JOURNAL
(Photo to the right, taken by
Julie Bohnenkamp in Balboa Park, San Diego)

YOU'RE A WHAT?
September 4, 2008

Those who believe they believe in God, but without passion in the heart, without anguish of mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, and even at times without despair, believe only in the idea of God, and not in God himself.

A lot of good arguments are spoiled by some fool who knows what he is talking about.

– Miguel de Unamuno

Oh, no, I thought. I’ll have to become like one of them. I’ll have to listen to praise and worship music. I’ll never be able to curse again or watch episodes of Entourage or The Sopranos or Big Love. No more wearing short shorts or shirts with revealing necklines. No more hanging out with that set of friends or reading my beloved postmodernists or telling raunchy jokes or God forbid—was that phrase even allowed?—no more drinking alcohol. No more desiring anything but to be closer to the Lord God Almighty.

These were some of the thoughts that left me gasping for air years ago when I first began taking Bible studies. In these classes I felt that at any minute the Christian gestapo might barge into the room, look to the Bible study leader (who would incriminate me with a subtle nod), then grab me under the armpits and drag me into the hall, where they would pull out their pocket Bibles and begin quoting Scripture. Do you understand the laws I have just read to you, which you have willfully and repeatedly broken throughout your sorry life?

When I began these studies, I had to buy a new Bible, because my old Bible from my Catholic high school days only contained the “Good News.” When I attended my first class—a study on Exodus—I felt as though I, like Moses and the Israelites, had begun my own wilderness journey. There was talk about “being in the Word” and “witnessing” and “fellowshipping.” My “sisters in Christ” recommended certain Christian books and radio stations and Bible verses. One classmate told another woman, upon introducing me, that I had been raised a Catholic. She emphasized the last word and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Here is a special case; much work will be needed. When I told another classmate that I was reading Revelation on the side, her eyes grew huge. “Oh, no, no. You don’t want to start there, honey. No wonder you’re confused.”

I don’t mean to poke fun. I have met some of the most amazing, loving, and inspirational women through my Bible studies, many of whom I consider close friends and who have been wonderful models of humility, selflessness, and grace. And in every class, I’ve learned something new and useful. But in those first few studies especially, I couldn’t help feeling a little fidgety, a little hemmed in—exploring my faith through such a structured format, watching videos and filling in blanks on a worksheet with prescribed answers, listening to phraseology that sounded foreign to my ears. I guess it just didn’t feel like . . . well . . . me.

It took some time, but I finally discovered some Christian writers and thinkers who seemed to speak my language. One of these was Anne Lamott, a recovering alcoholic and former agnostic whose irreverent humor, fresh voice, and raw honesty immediately appealed to me. In Traveling Mercies, I read about her conversion to Christianity. The fact that she dropped the f-bomb and gave herself over to Jesus in virtually the same breath made me love her all the more.

I also discovered Madeleine L’Engle’s books on faith. She taught me, among so many things, that it’s okay to read many of the Bible stories as just that—story. That it doesn’t make them any less true. And the Trappist monk Thomas Merton—God bless him for writing about the dichotomy he felt between his divine and human natures and between his “gregarious sociability,” as Fred Smock describes in Pax Intrantibus, and his “deep desire for solitude.”

Merton also rigorously questioned his faith. “You cannot be a man of faith unless you know how to doubt.” (New Seeds of Contemplation). Though a mystic and intellectual, Merton also liked to have a good time. He enjoyed drinking beer and going to jazz clubs. And he never took himself too seriously. According to Smock, Merton described the Merton Room at Bellarmine University’s library as “a good place to cut a fart and run.” Merton, like the faith he embraced, was a paradox.

On the first page of my website, I mention that I’m a writer and a Christian, only because I think visitors should be aware that what I write tends to reflect these two chief lenses through which I view the world. In my opinion, these things should not define me any more than the birthmark on my ankle or the color of my eyes. They are simply characteristics that contribute to my whole, unique being. Unfortunately, not everyone sees it this way. For some, a person’s faith becomes the central focus, a big fat bull’s eye.

