"If I Didn't Know Aslan, I Would Be Afraid of Them"

Several years ago, I thought I knew what "God" was, in the conceptual sense. I bought into the Unitarian, New Age, George Lucas brand of religion -- that there was a Higher Force, we just all called it something different and worshiped it in different ways. Why else would there be so many religions, right?

I noted several ubiquitous characteristics in all major religions; concentration on inevitable human error, sacrifice to put right that error, seeking the true will of the Deity, and uncertainty as to what that was. Worship seemed to be marked by constant tension between "right" and "wrong". And if you could find a mechanism that achieved "enlightenment" (a.k.a., freedom from lust, greed, fury, jealousy, pride, etc.) then that was a perk, too.

But the Deity was impersonal, vague, fickle, mutable, tenuous. Adherents were never certain what was actually going on. And "God" was envisioned as either a fuzzy sleeping grandfather or a wrathful taskmaster bent on bloody punishment. Both conceptions came complete with endless lists of tricks and prayers meant to appease. Still, it was never guaranteed that these remedies would work.

I hated Christians; stupid, mindless, hypocritical, Pollyannas, the whole lot of them. Not one had ever impressed me. Not one had ever brought me anything remotely like Truth upon which to chew. The only thing I ever saw them actively engaged in was condemnation and snobbery. I had never studied the Bible but was under the impression, thanks to my university education, that it was a laundry list of "don't's" along with tricks and prayers meant to appease God.

Instead I filled my time reading about Taoism, Buddhism, Native American religions, Hinduism, whatever I could get my hands on. The "survey course" material available in various bookstores made these systems look much more enlightened than any brand of Christianity I had ever encountered. I had my astrological charts drawn up; I cast druidic runes for answers to perplexing questions; I carried crystals around in my pockets; I observed the Cherokee practice of replacing anything I picked up in the outdoors with sunflower seeds; I studied yoga. It didn't all make sense, but there was a certain practicality in it.

Yet something was missing. There was a hole. Morality was largely a subjectivity; a loose and free concept that had no consequence outside one's own conscience. And there was no way to conquer injustice, error, and evil (though I dared not call it that). No remedy; other than tapping into the "power within."

But I wanted to know God, not just about Him. (Yes, even after I minored in Women's Studies, I still understood God in the masculine.) I wasn't getting what I needed. I was adrift, wondering where Truth was, if it existed at all. No one seemed to be able to help me or answer my questions.

Finally someone crossed my path who contemplated and debated like a mystic. A Christian mystic. What? Well, this had to stop. I was determined I must convince this simpleton the error of his ways. He had to be woken up from his stupor into enlightenment.

So in our discussions, I spit out the rhetoric I had been taught. Yet I was constantly rebutted with Scripture, which of course I had never heard. I could wax on critical interpretations of the Bible from feminist, Marxist, and Freudian points of view. But since no firsthand knowledge existed in me from which to draw, I was at an impasse. At this point, I was issued a challenge, "If you want to know what the Bible says, read it." How very Tolstoy.

I'm sorry, what? *Snort* That's preposterous. Please. Read the Bible... Pah! It's beneath me. What would I want with that outdated drivel?

But never one to back down from a challenge, (and being perfectly sure that once I read and decoded the text I could bring this fool down, hair by hair) I popped into the closest Christian bookstore for a little purchase. And the most uncomfortable shopping trip of my life.

I was sure everyone was looking at me, and that some alarm would sound as soon as I walked in the door. Lights would flash and a bullhorn would threaten me to put the book down and back away. Lockdown would be enforced and the police would be called. For I was an imposter, not one of them. To my surprise I purchased the book without incident, being sure to save the receipt. I didn't look through it until later that night.

I don't remember what I read first, but it was something that hacked me off. Something about condemnation and moral law that made me want to throw the book across the room. But I pressed on until I stumbled into Ecclesiastes. Whoa, meaty. I got this. And it struck me like a thunderbolt.

This man, this king, the wisest and wealthiest in history, could not reconcile the Secret of the Ages. The Wind of Whom he spoke could not be contained or explained, determined or understood. But still, the wise king followed Him. His tortures were no different than mine. His questions, longings and modes, no different. Solomon had reached across the chasm of time and mortality and spoken directly to me. And I knew.

I knew this book was the truest thing I'd ever read; that I had been wrong; that what I held in my hand was what I had been seeking all along. I knelt and prayed to the Father for forgiveness, and for my life, so that I might come home. It was the quietest prayer I'd ever prayed, the strangest breath I'd ever breathed, the most silent breaking I'd ever felt.

