Just sent this to everyone on both sides of my family
Posted: Sun Mar 24, 2019 4:13 pm
Subject: Perfect love casts out all fear
This is going to adults on both sides of my family and my childhood friend, J. Warning: It's long, but I hope it helps increase understanding and is worth your time.
Reuben family: I have something to explain before my family arrives in the United States. Dad has asked that we don't tell Mom for now. I agree. We can shoulder this burden together to lighten hers.
I no longer believe the Church's claims to authority and exclusive truth. I haven't attended in a year and a half, and I currently don't intend to return.
It's hard to explain the sorrow it brings me to tell you this. If you experience sadness, believe me, I feel it, too. If you're afraid, I'm right there with you. If you feel anger, I understand it well. I've visited that place too often, but I do my best to stay away.
But I have to tell you because a father should burden his children as little as possible with pretense and secrets.
You might be wondering how I've changed. I'm mostly the same person I was. If I must have a new label, the current best fit is "Christian agnostic." I'm confident that our beliefs are more similar than different. I still try to extend grace to everyone. I have faith in all the goodness I find, especially in the second great commandment - and I think Jesus's interpretation is one of the finest gifts the world has ever been given. I still believe that perfect love casts out all fear.
I respect what you believe simply because you believe it and I love you.
***
Change, uncertainty and secrets can all make it hard to know how to act. Here's a proposal.
Reuben family: It's probably best to not tell minor children about my change in beliefs for now. Kids talk.
Everyone: Let's regard each other as if we have different religions, which is the common situation most similar to this one.
As much as possible, I don't want anyone to feel stifled. Talk about what makes you who you are! This might include beliefs, callings, brushes with the divine, eastern philosophy or secular humanism. Whatever it is, it's part of your story, which makes it sacred and beautiful to me.
Of course we can also talk about work, politics, science, history, theology, what's on Neflix, and who in our lives is doing what. I look forward to all of that.
Some things could be very awkward for me, though, such as bearing testimony of exclusivity claims, or asking me to pray. What would you say to a dear Catholic friend, and when? For my part, I'll do my best to not try to "fix" anyone, either.
I don't think anyone needs fixing, anyway.
Blame is not okay. Please don't imply that I've brought sorrow on myself, or that I'm in some way broken, less than I was, or destined for harsh judgment if I don't repent. Please don't pass on speculation about why people doubt or leave the Church. This topic is all the rage right now. Leave it alone. None of the speculation within the Church describes me or the people I've come to know who are like me.
I can't promise that I won't implode or explode if this comes up, only that I'll do my best not to while I ask to change the topic.
I feel like I need to explain why blame is such a sore spot. If you're a believing member, the next part might upset you, so please try to approach it with understanding. Skip it if you have to. If you feel like responding in anger, please sit with it for at least a day first.
Remember, this is my story. Whether you believe it or not, it's sacred to me.
***
When I awoke on the morning of Sunday, October 23rd, 2016, I had been dreaming about leaving the Church. I don't think I had ever considered it before. But in my sleep, my unconscious mind had torn out my belief that God intervenes, as well as everything that my belief implied, leaving a gaping wound in my soul.
How it happened is hard to explain. Depression was involved, but it wasn't the only thing, and it couldn't have been a direct cause, having gone into remission a month before. The best I've got is another analogy: the pieces of religious narrative and reason that formed half of the core of my identity stopped fitting together and fell apart in my hands.
The effects are also hard to explain, so here's yet another analogy: it was like someone very close to me had died. I had never experienced such profound grief.
So to put yourself in my shoes, imagine that one of your parents has suddenly died.
Now imagine that there's nobody who can mourn with you. You suffer alone. Your spouse, who we'll assume is your best champion and cheerleader like mine is, sits with you in your grief but can't understand what you're going through or why it's so painful.
Now imagine that you have reason to believe that if you were to reach out to your friends and family for support, they would blame you for your sorrow. Some would reject you because your grief is a threat to them. You can't risk showing it, even as they rub your wounds raw by talking about the joy they have in their still-living parents. You understand, but you're so very alone.
Now imagine that your friends and family defend against becoming like you partly by denigrating people like you as a group. They frequently talk about how to avoid your terrible fate, consistently use the language of disgust and contamination to describe you, make it clear that God thinks less of you, and teach all these things to your children.
