One of my coworkers took me out to lunch last week as a goodbye. Despite being a very serious Christian (he’s leaving to Papua New Guinea to be a missionary in about a year), he was one of my favourite coworkers. He never made me feel like I was wrong for being who I am, and in fact, never expressed an opinion about it at all, other than live and let live (which is his life motto, essentially).
We had a conversation about faith–he was very interested, since from things I had said, he knew I’d been to both bible college and seminary, not to mention he had seen my Christian tattoo on my forearm. It was a good talk, actually. But it did lead me to say what I’ve thought for some time now: that I didn’t leave my faith so much as was kicked out. I was never welcome, for a progressive list of reasons–being a woman, being a feminist, being single, being gay (although, being gay makes being single better, so they can pretend I’m not having gay sex).
But as much as I tried to be part of the church, I couldn’t find my place. And nothing about me fit in. I tried, I tried so hard. I eventually gave up. I mean, why be part of a religion that doesn’t even want you?
To be honest, that’s as much as I have given thought to questions of faith. Someday, I need to give it more, really think about where I sit, other than on the outside.
Under the Cherry Tree 