Biographical Introduction
I was born the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, and my childhood was steeped in the best traditions of Christianity. My parents and their friends were about the best models one could hope for of faithful people, attempting to live Christ-like lives. Theirs was not a fire-and-brimstone, go out and convert people by the sword, kind of Christianity. Instead, I saw each of my parents demonstrate patience, kindness, gentleness, tolerance, and love for their fellow human beings on a day-to-day basis. This isn’t to say they were saints. But I was lucky to have intelligent, thoughtful people around me, who really tried to live their faith. And I had many opportunities to see that faith transform lives.
I had a faith experience when I was three years old. I distinctly remember being up early in the morning, before anyone else was awake, and asking Jesus to come into my heart. It was a True experience – one of those rare moments in life when we have a glimpse of eternity and feel we are in real communion with Absolute Reality. And being a Christian was important to me all through my childhood, as I tried to live and love the way my parents had taught me God meant us to love one another.
I read my Bible a lot (my earliest journal entries reveal an early teen who turned to the Bible in every instance – even out of boredom), and accepted it without question for a long time. But as I grew older, and experienced some normal and some not-so-normal-but-more-common-than-we-want-to-believe slings and arrows, I began to have questions about how much God really loved me. And although my parents had never preached the fire and brimstone stuff, I read the Bible for myself and saw plenty of it there. I was probably influenced by others, who seek to hurt people with their religion, as I somehow came to believe that I was personally responsible for all of Jesus’ suffering on the cross, and all the suffering of the world. I came to view myself as eternally unclean and beyond all hope of redemption (something, I should point out, which is absolutely against Christian doctrine and biblical teaching – but which is nevertheless preached from pulpits across the land).
For example, by the age of 13 I had memorized Psalm 51 and recited it to myself constantly; a sub voce subtext to all my thoughts, prayers, dreams, and actions. For those unfamiliar with that Psalm, it reads:
I was born the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, and my childhood was steeped in the best traditions of Christianity. My parents and their friends were about the best models one could hope for of faithful people, attempting to live Christ-like lives. Theirs was not a fire-and-brimstone, go out and convert people by the sword, kind of Christianity. Instead, I saw each of my parents demonstrate patience, kindness, gentleness, tolerance, and love for their fellow human beings on a day-to-day basis. This isn’t to say they were saints. But I was lucky to have intelligent, thoughtful people around me, who really tried to live their faith. And I had many opportunities to see that faith transform lives.
I had a faith experience when I was three years old. I distinctly remember being up early in the morning, before anyone else was awake, and asking Jesus to come into my heart. It was a True experience – one of those rare moments in life when we have a glimpse of eternity and feel we are in real communion with Absolute Reality. And being a Christian was important to me all through my childhood, as I tried to live and love the way my parents had taught me God meant us to love one another.
I read my Bible a lot (my earliest journal entries reveal an early teen who turned to the Bible in every instance – even out of boredom), and accepted it without question for a long time. But as I grew older, and experienced some normal and some not-so-normal-but-more-common-than-we-want-to-believe slings and arrows, I began to have questions about how much God really loved me. And although my parents had never preached the fire and brimstone stuff, I read the Bible for myself and saw plenty of it there. I was probably influenced by others, who seek to hurt people with their religion, as I somehow came to believe that I was personally responsible for all of Jesus’ suffering on the cross, and all the suffering of the world. I came to view myself as eternally unclean and beyond all hope of redemption (something, I should point out, which is absolutely against Christian doctrine and biblical teaching – but which is nevertheless preached from pulpits across the land).
For example, by the age of 13 I had memorized Psalm 51 and recited it to myself constantly; a sub voce subtext to all my thoughts, prayers, dreams, and actions. For those unfamiliar with that Psalm, it reads:
Have mercy upon me oh Lord, according to your loving-kindness. According to the multitude of your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly of my iniquity and cleanse me of my sin. For I acknowledge my transgression, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you only have I sinned and done this evil in your sight, so that you are found just when you speak, and blameless when you judge. Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity and in sin did my mother conceive me. Behold, you desire truth in the innermost parts, and in the hidden part you will make me to know wisdom. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Hide your face from my sins and cleanse me of all my iniquities. Create in me a clean heart O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Cast me not away from your presence and do not take your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me with your generous spirit.
While this Psalm now reads to me as a joyful acknowledgement of redemption, for the teenaged me it was a way to remind myself of the deepest blackness of my heart. While I believed in God’s forgiveness, I did not believe it was for me. I clung to Psalm 51 desperately, hoping against hope that if I were contrite enough, maybe, maybe, there might be a way to convince God to cleanse me of the terrible, unforgivable things I believed I had done. Or rather, to cleanse me of who I was. I could not point my finger to specific acts which I thought were unforgivable, it was more a general sense that my entire being was evil and unworthy.
Here is an entry from my journal when I was 21.
December 12, 1990
My life has been a mess. When I see how I don’t trust people, how I push them away, how I feel so dirty inside. Like I will never be clean. Like there is some evil, smelly, festering black growth inside me that was born with me. It feels like it has always been there.
I remember my parents thought for awhile that maybe I was possessed by the devil. I loved that idea because it released me from blame. If I was possessed, then the devil could be exorcised and I would be okay. I hoped that a minister could perform a miracle and then things would be okay. I believed in God. I was afraid of Him though. Because I knew that no matter how much I prayed and read the Bible and went to church and tried to be a good Christian, I would never be clean. I would never be good enough for God. I hoped and hoped that if I tried hard enough God would help me. I wanted to be a martyr because I thought maybe if I was tortured enough God would like me. I always felt guilty. It seemed like I couldn’t stop sinning. I would have a bad thought about my sister, or I wouldn’t give someone my coat and shirt also. I sinned in my head. My mind would never be clean. Someone told me once that when we sinned we were increasing Jesus’ pain on the cross. So every time I had a bad thought, lied, etc., I pictured Jesus laying on his cross (it hadn’t been erected yet), and I had a big wooden mallet in my hand. I would bring it down hard on the stake through his wrist. The blood spurted everywhere and his face would turn white with pain. But he never screamed or cried out, because good people don’t tell anyone when it hurts. They are strong. His eyes would look at me with forgiveness. I hated myself for hurting him but I knew I would do it again. Sometimes I saw myself spitting on his face, my saliva mingling with the blood dripping from his crown. I loved Jesus. I knew that my sins hurt him more than anyone else’s. I knew I had to be punished but that he wouldn’t do it. He always forgave me. But His Father, big old God in heaven, he would get me. He was mad that I kept hurting his son. He would make sure I was punished.
What kind of a religion gives us the image of a person sacrificing his child fro the sins of the world? It is supposed to show that he loves us humans so much that He’ll give up his most important thing. But to me it shows a God that doesn’t care enough about his child to protect him.
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