Note: Giving testimony to my personal beliefs about God, religion and spirituality is not something I do easily. I worry about offending others. I’m no theologian. I struggle to hold on to a faith that I often question. So, in writing this and publishing it here, I take a leap of faith. This wrote itself. Much of it lies beyond my powers of logical and rational thought. It is what it is. I feel compelled to share it by something deep within. It might be God or the complicated mental gymnastics of a part-time narcissist. In desperation, I lash my soul to a mast I call, God. It’s what gets me through the day, through a life. It is all I have.
Lately, I’ve given a lot of thought to being a victim. . . more accurately the experience or feeling of being a victim. As fate would have it, I also started a new book last night. It’s called Insurrection and it’s by Peter Rollins. The basic premise of the book is summed up on the cover with the words:
To believe is human to doubt, divine.
At first glance this book and the experience of being a victim aren’t obviously linked. Yet, some how in the deeper regions of my being the two ideas have merged into a shocking epiphany. When I got up this morning and in between a bowl of cereal and my coffee, I pick up the book and read one paragraph.
Buy Ingrid Michaelson’s music on I-Tunes, Amazon, any where music is sold. Support musicians and artists everywhere. They deserve it for entertaining and inspiring us and for making us think about the quality of our lives.
Supernatural Debt Cancellation
These were three words I had never heard together until yesterday. They were the promised result, a gift from the Lord. Of course, you had to call in and request your Miracle Spring Water to open the path for the Lord. (I’m sure the call center is instructed to “offer callers the opportunity to donate to the ministry.) I watched this informercial in stunned silence before I started to rant. I suddenly felt like the spokesperson for the hoodwinked, the innocent, the snookered. This was an outrage. An abomination served upon those least able to watch out for themselves under the guise of religion. God was being used.
It’s been one of those weeks. I haven’t had much to say. The fires of righteous indignation don’t seem to be burning brightly. I just want to curl up with a good book but there are too many interruptions. Thinking and writing seem mutually exclusive activities.
Around 9 p.m. the dog woke from her usual evening slumber and danced and scratched at the door. She had to go outside. She can never be expected to go alone. She requires the presence of the “potty coach.” At first, this need irritated me. No creature should need a potty coach.
In time, I gave in to the coaching. I realized that for what ever reason, that is what my dog needs and I can give it to her. It’s not hard really. In the act of encouragement, I find a certain comfort and peace but this was only found under layers of resistance. I had to stop thinking about what “should” happen and simply accept what was happening. This last sentence is easy to write but very difficult to live.
My personal relationship with God and my faith is something I usually keep secret. I’m not comfortable discussing my lifeline to the Divine. Spiritual abuse victims often act this way. I am one.
Yet, the truth remains. God matters to me. Faith matters. Some days it is all I have. And, despite all that has happened to me, to victims of religion everywhere, to the vulnerable, to the weak, I can’t deny that I believe.
I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.