That's Me in the Spotlight

I’m no longer a Christian. I don’t know if I’m agnostic or atheist, but I definitely no longer worship the Christian God.

I wish I could say it happened all at once, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was a culmination of a bunch of different factors that have been building up for ages that all coalesced in one weekend and a breakdown while brushing my teeth.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, but I don’t even know where the beginning is. It’s like when you have a sweater that you absolutely love and then you start to notice it unraveling by the presence of a loose thread. Let’s pull on that thread, shall we?

I grew up in a deeply Christian household (excepting the fact that I was a bastard child and my mother had tattoos); prayers and church and observing Lent. My grandmother, the wisest person I know, was a pastor in the Lutheran church. I participated in church nativity plays, sang in the choir, was an acolyte, did youth group service missions to Appalachia and built homes in Texas (with Chick-fil-A sandwiches for lunch every single day). As an adult, I became so rooted in my faith - it consumed me and became my identity. I wasn’t a woman, a daughter, a sister, a friend, an actress, a reader, an employee. I was a Christian. A Level 10 Christian: I was a community group leader, I started a prayer ministry at my church and taught a prayer course, I served communion and greeted visitors, I spent every morning in my Bible and read it cover to cover every year, I listened to Hillsong in the car and in the shower and on my runs, I prayed when I woke up and when I went to sleep, I provided Biblical advice to both believers and non-believers, witnessing and testifying my truth. I was a social justice and prayer warrior, following the example of Christ. I went to 25 different churches while I was in Minnesota, desperate for both human connection and God’s presence and was unable to find either in the marketed buddy Christ white saviorism of the Midwestern Bible Belt. One of my closest friends was a spiritual mentor who’s entire being was devoted to God, my roommate was a Christian. Belonging to Him was everything, so inextricably intertwined with my sense of self, my morality, my behavior, my communication, my way of thinking, my very being. I had gotten baptized twice, I was so keen on proclaiming His presence in my life. Everything I did was in service of Him, all glory and honor to Him, apologized for my offenses to Him, felt guilty when I didn’t thank Him. The essential core of who I was was Jesus-shaped.

Because of that, whenever I felt unloved or unwanted, I told myself, “God’s here. I can’t feel him, but he’s here.” Whenever I couldn’t sleep, I would pray that God would grant me rest and I would pray for hours, laying in bed in the dark. When I needed direction, I would try interpret the dreams I remembered as messages from God. I saw Him and heard Him speak to me. Any time something good or bad happened, I would immediately turn to God and chastise myself for not getting there quicker. I told myself that God provided all things for my good, that He had made everything come together to get me where I was: He placed these opportunities and people and places and occupations in front of me just so and I had to revel in the great mystery of His wonder and truth. That even though I didn’t get what I wanted and was deeply unhappy for working really hard and not getting it, it didn’t matter because God saw how faithful I was and I would be rewarded at the end of my days with the Kingdom of Heaven. I had accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior; life wouldn’t be easy but it would be righteous. My dissatisfaction with both myself and my life was nothing as long as I served God and loved people. God ran through the very veins he created in me. He was the gold adhesive of the broken pottery of my soul, the Japanese philosophy kintsugi incarnate. I was a fucked up human being but I needed to be the best I could be because perfection existed at one point to be crucified and murdered for the redemption of my fucked-upness. Despite being born sinful, I had to strive to be a good little Christian girl so I could be worthy of such a sacrifice while knowing I never could be and accepting this love wholly and without question.

When I first moved to Boston, I found the church I belonged to and eventually made my way back to. It was the main reason why I returned to Boston. Yeah, yeah, I had friends that were still there and of course, football, but it was my faith that called me back to the city. I needed this church; it was what I was looking for in Los Angeles and Minneapolis: it was the perfect combination of size, human interaction, great worship music, relevant sermons, and communion every Sunday. It was amazing to me that I couldn’t find a church that had any of that in all the places I attended. Each church I went to would have one or two of the things I asked for, but weren’t spiritually nourishing to someone who had always been fed a specific way. My first Sunday back was Easter and I went to the Somerville campus to surprise my friend. My first Sunday back at the South End location was the day the founding pastor announced he was leaving, returning to Chicago. I cried in front of him, which I think threw him off because even though we had interacted in the past, he didn’t particularly remember me. However, despite one of the main reasons for my return now suddenly not existing, I threw myself into serving and participating.

