World of Make Believe

Once upon a time, shockingly enough, I was religious. I went to church. Actually, I went to church every Sunday and Wednesday. Two services on Sunday, one on Wednesday. I carried a Bible around school, tried to live as best as I could.

I’ve always grown up in an Atheist/Agnostic household. I was never told about any god or any religious texts. My knowledge of the church and its existence came solely from what I saw on television and the buildings with the “weird plus signs” I saw on the thrice-yearly road trips to visit relatives in Mississippi.

I don’t know when I was first told about the Christian God, the Holy Spirit, the Trinity, and so on. Probably in a history class in elementary school, learning about how Christopher Columbus discovered America! (*twitch*) Or maybe during a visit to my great-grandmother’s house. My great-grandmother is, and always has been, an avid Methodist. And she has set out to get me in church. I do remember being young, and listening to her question my mother about whether or not I was in church. At any rate, I was curious. As a child, I was curious and nosy, much like I am today. (Only then, education wasn’t quite as expensive as it is now.) And so, at some point through this all, I asked questions. I attended church with my childhood best friend, Brantley, at a Baptist church. Several times, actually. I hated dressing up for Sunday school, even then. (I have always been quite the tomboy.) I would go on and attend church a couple of times with my neighbors, who attended a Methodist church.

And so, it began. And God said, “Let there be light.” And I saw the Light! (I just don’t know when.) I was around thirteen or fourteen when I started attending church regularly, at a church essentially across the street– a Christian church. My youth directions were Brian and Jerry. I would come to love Jerry as a second father. I told him things I did not tell my mother. He was the first person I went to when I lost my virginity and I was scared about being pregnant. He helped me through it, all the while directing me to places I could read and find solace and comfort in the Bible. I would be saved (for a second time, the first time being as a child during some random visit to church with Brantley, I believe) again. And my strength in God grew, and I learned what it was to love.

Later, I would start questioning. The one thing I have carried with me, steadfastly, in all my life, no matter what I do. I carry my desire and love of questioning things at all times. Anything I do, I ask why. Anything I am taught, I ask why. How? When? What led to that? I have always been very analytical. Of myself, though I’ve not always shown it, and of others, and (most often) of things. Why is this the way it is? Why do we believe in something? How do we come to know things?

Why do we claim a molecule as being so small, when it can continually be divided beyond human knowledge? Why is the sky blue– why did the person “naming” the colors choose the word blue? How far can we go, in human thinking and the mere believing in things, until we are simply forced to quite analyzing? And just have faith? What is faith, anyway? How can these things happen?

And on and on it goes.

And I never have any answers. Most of the time, I can call it quits, I realize I have no answers. I was never able to do that with religion. I tried. I tried for years. About three, actually. Then the youth group was disbanded at the church, and it was the end of the road. I saw no reason to go anywhere after that. Not after my faith had already been wavering.

And still, I have no answers. I don’t expect I ever will. Instead of being religious, I just like studying religions. Wicca, Christianity, Kama Sutra (lifestyle religion), and so on. They’re all interesting. I just don’t have the faith to put up with them. Do I wish I did? Yes. I wish I did. It’s nice to have something to believe in for things like the future, any sort of after life, some faith to rely on to get you through the hard times. But things just don’t add up that much for me and religion anymore.

I don’t regret it, though. I don’t think I was blind-sided or anything. I don’t look back to those days and say, “How ridiculous was I?” (Even if I do view a lot of faith-based things as foolish now.) No, I’m not religious anymore, but at that time in my life…it did so much for me. It pulled me out of what would be one of the darkest times in my life. It gave me something to hold on to when I thought I had nothing. It was the only thing I had when, now and previously, I didn’t really believe in it. It kept me going. Kept me alive.

Faith.

Yes, I fully recognize the irony in this. The one thing I cannot have, that I question unceasingly, was honestly, for some time there, the only thing I had. I’m grateful for it. For the longest time, I have had so much anger and resentment towards religion. And now, right now…I’ve realized I don’t have that anymore. I listened to a Christian song on the radio, a Mercy Me song (I saw them in concert two times during the time frame that I was attending church), and I realized that it was okay now. That I shouldn’t have any anger. And that I don’t.

It’s a great feeling.