Some visitors to my website have told me they are proud of me for “putting myself out there,” others that I’m taking a risk. I’m sure there are some who’ve visited once and, after reading the first page, never returned. I can’t say I blame them. The sad truth is, it is Christians, more often than not, who give Christians a bad name.

I was at a dinner party this past weekend and my host said he’d seen my website. “Yes?” I prompted. He said he was surprised about the part that I was a Christian. “Because I don’t act like one or because I admitted it?” I asked.

He smiled.

Throughout the dinner my friend and host continued to ask me questions about my faith. God and Spirit he was down with, but he just couldn’t wrap his head around the Jesus part. He wanted me to explain the Trinity and why God had to lower himself to human status and why Jesus had to take the weight of humanity’s sins on his shoulders and why I believed this and that and if I didn’t believe this and that (and in some cases I didn’t) how could I call myself a Christian?

Dessert anyone?

Now I know better than to enter arguments of faith. They can never be won. So I simply told him I couldn’t explain these things (especially not after a couple glasses of wine). I told him I have doubts about my faith, too. That it doesn’t always make sense, particularly when trying to apply the same tools for understanding the material world to the spiritual. It just doesn’t work.

My host asked me some very serious, sound questions that I dare say would have challenged any theologian. And here was little ol’ Aimee, like a boxer dancing around in the ring, trying my darnedest to dodge each swing, refusing to get pinned down.

Because you can’t put Christianity in a box. People can try to define it by doctrine and worship style and everything else under the sun, but its very essence, Spirit, defies definition. Spirit, like the wind, is fluid, mysterious, unpredictable, elusive. (Maybe this is why some people, Christians included, find Christianity so frustrating, incomprehensible--even frightening.)

Am I a Christian? I’m certain I don’t always act like I have “springs of living water” flowing through me. I’ve gone some days, weeks, and even seasons concerned only about myself, shooing away the Holy Spirit as if it were an irksome gnat, and wasting my precious time replaying the past and fretting about the future. Maybe it is more accurate to say I have my "Christian" moments. Maybe, in this life, that’s the best any of us can hope for. But maybe those moments are just enough to give us the blessed assurance that it can’t all be complete hogwash.

I have to admit, I left that party feeling a bit like I’d let God—and my faith—down. But I’m not a debater and I’ve never felt called to evangelize. What I felt called to do that night was simply to listen, to be with this person in his questioning, to show compassion and understanding. To scratch my head along with him and say, I know, I know. Who really knows? It’s all about faith.

Looking back, I realize that I, too, had my own preconceptions about what a Christian should look, talk, and act like. Now I’ve come to realize, as Henri Nouwen writes in Reaching Out, “There are just as many ways to be a Christian as there are Christians.” I’m living proof.

Recommendations:

Movie: Brideshead Revisited. Based on the novel by Evelyn Waugh, this movie is one of the best I’ve seen on how religion can both complete and fracture us. Told from the viewpoint of a nonbeliever, the story presents the complexities, sadness, and beauty (even in suffering) inherent in the life of the believer and the grace required to both receive and give God’s love. Exquisitely shot. Might have to wait for the DVD. (Thanks for the suggestion, Silas!)

Books: The Shack by William Young. Generally speaking, Christian fiction isn’t my cup of tea—go figure—but I just read this with my book club, and I think it has a unique way of talking about the Trinity and how to survive a devastating loss and confront our anger and frustrations with God. Ultimately, it provides a good reminder of God’s immeasurable love for all his children. (Be forewarned, some Christians believe there are “hidden heresies” in this book. Take it for what it is, a work of fiction, and find what speaks to you.)

Rabbi Jesus: If you want some fresh insights on Jesus, this might be just the ticket. Scholar and Anglican minister Bruce Chilton seeks to show how heavily Jesus relied upon meditation to align himself with God and how his class status as a “mamzer” (“an Israelite of suspect paternity” or literally “silenced one”) influenced both his life and teachings. (I’m sure some will find “hidden heresies” in this one, too. Enjoy!)