I do what I am supposed to do. I read the Book, so that I can know God. My reading schedule has taken me recently through Deuteronomy and Joshua. Their contents is not a surprise to me, but it is something I probably try to forget, to close my eyes to when it’s not right before me. It’s a hard thing, reading that my God of love is so jealous that he wanted all the men, women, and children in the land killed just so that their religions wouldn’t influence, wouldn’t call to the nation he had chosen to be his own.
How can this be? I shake my head. I can’t tell you how many times in the last few weeks I have wanted to completely repudiate my faith. I have wanted to come here, to this space, and say, “Look, I am not a Christian. This stuff just doesn’t make any sense. And if I try to convince you at some time in the future that I really am a Christian, don’t listen to me. Just turn me away from your church.”
I come this close. But then I glimpse something. I lie in my bed, and as I get ready to drift off to sleep, I find myself murmuring unknown words, and I almost stop myself, saying no, we don’t believe that, but I allow it. Deep calling unto deep, the Spirit praying what my mind does not know.
I am so tired of this struggle.
I seek the love of God, and the God of love, the one who feeds the poor without questioning whether or not they are worthy, the one who welcomes the homeless and the refugees without counting to see if he has enough, the one who looks on the love of two human hearts for each other and smiles, and it doesn’t matter if it is a man and a woman, a woman and a woman, a man and a man.
Sometimes I think, why do I try? Why do I allow myself to be pulled back in? It would be so much easier to just let go, so much easier to leave.
God, who are you? Where are you?