That first year was the year I leveled up, becoming recognizable to others within the church for sharing my story, for getting up in front of the flock to make funny, self-deprecating announcements, for being a leader within my church community. I was any and everywhere, helping out when I could. I didn’t feel God, but I was a Christian! I just had to believe He was there. I struck up a friendship with the new pastor; thought him a bit too ambitious for our tiny church, but that’s probably why he was hired. My community group started to shy away from the hard questions I was asking and had an easier time processing Sunday School-type discussions. I was told I was supported in my desire to launch a prayer ministry (which I felt was deeply needed for our church) and did a lot of the start up myself. I’d stand at the back of the room, waiting to pray over people but they never knew I was there because I never received the lanyards or the signage or the announcements to the congregation I was told I would get. I struggled with leading and felt there was no investment in this congregation - that our church was branching out without making sure the roots were deep and strong. I swiftly and surprisingly announced my departure from the community group I led of about eighteen believers; only two of them asked if I was okay. Ten months later, after unsuccessfully herding cats to get this prayer ministry off the ground, I left the church. I couldn’t slake other’s thirst when my own cup was empty. My cup was bone dry. I constantly prayed and would’ve been happy with an answered prayer that wasn’t even in my favor as long as I got an answer. I remember being at my mom’s house for a holiday and I told her in tears that I wished desperately for God to hit me, just so I could feel Him touch me. Shit was hitting the fan and God was nowhere to be found. And yet, I still did all the good Christian things. I was doing my duty, God would do his. I could rely on Him. He is good and faithful. I needed direction on whether or not to take a job and I prayed, having one-sided conversations out loud with Him. My mother said maybe He wasn’t saying anything because He was allowing me to make the decision myself. I told myself that He hadn’t walked out of the house, He had just moved into an adjacent room while I was crying in the nursery, that He was getting me to self-soothe (that’s a baby metaphor). All these trite, very Christian mottos came up as I wallowed in despair and felt around blindly: Bear your cross gladly, be in the world and not of it, for God so loved the world, he gave his only son so you can certainly love that person who made you angry, you are beloved. Even as I contemplated suicide (just contemplated, never attempted), I thought, “Surely God would come down and intervene." I was thinking about harming one of his masterpieces beyond physical repair, surely He’d want to save his artwork!

I’d get such terrible spiritual whiplash - feeling like I had concrete evidence that God had answered my prayer then feeling like it was weighting me down in the Charles River, feeling very good and positive about where humanity was to then learn about a mass shooting at a nightclub in Orlando, feeling like God spoke to me then radio silence - and that in turn fucked with my emotions. I have very strong physiological reactions to what I’m feeling and so I was just completely and physically drained. But I still kept the faith. The devil could chip away at it all he wanted, but I was branded! I was baptized! I had on the full armor of God! I still kept the faith!

I continued to pray for love. At first, I prayed for a husband. Felt that was too specific, and asked for a relationship. Still felt that was too specific so I prayed for opportunity. Opportunities came in the form of swiping left. And went. Thought I had some one who could love me - turned out he was emotionally abusive and manipulative (upside of that whole shitstorm - I learned I loved myself). I just really wanted to be loved by a man I loved. I wanted to be wanted by a man I wanted. I prayed for a partner, for someone I could share my independence with. I prayed for someone that would make me laugh, who would challenge me, who would help me be the best version of myself and who I could help be the best version of himself. I prayed for Romance, capital R, and someone who wouldn’t be able to contain his need to be inside me and would take every consented moment to take me. Obviously, I couched these prayers with the need for a solid Christian man, a man after God’s own heart, like David. I was loved by my family and my friends and humanity at large, but I wanted to be the bride someone would be the church to. I prayed to be satisfied with the love of Christ because I wasn’t and I felt horribly guilty about craving more. God was more than enough and all I needed - please remove this need to be loved by a particular hetero human of the opposite sex and be secure in His love for me. But I still kept the faith.

