Evolution of Faith

This has been a Hella-week.  Thanks to Christian’s kind words, I am feeling more positive and back to my original intent.  The intent of this blog is to foster a new way of thinking.  Inspire a bit of hope.  This world has taken leave of its’ senses and is completely out of balance.  When we find ourselves purchasing stab-proof uniforms and bullet-proof backpacks  for our children to go back to school, it’s time to take a good hard look at what’s going on here.  It is a crying shame that we, as the most intelligent creatures on the planet (debatable)…the top of the food chain, cannot commit to turn away from our own fatal flaws.  We do have that ability.  Everything we do is a choice.  I truly believe that addressing the spiritual health of the world is a good place to start.  We cannot right all the world’s wrongs with a spell or a prayer but what is it that prevents us from trying?  I believe that it is our refusal to see through the eyes of another.  Especially in matters of faith.  The concept of *one true way* has done much damage but none of it is irreversible.   Much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, truth is in the heart of the believer.  No matter the belief. 

 My own faith has gone through a lifelong evolution.  It seems that with everything I learn and experience, my concept of faith and spirituality expands.  From the churches that I attended as a child to the solitary rituals I practice as an adult, each new discovery leads me to a higher understanding.  

The first part of that evolution of faith was church.  Church was a normal part of my early childhood.  I was christened into the Methodist faith as a baby and went to church weekly up to the age of nine.  It wasn’t forced on me or expected of me, it just was.  We got up, dressed up and showed up every Sunday like the rest of our family and neighbors.  Little or no deep thought was behind it.  It was really a bit ike going to work or to school.  Just another part of the routine.  But even as a young child, I didn’t really get it.  But, I didn’t really have to get it.  I just had to go. 

At church, we were ostracized.  In part because, church wasn’t our whole life. The center of our existence was my brother, who laid at home in a hospital bed, unable to care for himself in any way.    We weren’t there for every single service and we didn’t attend potluck dinners.  My mother wasn’t in the choir and my father wasn’t a deacon.  We couldn’t.  My mother attempted to derive some kind of answer through fellowship and faith but in the end was denied it for the very reason she sought it.  I can only assume that members had no idea what to say to us.  No words of encouragement for a family that shouldered a heavy burden.  Despite that feeling of isolation, we continued to attend as that was what my mother had been raised to do.  I cannot speak for my mother, but as for myself, I always felt unwelcome. 

Church members and even the pastor occasionally visited us at home during the week.  They stopped by to pray with my mother and father for some miracle to save my brother.  They rarely stayed for more than ten or fifteen minutes.  Long enough to claim it in their list of good works.  Then they moved on to put stars in their crowns elsewhere.  Places like the volunteer fire department and the PTA held promises of much brighter stars and much bigger crowns.

When I was about eight, a slow change came about in my little United Methodist congregation.  The concept of faith healing was embraced and caught fire rapidly.  Not long after that, our once thoughtful, quiet services were filled with fire and brimstone sermons.  At the end of every service our pastor would announce that it was time for members who *heard the call* to come down to the front of the church to be saved.  Members lined up immediately in droves, shifting from foot to foot as they waited their turn to get down on their knees and dedicated their lives to God and Jesus. We stayed in the pew. Neither of us willing to pretend that we heard a call that we did not hear. 

My mother stopped attending not long after this new way of thinking was introduced.  The righteous behavior of some of the members contributed to her decision not to go anymore.  Many of the men in the church were convinced they had suddenly developed a gift for healing  They set my brother in their sights determined to produce an almighty miracle.  The only thing they produced was a bout of hiccoughs that wracked my brother’s body for well over two weeks.  He hiccoughed so hard that the feeding tube in his stomach was forced from his body twice and he had to be transported to the hospital by ambulance.  He hemorrhaged and vomited due to the unusual intensity and duration of it.  They vowed never to allow it to happen again. 

When they advised the atttending members of their decision, they were accused of being weak in their faith.  They were told that since they didnt believe strongly enough it didn’t work.  It was the last slap in the face my mother ever took from church.  She chose not to go and hasn’t been back since.  I continued to attend because I was now convinced that I was supposed to go.  All my friends did.  All their parents did.  It was part of my life for so long that it just didn’t seem right to stay home on Sunday.  My parents never said I couldn’t.  They went out of their way to make sure I had the opportunity to go every Sunday even if they didn’t.  It didn’t take long for me to draw my own conclusions based on my own experiences.  And so my fear of church began.