The Faith Journey of a Questioner
Recently I've been reading Rachel Held Evans' book Searching for Sunday and it's reminded me of my own faith journey.
As I was reading it this morning I remembered my teenage years when I would question everything and constantly ask "why?" and "what if?" and "but what about...?" much to the annoyance of my parents. I would always ask questions, especially if something didn't sit quite right with me. There was a point, when I was in middle school, when I started to really notice the flaws in the church I was part of. I would wonder why certain youth programs were ending, why my favorite pastor had to leave, and why we didn't do something about the people who needed God's love the most. Nobody gave me an answer, at least not a straight answer. It struck me as odd that not everyone was welcome when the church preached otherwise.
I remember going to bible camp for the first time in 7th grade and looking around wondering why all of those people were so crazy for Jesus. It was intimidating. To me, a skeptic, they all seemed rather crazy, and I remember writing a letter to my mom asking her to not send me back to camp next year. Something must have stuck, though, because by the time camp registration rolled around the next year I found myself wanting to go back at least for curiosity's sake. I felt a pull, despite still thinking they were kind of crazy. That same second year during the mime that they put on every week of summer camp I remember suddenly being afraid that I was going to go to hell because I didn't do all the right things or say all the right things. I remember crying myself to sleep that night and begging God to save me from hell because I didn't want to be tortured and burned for the rest of eternity. It was also the moment when I really started to question the whole hell and being saved narrative because it just seemed so ludicrous. Why would God only save some but let everybody else burn? Later on in life I would ask that same question but add on, "What about those who will never hear about Jesus? Surely God wouldn't let them burn in hell! What happened to God loving everyone?"
The main reason I kept going to camp was because I wanted to be with people my own age and with friends- not always because of all the God stuff, though all of the songs and skits were super fun and catchy. Yes, it was awing to see, and to see so many people "on fire for Jesus" but it always left me wondering about the rest of the year when we weren't at camp. Why was it that we would feel close to God at camp but then feel a sort of absence the rest of the year? Did God only show up in places like that?
By the time I reached high school I had started to rebel against going to church. I would refuse to get out of bed for church, oftentimes pretending I was still asleep so my parents wouldn't force me to go, even if I would get in trouble for it later. If I did go to church I would have a constantly running commentary going through my head about the whole thing, especially during the liturgical parts. I'm sure at times I had a sort of scowl on my face. Later on during high school I was more willing to go if only because I liked the pastor and the intern pastor and liked what they had to say for the sermons. I think the main reason I kept going to church was because of youth group. It was pretty much the only time other than school during the week that I got to be with and hang out with my classmates. It was also a place where I could be more fully me without having to worry about catching grief from my parents for asking too many questions. At home and among my family there was a certain way I was expected to believe, and I realized early on that I didn't agree with much of it but was unable for the longest time to do or say anything about it.
I ended up going to a private Christian college because at the time I thought that was what was expected of me. I also thought that if I went to a public college I would be seen as a heathen, or that I would turn to the evil of drinking, drugs, and sex. Yeah, there was quite the damaging narrative that I've had to work to throw off in recent years. My first year of college I took a Biblical Studies class, as it was required, and I remember worrying that I would lose my faith if I studied too much or looked too deeply. I did in fact lose the faith that I had going into the class but emerged all the better for it. I'm glad I did because it laid the foundation building blocks for later on. But it definitely wasn't easy, and it wasn't just that class- it was a four year plus process!
When my dad passed away after my freshmen year of college it was really devastating. I think at that time I had a very clear view of how the people I was around viewed God, the bible, and those like me who were in pain. And it was a sad sight because those who claimed to be super faithful would not even listen to me because "it was too dark". I grew frustrated that they only wanted to hear about the good stuff. Did they not have any of that supposed darkness in their lives? It was lonely. It was especially lonely hearing about how great everyone's families were and how much they looked forward to seeing and spending time with them every break and holiday. I felt like an outcast, like a misfit, because I did not share that same sentiment. After my dad passed away I felt less and less like spending time with my family because I had now lost my "rose colored glasses".
To add to my outcast and misfitness, it was during my junior year of college that I learned my sexuality was different from most everybody there. From then on whenever I was at church or at chapel or in a bible study I felt awkward when the topic of sexuality would come up. I'd sit in the corner and sweat, fearing I'd be found out and then kicked out of all I held dear at the time. I found solace in the theatre department though. Faith-wise I didn't truly examine it in terms of following Jesus and being queer until I came to Colorado.
Moving to Denver has likely been the best decision ever. I have finally been free to explore and ask all the questions and been able to fully embrace myself and live out my own life free of the expectations of my family. Recently, as in this summer, I realized I am only just now, in the last three years, returning back to having faith in God. I think it started with my wanting to be baptized here in Denver because I wanted to choose faith for myself and not have it pushed upon me by others. I don't think it occurred to me I had lost my faith until I found healing in going to Highlands and Left Hand. These last two weeks I have found myself starting to believe in the power of prayer after having been a skeptic ever since my dad died. And there is so much more to my story that I haven't written about. This particular one I wanted to share because I felt inspired by the book Rachel Held Evans wrote.