Imagine your mounting sense of betrayal as you carry your burden of silence, fear and shame. Imagine your betrayal festering in your isolation.
This is why I left a year later and haven't been back. This is why blame is such a sore spot.
If you would like to give me the benefit of the doubt, and you believe that things happen for a reason, I have some observations to share.
1. Every religion that acknowledges the "dark night of the soul" regards it as a test, with staying faithful to that religion indicating success. This inconsistent standard suggests to me that it's unlikely to be a test of those who experience it.
2. Life has a way of dragging us up Golgotha and crucifying parts of us that we rely on to be happy: security, relationships, competence, health, beliefs. Most of us have little left by the time we depart. We endure these losses best when we endure them together.
3. Life seems to teach its hardest lessons in the thick darkness, away from the safety of the campfire, within the jaws of the terrible night.
The hardest and most precious lesson I've learned is compassion for those whose grief I don't understand.
***
Two and a half years ago, I found myself thrust into a war of ideas that I didn't start and don't want to fight in. The war is over the Church's foundational stories and worth.
War makes us afraid. Fear makes us want to fashion armor and weapons, and seek security in strong leaders. It makes us sensitive to threat and overly aware of differences that might reveal an enemy. It makes us interpret everything in the worst possible way. Fear makes us impatient, leads to judgment and pride, and is self-seeking and easily provoked.
On both sides of this war, I see soldiers pulling on armor fashioned from ignorance and prejudice, and passing out weapons fashioned from blame and discrimination. I see both sides accept old battle lines drawn between "us" and "them" without thought, and entrench for protection against the other, even when the other is family. I see marriages torn apart weekly.
I can't stress enough that both sides are complicit.
When I woke on the battlefield at the end of 2016, I found my own side swinging weapons at me, ready to redouble the blows if I had the audacity to cry out when the strokes landed. At the end of 2017, I turned down the standing offer to take up arms for the other side and walked off the battlefield.
But I still have my sword. Its name is Accuser and it has a wicked edge. I've swung it a few times and regretted it each time. I'm afraid to put it down, but I want more than anything to feel safe enough to do so.
Please, let's put down our weapons of war, and bury them deep in the earth. Even a war of ideas has no place in a family.
Reuben
This is going to adults on both sides of my family and my childhood friend, J. Warning: It's long, but I hope it helps increase understanding and is worth your time.
Reuben family: I have something to explain before my family arrives in the United States. Dad has asked that we don't tell Mom for now. I agree. We can shoulder this burden together to lighten hers.
I no longer believe the Church's claims to authority and exclusive truth. I haven't attended in a year and a half, and I currently don't intend to return.
It's hard to explain the sorrow it brings me to tell you this. If you experience sadness, believe me, I feel it, too. If you're afraid, I'm right there with you. If you feel anger, I understand it well. I've visited that place too often, but I do my best to stay away.
But I have to tell you because a father should burden his children as little as possible with pretense and secrets.
You might be wondering how I've changed. I'm mostly the same person I was. If I must have a new label, the current best fit is "Christian agnostic." I'm confident that our beliefs are more similar than different. I still try to extend grace to everyone. I have faith in all the goodness I find, especially in the second great commandment - and I think Jesus's interpretation is one of the finest gifts the world has ever been given. I still believe that perfect love casts out all fear.
I respect what you believe simply because you believe it and I love you.
***
Change, uncertainty and secrets can all make it hard to know how to act. Here's a proposal.
Reuben family: It's probably best to not tell minor children about my change in beliefs for now. Kids talk.
Everyone: Let's regard each other as if we have different religions, which is the common situation most similar to this one.
As much as possible, I don't want anyone to feel stifled. Talk about what makes you who you are! This might include beliefs, callings, brushes with the divine, eastern philosophy or secular humanism. Whatever it is, it's part of your story, which makes it sacred and beautiful to me.
Of course we can also talk about work, politics, science, history, theology, what's on Neflix, and who in our lives is doing what. I look forward to all of that.
Some things could be very awkward for me, though, such as bearing testimony of exclusivity claims, or asking me to pray. What would you say to a dear Catholic friend, and when? For my part, I'll do my best to not try to "fix" anyone, either.
I don't think anyone needs fixing, anyway.
