Becoming Lost on My Faith Journey
Like many people living in the Midwest, Christianity is in my DNA, or was. It was part of my core. I was raised in a Lutheran household, where we regularly attended church and Sunday school and, when I was old enough, weekly confirmation classes. There was never any talk among our family of questioning our faith, nor did we discuss religion that I can recall. What was there to discuss? If it was good enough for my parents, it was good enough for me, or something like that.
I've come to see my faith life as a winding journey. For most of my life, I was strong in my Christian faith, but then I began questioning the entire church apparatus that I'd been indoctrinated into, because there's a part of me that isn't content to embrace something I'm struggling to understand. This was maybe fifteen years ago. I still felt committed to the faith, but I recall some doubts creeping in—and I found myself open to new ideas.
My core belief centered around Jesus and the understanding that I would be with him when this life ended. I would imagine what heaven would be like: A few times a day, God would gather us before him, and we'd sing praise songs to him. The thought of singing praise songs did nothing for me. I'd rather be out riding on the beautiful black ribbons of highway, devoid of traffic and unnecessary rumble strips, that could only be found in heaven. Or spending time walking our dogs that had passed years earlier. That, to me, was heaven.
I used to see my faith journey as having a destination; I was so certain my belief and obedience would lead me to heaven, but that's not me anymore. Like I said, it's a winding journey.
The earliest memory I have is of my baptism. I know, it sounds unbelievable, and it is. I can envision myself in a baptismal gown being held by someone, I can't recall who, with a lot of other people gathered around me. I see the color burgundy with subdued lighting, and what feels like we're gathered at the front of a church. I couldn't have been more than a few months old. That's why it's unbelievable. But it's a memory and a vision that I've carried with me my entire life.
I've always considered myself a seeker more than a religious person. I had a direct line to Jesus, and I would use it often. I was, at some low level, always questioning the tenets of my faith—just a little. I have to understand why things are the way they are before I can accept them.
The other part of my faith that took a lasting hit was scripture. For years, I would do the Bible-in-a-Year lesson plans, year after year. It was a daily devotional for me. At one point, I read over some scripture in Deuteronomy 22: 28-29 that jumped out at me. I had been over those verses numerous times before (it's super dry to read), but I never grasped the horror of what I was reading: A virgin woman raped by a man, resulting in the woman having to marry her rapist, with the rapist paying his victim's father 50 shekels. They shall never divorce. I read it several times more over the next few minutes and tried to make sense of it.
I could not come up with a reasonable justification for this being an acceptable solution. I compared the text with many other versions, figuring there must be a more acceptable text elsewhere. I never found one. The liner notes along the bottom of my Bible had a few sentences about the scripture. It said that a woman defiled in such a way in those times would have been considered damaged goods and undesirable. It was better for her to live with her rapist than to try to make it on her own. I probably squinted my eyes to make sure I was reading the fine print correctly.
I couldn't imagine why, among all of the other laws God passed down—from not mixing fabrics, to the length of one's hair, to the specifics about what one could and couldn't eat—why couldn't there be a law that would require people to care for those among them who are in need, such as the woman who was raped. (A teaching would come later through Jesus to address this.) It troubled me to think that an abused woman wouldn't be valued more.
I was going to share a little about my transition out of organized religion in this post, but I recalled something I'd written a few years ago, when I was deep in my exit from the faith: "I Will Never Stop Seeking."
Not much has changed since I wrote that, but there is one thing I should mention: I'm comfortable with my decision to leave the faith. I will expand on that later because, in a roundabout way, it's the point of this blog piece.
This is getting lengthy, and I have a fair amount more to say. I'm going to finish this in a continuation post in a day or two. Thanks for reading.
That's all I've got.
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