Being the Same in a New Way

It was in 2007 that I took off my cross necklace for awhile. At that point, I had been feeling unsettled about my status as a Christian off and on for a solid few years and had committed some serious energy to discerning whether I was one any longer.

It felt weird to go through this, let me tell you. "Christian" was like fifth on my list of identifiers as a person. Woman. Mother. Wife. Runner. Christian.

It also felt weird to have been raised happily in the church  (Sunday Schooled, Baptized, Church Camped, Youth Grouped), to have gone to church by choice all through college, to have worked in a church out of college, to have become all grown up and join as tithing members with my husband to a church congregation and to yet nonetheless wrestle so.

I was not wrestling with God (loved Her!). I was not wrestling with Jesus (loved Him!). I was not wrestling with life (loved It!). I was not wrestling with church (loved Church people!). You see, I hadn't been burnt by any of the distinct entities that made up my faith life. I was simply wrestling with the broad definition of "Christianity."

My goals during this process were two-fold: #1) To determine the definition of "Christian." #2) To determine if I was one. My thinking was that if I couldn't faithfully believe/follow/make sense of  50% or more of my findings from #1), then I probably wasn't one. And, yes, I am aware that 50% is failing, so I was being generous.

It took about six months to determine the outcome.

I flunked.

I decided I had been wearing the Christian costume long past it fitting properly. And taking it off without an alternate costume meant I was religiously naked. Didn't even have the jewelry of my cross necklace. Damn. Naked.

But then, about a year and a million books and conversations later, something fantastic happened.

I realized that I was both terribly wrong and pinpointedly right. I was right that the old Christian costume was indeed too small, too itchy, and too claustrophobic. I was wrong that that meant I needed to let go of Christianity altogether.

There was a whole new costume, a Christian one too, awaiting me. Who knew! This new one is all roomy and down-filled and allows for all my appendages to bend and stretch every which way. Best of all, it grows with me. I won't need to swap it out for another ever again!

Step One: Put cross back on. (Then silently beg for passers-by to ask about my new costume, cuz this beauty of a cross means something quite different than it did to me a year ago)

Step Two: Spend some serious time breathing in this new identity as a Christian. This meant keeping a serious spiritual eye out for old trappings and keeping my personal communication with God consistent, frequent, and pure. Yes, and also giving myself time... it takes time for the full adoption of a new way of looking at things.

Step Three: Be relentlessly choosy about our church home (Which, as timing and relocating would happen, was poignant)

This is exactly what I did. And now, so many years later, I'm still growing into my costume. While my jewelry and church home choices  are secure, I work on Step Two ongoingly. And, truth be told, I also still silently beg strangers to ask me about my faith. I keep thinking that if folks knew what I have found to be true of God and of Christianity 2.0 since my 2007 crisis of faith, they'd be lining up to get charms, tattoos, pendants, and hair cuts in the shape of a cross. Or a heart, maybe. Or a peace-sign. All three would work great, too.

So, I'll save the lists of my definitions (both old one and new one) for a different post. I'm sure you'll be holding your breath, so as a teaser, here is a teensy description of the identity of my new costume: It is one that sort of giggles at definitions and prefers poems and parables and paradoxes to legal documents. It's one that nudges me closer and closer to the behaviors of Jesus, which is to say a pure and real love for people, especially the ones who the world deems furthest from the bull's eye. It takes you as you are, questions and doubts and worries and fear-filled and prideful and imperfect and all. And it privately snickers at those taking themselves too seriously. And it grieves when it sees fake preside over real. And it wants all of you. All of you. And all of me. And I'd want it no other way.