Blame is not okay. Please don't imply that I've brought sorrow on myself, or that I'm in some way broken, less than I was, or destined for harsh judgment if I don't repent. Please don't pass on speculation about why people doubt or leave the Church. This topic is all the rage right now. Leave it alone. None of the speculation within the Church describes me or the people I've come to know who are like me.
I can't promise that I won't implode or explode if this comes up, only that I'll do my best not to while I ask to change the topic.
I feel like I need to explain why blame is such a sore spot. If you're a believing member, the next part might upset you, so please try to approach it with understanding. Skip it if you have to. If you feel like responding in anger, please sit with it for at least a day first.
Remember, this is my story. Whether you believe it or not, it's sacred to me.
***
When I awoke on the morning of Sunday, October 23rd, 2016, I had been dreaming about leaving the Church. I don't think I had ever considered it before. But in my sleep, my unconscious mind had torn out my belief that God intervenes, as well as everything that my belief implied, leaving a gaping wound in my soul.
How it happened is hard to explain. Depression was involved, but it wasn't the only thing, and it couldn't have been a direct cause, having gone into remission a month before. The best I've got is another analogy: the pieces of religious narrative and reason that formed half of the core of my identity stopped fitting together and fell apart in my hands.
The effects are also hard to explain, so here's yet another analogy: it was like someone very close to me had died. I had never experienced such profound grief.
So to put yourself in my shoes, imagine that one of your parents has suddenly died.
Now imagine that there's nobody who can mourn with you. You suffer alone. Your spouse, who we'll assume is your best champion and cheerleader like mine is, sits with you in your grief but can't understand what you're going through or why it's so painful.
Now imagine that you have reason to believe that if you were to reach out to your friends and family for support, they would blame you for your sorrow. Some would reject you because your grief is a threat to them. You can't risk showing it, even as they rub your wounds raw by talking about the joy they have in their still-living parents. You understand, but you're so very alone.
Now imagine that your friends and family defend against becoming like you partly by denigrating people like you as a group. They frequently talk about how to avoid your terrible fate, consistently use the language of disgust and contamination to describe you, make it clear that God thinks less of you, and teach all these things to your children.
Imagine your mounting sense of betrayal as you carry your burden of silence, fear and shame. Imagine your betrayal festering in your isolation.
This is why I left a year later and haven't been back. This is why blame is such a sore spot.
If you would like to give me the benefit of the doubt, and you believe that things happen for a reason, I have some observations to share.
1. Every religion that acknowledges the "dark night of the soul" regards it as a test, with staying faithful to that religion indicating success. This inconsistent standard suggests to me that it's unlikely to be a test of those who experience it.
2. Life has a way of dragging us up Golgotha and crucifying parts of us that we rely on to be happy: security, relationships, competence, health, beliefs. Most of us have little left by the time we depart. We endure these losses best when we endure them together.
3. Life seems to teach its hardest lessons in the thick darkness, away from the safety of the campfire, within the jaws of the terrible night.
The hardest and most precious lesson I've learned is compassion for those whose grief I don't understand.
***
Two and a half years ago, I found myself thrust into a war of ideas that I didn't start and don't want to fight in. The war is over the Church's foundational stories and worth.
War makes us afraid. Fear makes us want to fashion armor and weapons, and seek security in strong leaders. It makes us sensitive to threat and overly aware of differences that might reveal an enemy. It makes us interpret everything in the worst possible way. Fear makes us impatient, leads to judgment and pride, and is self-seeking and easily provoked.
On both sides of this war, I see soldiers pulling on armor fashioned from ignorance and prejudice, and passing out weapons fashioned from blame and discrimination. I see both sides accept old battle lines drawn between "us" and "them" without thought, and entrench for protection against the other, even when the other is family. I see marriages torn apart weekly.
I can't stress enough that both sides are complicit.
When I woke on the battlefield at the end of 2016, I found my own side swinging weapons at me, ready to redouble the blows if I had the audacity to cry out when the strokes landed. At the end of 2017, I turned down the standing offer to take up arms for the other side and walked off the battlefield.
But I still have my sword. Its name is Accuser and it has a wicked edge. I've swung it a few times and regretted it each time. I'm afraid to put it down, but I want more than anything to feel safe enough to do so.
Please, let's put down our weapons of war, and bury them deep in the earth. Even a war of ideas has no place in a family.
Reuben