I started yoga and became more aware of space and my place in it. Proprioception does a lot for you physically, but understanding that I was a being, taking up residence in the universe, that my body moved in ways I dictated, started to call to an autonomy I hadn’t realized I had. I saw that I was becoming more aware and analytical - noticing the minutiae of life in movement. That somehow made me realize that there was something beautiful outside the realm of God - these people I was practicing with weren’t Christians, but they were caretakers of themselves, their relationships, their place in the world. They were good people, with autonomy and movement and without God. Going through yoga teacher training, I was met with some very imperfect people, but who were still striving to be as valuable to society and humanity as possible. One of the greatest acts of love I’ve ever experienced was shown to me by a non-Christian, when David played a worship song for me because he knew what it meant to me. I hadn’t been shown that kind of simple, unrequested love by a lot of Christians; it always came with a…Christ-adjacent justification for their deed. I was starting to realize that being kind and graceful and loving wasn’t exclusive to Christianity, like I felt I had been taught. These people had struggles, yes, but they were able to thrive without the guilt of going through those struggles because they weren’t Christian. But I still kept the faith.

Three weeks ago, a new friend of mine and I spent the weekend hauling ass around Paris. Technically, he came to visit the city and I just happened to be here, but it was basically spending three days with a semi-stranger. We knew each other from high school, but despite only being a class of seventy students, we never hung out - we just knew of each other (“I hung out with everyone, but you stayed with the theater nerds,” he told me the first night we met up for drinks). We friended each other on Facebook in 2010 (a full five years after we graduated) so the only context I had of him was through a cultivated timeline. While most everything I’d post was about being thankful for my community group or the work God had done in my life, I knew nothing about his faith- if he was a Christian or Jewish or Buddhist or an atheist- because all his posts were motivational and snarky anecdotes. But I didn’t really think (or care) about it because I was just super happy being around him and being present with him: he reminded me of Jason with his habit of making you feel like you’re basking in sunshine and he reminded me of Melissa with his exhaustive extrovertedness. He was insanely funny, super quick, infinitely kind, and made space for me to ask deeply personal and philosophical questions. One of which became the needle in the haystack on the camel’s back. It was whether or not there was any room for mercy in justice.

We had been talking about one of the two people he hated (with good reason) and his passionate reaction to all the vile shit this dude had done was such a juxtaposition to his already established sunny and optimistic disposition and that prompted me to ask that question. I voiced that, as a Christian, I thought no one was beyond redemption, and he disagreed. That inevitably led to the not-very-new statement: How can someone who does terribly bad things get into heaven if they accept Jesus Christ but someone who is good and loving and serves his community goes to hell simply because he doesn't believe? He also remarked, down the line of conversation, that he thought God a vain asshole if the only way to get to heaven was to love him. Again, nothing new or unheard of. It wasn’t those statements that launched my unbelief, it was my answer to them: I don’t have anything to offer other than: it’s all part of the mystery of God. I felt sick and stupid, uttering those words. I had been so firm in the assumption that while I didn’t know anything, God knew everything and now, that pillar was crumbling with the weight of my blind faith. Suddenly, I had an acute sense that my unquestioning faith made me deaf and dumb to the fact that people suffer and God doesn’t intervene to protect and love his children deliberately in order to have them undoubtedly rely on him. I felt embarrassed that the crutch I had been leaning on didn’t give me a leg to stand on when it came to answering what seemed like a simple question. I also realized that I normally didn't get such push-back when it came to my faith; I think it’s because I was such a zealot that people felt it exhausting to try and open my eyes, but were also incredibly accepting of the fact that I was convicted.

Later that night, after I had said good-bye and see you in another 15 years to my friend, I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, thinking about his character traits, how I’d like to embody and was inspired by them: his optimism, his ability to lay all his cards unabashedly on the table, his go-with-the-flowness. I thought about the traits of my mother: her humor, her pursuit of knowledge, her nomadic restlessness. Jason’s traits of not taking anything too seriously and being fiercely and unapologetically himself. Melissa’s traits of curiosity and thoughtfulness. Joli with her encouragement and unconditional availability. SanSan and her wisdom and honesty. Corey's honesty and patience. I stood thinking about how the people in my life were so much better than me, so much kinder, gentler, more gracious and more accepting. I tried so hard to spin it as I thought my new friend would: that I was so incredibly lucky that I had people who loved me when I felt unlovable. But I felt depression peak out from behind my heart and say, “You don’t deserve these people because you are so unlovable.” From there, it was a terrifying shame spiral that left me feeling so heartbreakingly guilty that I wasn’t content with all that God had given me. Tears streamed down my face into my toothpaste-filled mouth and I asked for God to tell me that I was okay, that I was loved. This wasn’t a self-soothe moment; this was a lost and frightened child crying out in crippling, agonizing anguish.

