“Where's my faith? Told you I was Christian, but just not today
I transformed, prayin' to the trees, God is taking shape”
-Kendrick Lamar, Mother I Sober
When you read these words, do you hear them as beautiful? Do you roll your eyes at them? Do you think they’re actively dangerous?
I love these lyrics. I’ve been deeply influenced by the way Kendrick describes spirituality in his music. And I can feel all these alarm bells go off inside me whenever someone starts talking about worshiping nature. My adult self doesn’t agree with those alarm bells, but my nervous system has its own wisdom. It sends important signals that override the intellect: “This is not safe.”
Of course my body doesn’t think it’s safe. The tradition I grew up in derided environmentalists and perpetuated belief in a “Sky God”—an entity that exists above us, superior to our human trifles. I was steeped in this culture: one of biblical inerrancy, of fear and suspicion toward anything that didn’t conform to Christian fundamentalism. I went to Bible memorization club every week, where a crowd of children pledged allegiance to the Bible and to the American flag at every opening ceremony. I was told, over and over again: “These are the good people, the good practices—everything else is not safe.”
I prayed to Sky God. I prayed a lot, because I knew 1 Thessalonians called us to “pray without ceasing.” I had a lot of trouble sleeping as a kid. I can’t count the nights I begged God to let me sleep—to let me see that He was real, so I could find comfort in Him. With only cold silence in return, I figured there must just be something I was doing wrong.
As I grew older, this rift only widened—this dissonance of trying to love a God who seemed largely disinterested in me. It became harder and harder to see God in the suicidal thoughts I was having throughout my teen years. I still feel this urge to pray, and I resent it. I still give in sometimes, because it calms my nervous system down. God the neglectful father—the only spiritual safety I was ever handed.
I’ve tried to become a Christian again. I really have. I’ve read Christian authors. I’ve tried to read the Gospels from my current worldview. I recently went to a Quaker meeting, because they’re the most radically accepting Christians I’ve been able to find. I really love Jesus—in whatever ways you can love a guy who died 2,000 years ago.
I know there are people who would be relieved if I told them I was a Christian again. They’d think I was finally safe. At least that’s what I was taught—that the person I am today has booked a one-way ticket to eternal torment and damnation unless he repents.
I want to feel safe. Isn’t that all any of us want? Some cocktail of love, safety, and belonging to take the edge off this life that can feel like a gift one day and a hellish nightmare the next? There are people who feel safe as Christians. Am I allowed to just not be one of them?
I’m sick of fighting—with myself, with others. I’m just sick of it. I’ve found so much truth and gentleness outside the rigid boxes of safety I was prescribed. I think my humanity is wondrous—not pathological. There’s so much beauty to be found in those blurrier, mystical places. And I don’t just mean “mystical” in some airy, woo-woo way—I mean it in the visceral reality of being a body, on this earth, in this universe. The human senses, psychology, civilization, art—it’s fucking crazy that any of this works.
So there’s the bad. What about the good? What rebuilding have I found in my years of tearing down? I’ve found so much. I hope to keep finding. I’m pretty sure everyone reading this knows me personally—if you care, ask me where I find it. There are books, songs, relationships, moments in my life, spiritual experiences—all the nooks and crannies where I see the divine, where I see an earthier God: The Word became flesh.
I’m not sure what you’re thinking if you’re a Christian reading this. Maybe you agree with me and don’t think I need to change. Maybe this message is exactly what Jesus was getting at. Maybe you disagree with some things but see me as a lost soul searching for something I’ll find. Maybe you see me as deeply misguided—or even dangerous. I can’t say, because you are a single person with a single worldview, just like I am.
I know there are Christians in my life who read my writing, and I often write with y’all in mind. I want you to know that I feel safer now than I ever did trying to be “one of you.” As I continue to write, I might do it less from a place of trying to appease anyone. I like writing that is honest—that’s all I promise to be.
I constantly come back to what Ram Dass always said: “We’re all just walking each other home.” It’s not the first time I’ve ended a post with those words, and it won’t be the last. It’s really that simple. The rest can be a mystery.