth is- people are far more complicated than a litmus test for good and evil. If we allow ourselves to think and listen with more complexity- we might actually be able to solve some problems. We might be able to create peace rather than using evidence of an ounce of good or evil to slam the scale of justice down wherever we want it.

Deaf

I had a hair appointment, and before the woman washed my hair, I made a point to let her know I wore hearing aids and would be taking them out, so I wouldn't be able to hear her. She looked at me like people look at you when you say that your dog just died last week. It was a little weird, but I appreciated that she was trying to be caring. Then, while she washed my hair, she said something to me. I almost laughed. She was checking the temperature of the water and by context I figured out what she said and told her it was fine. Then I'm sure she thought I was a big, fat liar about the deaf thing. (Except for my hearing aids in my hand.)

Deaf people are REALLY good at reading context. Like scary good. So we catch stuff even if we didn't hear you. That sounded like a threat and I'm not even sorry about it.

I have this arrangement with my new hair stylist. I have done the deaf dance with several stylists. This dance is the advanced notice that you will have to take your hearing aids out for the hair washing (they are NOT water proof). Then you have to remind them that it means you can't hear. Which is true, but since you're a dope lip reader and context clues reader- the stylist will inadvertently slip up and talk to you and you will respond appropriately because you can figure it out. Here's the thing- when you have your hearing aids out- it takes A LOT of energy to do all that context sleuthing, so you'd really rather them not talk to you. So it's difficult. Then you feel like an asshole because you aren't talking to them or even really looking at them because you're trying to avoid them striking up a conversation. SO you try to dry out your ears mega-fast so you don't have to work so hard at keeping up with the conversation. Here's the problem- your ears weren't perfectly dry so now they feel all damp and weird and the person is brushing or cutting your hair- which means they now have these hearing aids to avoid and you both feel anxious about it. And now you can talk, but seriously it's still hard to talk with hair in your face.

This dance was so damn exhausting that I tried something new with this hair stylist, and I did it with the one I had in Hampton. I said "Hey, I'm deaf, so when I take the hearing aids out I can't hear. They can't get wet, so I need to let my ears dry before I put them back in. It might be a little while. I'm not trying to be rude, but I'll probably just read." My new stylist said "sounds great- we'll both get a little quiet." That's when I knew I found the right person.

I was reflecting about my deafness today- not something I do often. Not hearing is kinda like that sound of the AC cutting on. You completely forget about it until that first warm day in spring and you're like- what's that noise? Oh yeah, the AC. I think my parents played a big part in letting my sister and I feel like we could let our deafness fade into background noise- it didn't have to be our primary identity. I really appreciate that, because it allowed us to have the confidence to do anything we wanted to do. But every now and then I think about it and reflect on it.

My older sister is also deaf, so it's nice to have someone to talk to when I think about it. I don't think we fully realize the blessing it was to have someone in-house who understood what we were going through. We talked about our deafness over Thanksgiving last week, when her family joined mine. We have both been doing a little reflecting on it lately. I'm not sure if that's age, therapy, or just the wind blowing where it does. But it was nice to share with each other what we have realized.

Kelly said that she had thought she was totally comfortable with her impairment, when it occurred to her that she was proud of how well she compensated, not necessarily how she was born. That was a lightning bolt for me. And of course we're proud of how we've compensated. We're awesome. But- it was a realization that we hadn't necessarily fully accepted our hearing loss as an OK thing- but more we were bent on proving that it wasn't a thing at all. By how incredibly amazing we were at not seeming deaf. We fool a lot of people. And for some reason we were more proud of that. I'm still working out what that means. I've tried to be more vulnerable and say when I can't hear people or name that I can't hear in an unapologetic way. I don't feel that I need to apologize, but I do have very high expectations of myself as far as how much I should be able to do to compensate.

And that was the discovery I made. I work really hard to do normal things. It's part of who I am to the point where I don't even notice it. It's like brushing my teeth in the morning- of course I do it! Of course I face the people who are talking to me. Of course I read their lips. Of course I intuitively read their body language. Of course I have a sixth sense of emotions and even a weird spiritual vibe. Of course I can usually tell a creeper from a mile away- I'm constantly watching and listening with every fiber of my being. I realized that not everyone does this. Hell, people can have a conversation AND watch TV at the same time. To me, that's impossible. If I try to multitask - even with the check-out person, I will miss most of whatever it is I'm trying to do. So human interaction takes literally my whole being to do right. THIS is why I was a good chaplain. This is why I am a good listener (hopefully). This is also why I can't do crowds of people for too long, or shallow conversation for too long, or have too many friends. It's exhausting. I can't tune out and tune in at the right time. I have to be fully present for all of it if I want to catch the good parts. I can't select what I hear, so I select who I hear. I used to think that was me being elitist or super-introverted. Now it feels a little more like self-care and grace.

I have always been so proud of myself for being "passable" as hearing, that I think I forgot to give myself credit for the work I have to do to pass. Not in a pitying way- but it made me realize why I have instinctively put up the boundaries that I have. I'm not mean and I don't hate people. I like people- a lot- and I can only give 100% to so many. I am realizing that I made good choices when I said I didn't want to do that thing with all those people right after doing that other thing with all those people.

And now, I have a new set of hearing aids (got em on a huge sale for $5500!). Now I remember all the work it takes. Getting new hearing aids is switching your old ears out for a new sound system. Your brain has to adapt. You have to adapt, and then you have to figure out what needs to be changed (settings, programs, volume, etc). But you still have to go to those events with crowds and people talking. I'll admit the first day I hid in a quiet corner and had wine while I whined about how much my new hearing aids sucked. I *knew* that they would be fine, but I felt terrible. I had to do even MORE work to pass as hearing, and that is when I realize that I'm at the brink of hard work. Trying more completely exhausts and overwhelms me. It'll get better. It'll get easier, and my work will reduce back to the normal level. But it's a lot of work, and it made me feel better to be more honest about it this time around. People at church were asking me how I was adjusting to them- I felt really cared for.

I've always thought of my deafness as something that is background noise. Mere chance to mention in  an off-hand way. But now I am trying to face it a little more straight on. I'm trying to get to know this part of myself a little better, to recognize in my daily quirks and habits, the things that I do because I can't hear. Then, ultimately, to embrace it. To give it grace and worry a little less about "passing" as hearing- or perfect- or anything other than who I am.