By the time I really met Jesus (in the way only one of His children can), I was in love with this God Man. He wasn't impersonal, vague, fickle, mutable or tenuous. Nothing of the sort. He lived and breathed and cried; He sang and danced and told jokes; He cared about people; He healed those with no hope; He rebuked the proud; He stood up for justice; He shielded even the smallest and lamest of His lambs; and He died so that I might partake of His life. He finished what I -- what all of humanity -- could not; Christian, Jew, Buddhist, Muslim or Hindu. There was no more work to be done. No more peace to reach for. He had done it. He had brought it to us.

Even now, the notion brings a tearful swelling to my heart. What a man. What a God. I couldn't love anyone else with such desperation. My heart, like Peter's, is sick with the longing to see Him. Someone I've only read about in stories. But Someone that I know lives inside me, helping every breath along, making every beat possible; going with me on every thought journey, every hard path, every joyous endeavor.

But you know what happened next... I latched on to my new church with a fierceness. The quietness gave way to shouting. These people knew what was going on. This was where it was at! I happily surrendered anything in my habits, books, art, television viewing, relationships, and personality that did not conform. I wanted so much to be a part of "God's family" that I didn't ask what my flotsam cost.

And don't misunderstand, there were grave things to be dealt with. I certainly needed to burn certain books on the pyre. But when spiritual leadership drew no line between wicked and normal, I eventually came to see myself and everything God made me as Other. I was a vessel to be purged and flogged. I had no worth, I was merely smiling hands and feet.

My mantras: Be good. Don't question. If you have a question, suppress it. Squash it. Drown it out with praise music. That's wrong. And it will land you in hell. I was reduced to watching nothing but Fox News and reading only my Bible. Those were the only "safe" things. I threw away most of my secular CD's, almost all my movies, cut ties with friends and quit my band.

Then, after 4 years of trying to be perfect, I burned out. I burned out, I sought help within my church and was told I was what I had feared all along -- I was weak. My church duties came first. My mother (who had just had knee replacement and could not get out of bed unassisted) would have to fend for herself.

But that's just a symptom. They did me an immeasurable favor by forcing me to choose.

The problem was that I felt as if everyone else were praying to a different God than I. And I don't mean in a hedonistic sort of way. I mean... the God I had known these last long years was tender and merciful. He showed me things and reproved me, bending me into who He wanted me to be. He was quiet and sweet but with a warrior's strength. I knew firsthand the God I had cried with, sang to, and under Whom I learned. Their fiery mountain God was foreign to me. The wrathful God they prayed to demanded blood, conformity, and blind obedience. In my quest to "belong" I became a stupid, mindless, hypocritical, Pollyanna; most actively engaged in condemnation and snobbery.

*Sigh*

Deprogramming is still in progress. And I'm enjoying it -- for the most part.

What are my biggest complaints? Glad you asked:

The saturation of "Christian culture" that demands we all be squeaky clean, smiling, cardboard cutouts of each other, not varying in size, shape or appearance. The unspoken dogma goes something like this:

"Every word should be quiet and sweet, every action helpful and soothing. Don't disagree. Don't make waves. For heaven's sake, don't raise your voice or laugh too loudly. And ladies! Remember, pearls and skirts on Sunday. We aren't allowed to read, watch, discuss or agree with anything that has not been approved by Billy Graham, Focus on the Family, The 700 Club or another governing body. We are too stupid to possibly know what's good for us. We must surrender to their authority. Don't like it? Then you're a heathen destined for Hell. You might as well cuss, attend a yoga class, read mythology, and hang out with sinners while drinking a glass of wine. SUCCUBUS!"

Various problems:
I am not a cardboard cutout of anyone, thank you. And if you try to shove me in that box again, you're going to lose an appendage, pal. I'm not afraid to go to yoga class. Bikram Yoga is cool (... well, for a humid 108 degrees). Greek mythology has helped me to better understand Christ. "Sinners" can't hurt me -- anymore than I can hurt myself.

So this is my disclaimer (because some blogs are under the impression that I'm trying to teach here, which I'm not): I'm trying NOT to become one of those Christians I hated before I was one. I'm trying to figure out how to lose myself to Christ and regain the self He intended for me before I gummed up the works. In the process, I'm going to be moody, unpleasant, searching, seeking, floored, impressed, dazzled, and disillusioned. I might even cuss.

But one thing I will not be, is a clone of anyone other than the Me Christ intended.