Poem pieced together from a series of text messages about pondering one’s spiritual background — reminds me of those word magnets stuck to my refrigerator:
These roots are deep and yet I wonder if I’m fading from faith — as I remain in the grey, not so afraid of it anymore. I’m a person of some faith, agnostic to liberal Christian depending on the day, post-evangelical, whatever… but whatever I was or am or will be, I am okay.
Although I still pray, it’s in the same way that I talk with fictional characters, so I find myself questioning the narrative. Must we feel shitty about ourselves — to be saved from what? Ourselves? At some point, I realized I’ve had entire monologues with god, never expecting things to change (just externalizing my grief).
Pondering a scene of how Christianity spread so quickly, “Black-and-white thinking in which god is good and man is evil” — because the grey is scary. We do what we’ve known, makes sense I suppose. I’ll pray, then talk myself through things — 1st to 2nd person doesn’t feel that different…
Bishop Spong thinks people started praying when they became conscious of self — someone to talk with even if they may be imaginary. Talking about religion is almost like a 2nd language steeped in culture and yet I think I’m getting a taste of what it’s like to live amongst the subculture; as I witness “people getting their praise on,” I feel like an outsider.
I don’t really fit within the typical church culture anymore. It’s a strange feeling — foreign, yet utterly unsurprising.