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.