As I was reading it this morning I remembered my teenage years when I would question everything and constantly ask "why?" and "what if?" and "but what about...?" much to the annoyance of my parents. I would always ask questions, especially if something didn't sit quite right with me. There was a point, when I was in middle school, when I started to really notice the flaws in the church I was part of. I would wonder why certain youth programs were ending, why my favorite pastor had to leave, and why we didn't do something about the people who needed God's love the most. Nobody gave me an answer, at least not a straight answer. It struck me as odd that not everyone was welcome when the church preached otherwise.
I remember going to bible camp for the first time in 7th grade and looking around wondering why all of those people were so crazy for Jesus. It was intimidating. To me, a skeptic, they all seemed rather crazy, and I remember writing a letter to my mom asking her to not send me back to camp next year. Something must have stuck, though, because by the time camp registration rolled around the next year I found myself wanting to go back at least for curiosity's sake. I felt a pull, despite still thinking they were kind of crazy. That same second year during the mime that they put on every week of summer camp I remember suddenly being afraid that I was going to go to hell because I didn't do all the right things or say all the right things. I remember crying myself to sleep that night and begging God to save me from hell because I didn't want to be tortured and burned for the rest of eternity. It was also the moment when I really started to question the whole hell and being saved narrative because it just seemed so ludicrous. Why would God only save some but let everybody else burn? Later on in life I would ask that same question but add on, "What about those who will never hear about Jesus? Surely God wouldn't let them burn in hell! What happened to God loving everyone?"
The main reason I kept going to camp was because I wanted to be with people my own age and with friends- not always because of all the God stuff, though all of the songs and skits were super fun and catchy. Yes, it was awing to see, and to see so many people "on fire for Jesus" but it always left me wondering about the rest of the year when we weren't at camp. Why was it that we would feel close to God at camp but then feel a sort of absence the rest of the year? Did God only show up in places like that?
By the time I reached high school I had started to rebel against going to church. I would refuse to get out of bed for church, oftentimes pretending I was still asleep so my parents wouldn't force me to go, even if I would get in trouble for it later. If I did go to church I would have a constantly running commentary going through my head about the whole thing, especially during the liturgical parts. I'm sure at times I had a sort of scowl on my face. Later on during high school I was more willing to go if only because I liked the pastor and the intern pastor and liked what they had to say for the sermons. I think the main reason I kept going to church was because of youth group. It was pretty much the only time other than school during the week that I got to be with and hang out with my classmates. It was also a place where I could be more fully me without having to worry about catching grief from my parents for asking too many questions. At home and among my family there was a certain way I was expected to believe, and I realized early on that I didn't agree with much of it but was unable for the longest time to do or say anything about it.
I ended up going to a private Christian college because at the time I thought that was what was expected of me. I also thought that if I went to a public college I would be seen as a heathen, or that I would turn to the evil of drinking, drugs, and sex. Yeah, there was quite the damaging narrative that I've had to work to throw off in recent years. My first year of college I took a Biblical Studies class, as it was required, and I remember worrying that I would lose my faith if I studied too much or looked too deeply. I did in fact lose the faith that I had going into the class but emerged all the better for it. I'm glad I did because it laid the foundation building blocks for later on. But it definitely wasn't easy, and it wasn't just that class- it was a four year plus process!
When my dad passed away after my freshmen year of college it was really devastating. I think at that time I had a very clear view of how the people I was around viewed God, the bible, and those like me who were in pain. And it was a sad sight because those who claimed to be super faithful would not even listen to me because "it was too dark". I grew frustrated that they only wanted to hear about the good stuff. Did they not have any of that supposed darkness in their lives? It was lonely. It was especially lonely hearing about how great everyone's families were and how much they looked forward to seeing and spending time with them every break and holiday. I felt like an outcast, like a misfit, because I did not share that same sentiment. After my dad passed away I felt less and less like spending time with my family because I had now lost my "rose colored glasses".
To add to my outcast and misfitness, it was during my junior year of college that I learned my sexuality was different from most everybody there. From then on whenever I was at church or at chapel or in a bible study I felt awkward when the topic of sexuality would come up. I'd sit in the corner and sweat, fearing I'd be found out and then kicked out of all I held dear at the time. I found solace in the theatre department though. Faith-wise I didn't truly examine it in terms of following Jesus and being queer until I came to Colorado.
Moving to Denver has likely been the best decision ever. I have finally been free to explore and ask all the questions and been able to fully embrace myself and live out my own life free of the expectations of my family. Recently, as in this summer, I realized I am only just now, in the last three years, returning back to having faith in God. I think it started with my wanting to be baptized here in Denver because I wanted to choose faith for myself and not have it pushed upon me by others. I don't think it occurred to me I had lost my faith until I found healing in going to Highlands and Left Hand. These last two weeks I have found myself starting to believe in the power of prayer after having been a skeptic ever since my dad died. And there is so much more to my story that I haven't written about. This particular one I wanted to share because I felt inspired by the book Rachel Held Evans wrote.
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