Blue Ruin’s Weblog

It annoys me to worry about gender-specific pronouns when speaking about something that, in theory, transcends gender. So I’m going to write this in second-person. Don’t be alarmed.

There are a great many things I don’t know. So I’ll start with what I do know: I know you’re out there.

.

.

.

That’s pretty much where the “knowing” stops. I don’t know if you listen to us, or care for us, or if you’re even capable of either or both. I don’t know if you came to Earth as a man and died for us, or if you’re some huge cloud, a conglomeration of all of the enlightened souls who’ve made it off this rock. I don’t know what you think of us, or what you want/expect/need from us. I don’t know any of those things, but I know you’re out there. In some form. And I think… I think you touch down in our lives, sometimes. Not so much moving us around like a celestial chess player… but maybe reordering the board a little, every now and then. I grew up thinking about God and religion in very broad, general terms. It wasn’t until I was 21 or so that I was really made to consider the idea of Jesus. It was all so exciting, then. Here’s a new peer group, a new family, a new life. Here, take it,  enjoy it, thrive on it. I was suddenly surrounded by good people who had this… magic… thing. This strange, driving force to do good things, to stretch themselves and challenge themselves and grow and learn and love. I lost myself. Rather, maybe it just became clear that I never really had a strong grip on my identity to begin with. Thinking about it now, that makes more sense. I’ve always been so concerned with making people like me. I taught myself to like everything, to appreciate everything I could, just so I could fit in with whatever crowd was around me. Still, I never did it very well. Church was no different. I dove in with with all the excitement of a zealot because the people around me were zealots. Amidst all of the newness, though, you got lost somehow. I never would’ve believed it at the time. You were all we talked about. You and Jesus. The Bible. “Dying to self”. Everything we did, we tried to do it with a humble heart and as ambassadors of your love, because that’s what we thought you wanted us to do. And maybe we were right. But somewhere between the Sunday morning services, Sunday evening meetings, Monday night prayer meetings, Tuesday night worship team, Wednesday night classes, and Thursday night homeless ministry runs, I missed the fact that I didn’t really know you. I heard other people talk about you. Read about you. Sang about you. But never once did I experience you. Maybe it’s supposed to be that way, but eventually it wasn’t enough for me anymore. I needed to know you, I said. So I prayed. Fasted. Prayed. Cried. Begged. Still, no burning bushes and no voice from the heavens. Instead, the peer group fell apart. The church broke down. The skins of regular people started showing through the veneer of sainthood. Maybe I was supposed to find you there, somewhere in the loneliness that followed. I don’t know. If that was your plan, I failed miserably.

Fast forward a couple of years. Trying to please everyone for so much of my life has actually taught me to appreciate a wide variety of things. Many different genres of music, of humor, pastimes, artistic pursuits. Removed from my family and the last vestiges of my home church and relocated on the other side of the country, it’s entirely too easy to ignore you altogether. I’ve missed certain genres of everything, things I haven’t let myself indulge in because they weren’t ‘godly’. I see so much beauty in the world, even in the places that are supposed to be evil. It doesn’t pan out, in my head. I have questions, and no one I want to ask. It’s easier to ignore it. Enjoy life, enjoy all the beauty. How can anyone be expected to believe in Hell when I see spiderwebs covered in glittering raindrops, babies laughing, weeping willow trees, passionate kisses? It doesn’t add up.

Another year or two passes, and it slowly becomes evident that I’m doing something wrong. I’m not content. I miss having a purpose bigger than myself and what I want. I miss having a place outside of myself to place worry and fear and doubt, some place that I can trust it will be handled. I miss the way I used to challenge myself to be better, the spiritual shugyo that I used to force on myself, trying to be better. I can’t escape the fact that I know you’re out there. I’m doing it wrong. I’m missing something. I need to know my maker. I need to know my finisher.

Trouble is, there are so many stories out there about who you are. What you want. Where you came from. Where I came from. If I’d grown up in India, would I be struggling with the tenants of the Hindu faith instead of Christian? Or would I still be trying to figure out how a supposedly all-encompassing love manages to somehow exclude people who don’t love according to certain rules?

It’s late, and I have to sleep. I have more thoughts, but they’ll have to wait.