There was silence. The same silence that had been there for years. I was screaming for acknowledgement, rending my soul from myself into his hands.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

God wasn’t answering because God wasn’t listening. God wasn’t listening because God wasn’t there.

Everything I had been taught was telling me that was the enemy speaking. But the devil didn’t ask why I was pleading for love from the one being I was taught to believe was the total and sole embodiment of love. I asked that.

I asked why I initially felt guilty on Friday when I became aware I had realized one of my dreams and didn’t immediately thank God for it, instead proudly basking in the work I had accomplished.

I asked why I was given free will if everything was going according to God’s plan.

I asked why I had to give God the glory for every good thing in my life while I was responsible for every bad thing.

I asked why I was created a human and punished with red talley marks in a ledger for doing very human things.

And then I walked away. I chose to no longer be in a relationship with someone who is absent when I am in desperate need of him. It’s been zero return on investment for thirty-two years and I couldn’t be with someone that constantly makes me feel guilty for not putting him first. I decided I’m not going to worship, give my life, my autonomy, my very being to someone that demands my faith without earning it, without showing up, without proving he’s worthy of putting my faith in. I was tired of not accepting responsibility for all the good choices I’ve made that have gotten me to where I am at this moment, but accepting responsibility for all the terrible, sinful things that are innately human.

I’ve spent the time since then untangling and extricating myself from the things I was taught and told. In a letter to a friend, I said that one thing I’m really good at is sitting down with a knotted-up gold chain and working to loosen it, patiently, focused, and without frustration. That’s what I’ve been doing. I have so many questions about life and art and philosophy and science and beauty and purpose and existence that I’m finding direction in books and conversations and reflection. I’m also unlearning so many bad habits and forming new ones; chief among them ascribing accountability and affirmation to myself for all my choices and decisions, and the consequences that have been manifested as a result. I’m also really enjoying discovering who exactly I am, separate from God. I liken it to having gone through a divorce. I had an identity, that of the bride that Christ gave his life up for, and I lived my life within the realm and confines of that identity faithfully, loyally, accepting the ups and downs of marriage but remaining true to the commitment, for better or worse. Then the worse turned out to be toxic, harmful, detrimental, and a complete loss of love so there had to be an end, a conscious uncoupling (thanks, Gwyneth) where the consciousness was on my part without any acknowledgement from the other party. There was a division of the assets: time, effort, thought, spatial occupation. That was tangible and easily navigable since I have the world and he the universe beyond it. And now I’m learning how to function as an independent, single woman. I’m forging an identity that is all Amanda, who is living joyously for being the best she can be, and without God.

I wrote on New Year’s Eve that within the last year, I’ve learned to do the best for myself so I can do my best for others. Walking away from a painful relationship where I simply saw myself as lesser than I was was the best I can do for myself. And now, because I’m not trapped in a loveless marriage, I can give love to others. I feel so incredibly happy and liberated, free. Yes, things have been emotional for me outside of this relationship with God, but I feel more able to meet those emotions, be more aware of them, and process them without the burden of attribution or guilt. I’m able to take more control of my reactions and feel, viscerally, the humanity of my personhood. There has been such an incredible feeling of emancipation; I’m able to express aspects of myself I was too ashamed or embarrassed to display for fear of judgement from God and for fear of being too human as the daughter of the divine king. My behavior hasn’t changed much but I suspect that will follow. I still have the ethics and values and morals I did a month ago, but I am now joyously and wholly myself. These feelings of happiness and joy and freedom I’m experiencing as truth are what I’ve been chasing and pursuing with God my entire life.

It wasn’t until I walked away that I finally found them.