This is part 2 of a story in five parts. Catch up here: Part 1: Waiting for a sign
Disclaimer: for the record, the college friends I mention are STILL some of my best friends, years later. So when I say I was lonely, I don't blame anyone. It was a confusing time, for all of us. We were all figuring things out, piece by piece.
At age twenty, sure I wanted to be the kind of Christian who lugged my Bible everywhere, hugged trees and denounced theIraq war, I followed Jesus to Bangladesh for a month of studying
rural poverty and development. I took with me a jar of peanut butter and a
vague notion that this would be my training to save the world.
Disclaimer: for the record, the college friends I mention are STILL some of my best friends, years later. So when I say I was lonely, I don't blame anyone. It was a confusing time, for all of us. We were all figuring things out, piece by piece.
At age twenty, sure I wanted to be the kind of Christian who lugged my Bible everywhere, hugged trees and denounced the
Upon arrival in Dhaka ,
while jet-lagged and drugged with the new scents and the thickness of the
tropical air in January, I met Rumana. One of our student guides for the month,
she translated the culture to us and painted our hands with henna in the
evenings. At the hostel in the village, Rumana prayed five times a day. When
she heard the call to prayer echoing from the minaret, she looked at all of the
American girls huddled in a small room and asked gently, “Do you mind if I
pray?” Then she bowed towards Mecca ,
her sari glimmering in the twilight.
In the evenings, the twelve of us Americans fumbled over our
observations of village poverty and pretended we could figure out how one day,
the women wouldn’t have to bathe and wash their saris in the polluted sludge.
Our professor Haroun discussed pros and cons of micro-finance, the need for good
governance, and the peace of the message of Islam.
The yellow mustard fields bloomed and the imam woke us every
morning at 4:30, calling the faithful with an ancient song.
Photo by Abhijlt Kar Gupta |
*
I returned to Minnesota ,
head full of unprocessed images on culture, religion, and poverty. Second
semester began.
My religion class was called Old Testament/Hebrew Bible. Stansell, a professing liberal
Christian, gave us a text called The
Secular Bible and spent the first few weeks on Genesis—the creation story,
the story of Adam and Eve, the stories of Noah and Abraham. He explained, with
a little too much of a gleam in his eye, that Genesis was mostly legend. He
compared it to contemporary Middle Eastern sagas. He claimed much of the Bible
was more ideological treatise than history.
I stayed after class and asked why we were spending so much
time drilling into our heads the idea of legend. “I want to get to the text and
the meaning of the text,” I said. He told me he wanted to challenge my critical
framework.
After a couple weeks, he announced that we were going to
begin to delve into the prophetic books of the Old Testament. “Now let’s find
this story about when Isaiah was visited by angels…” He thumbed around for
thirty seconds. “Where is it now…”
“I think it’s Isaiah 6,” I said quietly. I happened to have
read it the day before.
“Aha! A Bible thumper!” he said in the same half-mocking
tone he used when he talked about Fundamentalists and Creationists. “Now, the
book of Isaiah actually represents two separate prophetic traditions…”
Stansell’s teaching was well-researched and clear, if his
tone was a little biting. The more I read, the more evidence slowly piled up on
the side of his interpretation. Meanwhile, in another class, Darwin was making a pretty brilliant case for
evolution, and Freud explained that Christianity was wish fulfillment, the
ego’s hope of something bigger than itself. Until now, I’d thought I could
gracefully tread along the balance of intelligence and faith, obedience and
compassion. But was that wishful thinking? Did believing in the Bible mean I
had to reject science? Accept holy war and genocide in the name of God?
Most of the kids in the class were either non-religious or
liberal Christians. They did not seem perturbed. But there was another girl in
the class. With a smile on her face, she would raise her hand and give the evangelical
pat answer to questions about the Bible. When asked about the three
historical/archaeological theories of the Hebrew people establishing themselves
in Caanan, she would simply say, “Moses led them out of Egypt and God cleared the way for
them in the promised land.” I wanted to shake her. Was she dumb enough not to
realize that these theories were contrary to everything she believed?
Now I know. Everyone’s brain works differently. Maybe she
did not see these historical theories of the Bible as a threat to her faith;
maybe she was able to hold it all in tension. Or maybe she was challenged, but
was clinging to the familiar words and beliefs as a means of defense. All I
know is at the time, she seemed to me an image of the unthinking, head-in-the-sand
Christian I did not want to be.
*
“What if Genesis is myth?”
I queried my evangelical Creationist boyfriend over coffee during a study
break. “When did we start thinking it had to be literally true? Saint Augustine and C.S.
Lewis didn’t think so.”
He was worried about me; his eyes shifted quickly, right and
left.
“What if we’re actually missing out by believing that? It
could be more real, more powerful, as a story,” I said.
“You write stories,” I accused.
“Why are we so scared to admit it could be a story?” I
added.
He didn’t argue. He knew I was talking to myself.
*
As the questioning voices grew louder, I didn’t know how to
be honest with my friends about what I was going through. They had problems and
conflicts of their own, which sometimes seemed too much for me in my agony.
They knew I had doubts, but they did not realize how I was suffering. They had
their own existential questions to deal with.
So I holed away in the library, reading The Secular Bible. I ate dinner alone in the cafeteria. I spent
evenings analyzing Freud and Virginia Woolf in front of the computer screen,
hoping with each footstep outside the door that someone would come in my room
to ask how I was doing. My roommate sat at her desk wearing headphones as she
wrote papers.
Woolf gave words to my experience: the estrangement of all
human beings from each other and from reality. Where could a loving, or logical,
God fit into this world of alienation and absurdity?
As I fell asleep some nights, throat would ache from holding
back tears. This was more than “doubt” or “questioning my faith.” Those words
are too small and mathematical. What was happening to me felt like an illness
of the soul. Love, security, and meaning were being snatched away from me
everywhere I turned.
One late night after another unfruitful talk with my
boyfriend, I struggled to complete a short response paper on Nietzsche’s
analysis of Christian faith. “Nietzsche is right; there is nothing rational in
Christianity,” I finally wrote at two a.m. “Nevertheless, I will hold out for
humble, sacrificial love, because it’s the only thing worth living for.”
I knew that I could not maintain this feeble grip much
longer.
*
Thursday at Bible study, the speaker talked about dancing
and laughing, leaving your sorrows, traveling light. We should be full of the
joy of the Lord. We should drop all our sorrows and run full speed towards God,
laughing all the way. We should stop being so boring and serious.
I sat still and did not smile at his jokes. My pack was full
of books and questions and messy relationships. I left early, without talking
to any of the smiling faces. I stopped at my friend Leanne’s room to say
goodnight.
She was reading Nietzsche, but she stood up and gave me a
hug.
I started to cry. “I’m so scared.”
“Scared of what, honey?” She held me close.
“That he’s not real,” I whispered, for the first time
admitting it aloud.
She listened to me cry. “Even in my darkest moments, there
has remained a core in me, deeper than emotion, that is faith.” She squeezed my
hand. “God won’t leave you alone.”
She did not speak lightly. Her faith had been the only seed
of hope to sustain her through the three years since her two sisters and
brother were killed in a car accident.
Keep reading with Part 3.
Keep reading with Part 3.
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