N.K. Murray

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.”

Matthew 7:21-23

I have a confession to make – I used to be a church goer.

My parents, sisters and I were de facto members of a church I won’t name, primarily due to the baptism of us three girls when I was 8 years old. I did extremely well in confirmation class, I went to Sunday School religiously (pun intended) and was involved in various non-Sunday events and organizations at my church. I memorized whole swaths of the bible, including all of the books of both testaments in order. It was part of my social scene for many years. I taught little kids during Vacation Bible School, when I was too old to partake in the festivities and sang loudly about All Gods Creatures having a place in the choir. I was even Mary in the freaking Christmas play one year.

Obviously, things changed.

I believe many things about many things, many of which I won’t go into in any public forum due to the divisiveness of today’s society, especially when someone has a belief outside of a tried and true line in the sand. I believed in God. I believed in a church, and in a group of people who wanted to gather to believe in the same thing. I want to make that very clear before I progress. I believed.

And then my dad got sick. A bit of history, before I go forward. My dad was never a religious man. Not to say that he didn’t believe – just that he was agnostic. He would go to church with us on occasions, usually the big holidays, and pray with us when we prayed. He didn’t foist his beliefs on us, nor did he prevent us from partaking in activities with the church. He didn’t turn to the church when he was sick, but I’m sure internally he held his own conversations as things went from bad to worse. When he died, we planned his memorial service, and contacted the pastor of our church, who was also the Fire Chaplain in our town. My father had been a volunteer firefighter for many years, and though he wasn’t involved at the time of his death, he was proud of his service there. The pastor of MY church, the fire chaplain REFUSED to preside over my father’s memorial service.

Why? Because my father wasn’t a member of the church.

This was when my faith in the church, and organized religion began to crumble. We got another pastor to preside, from a church my sister was attending at the time as she had stepped away from our religion a few years prior and joined another. I’m grateful someone was there to speak over my father’s service and to the many, many people who came to pay their respects. But, I harbored a large amount of resentment towards the man and the institution that passed judgment on my father that day. I still do.

So I stepped away from the church. It had been happening slowly for a while by that point, but I never went back after my father’s death. I moved to my first apartment, and then two and a half years after my dad left us, I moved into my first house. The following summer, I received a letter in the mail. The letter, from the church of my youth, stated that it had become aware of my absence (as my offering envelopes had indicated that I was no longer in attendance).

I had a choice – I could begin attending again, which meant using the offering envelopes with my specially printed number on it to offer my tithe, OR, I could indicate that I was in attendance at another church of the same sect where I was located, as the churches apparently communicated with each other. If I chose neither, I would be excommunicated, and burn in hell for all eternity until I chose to repent for my sins.

I would be excommunicated, and burn in hell for all eternity until I chose to repent for my sins.

I read the letter several times. And then proceeded to burn it in my firepit. I would love to say I was angry about the letter. It wasn’t anger that came to me, but this incensed feeling about the gall of someone to send a letter like that. Was I a good church member? No, I’m not going to argue that. But to pass judgment on me for not attending, to tell me that I am going to burn eternally in hell for not going to a building and sitting through a sermon given by a man who wouldn’t minister over my father’s memorial service was utterly fucking laughable. How dare I?! How dare you!

Religion is a slippery slope. I think of it as a Sisyphean ordeal – a constant struggle to either maintain your faith, or a constant fight to maintain your autonomy from organized religion. Holidays, births, deaths, certain days of the week, certain times of year all have or can have a religious connotation. Those who don’t attend a church, and aren’t part of a religion will inevitably find themselves at church at some point, whether it’s a wedding, funeral, christening/baptism, spring raffle, child’s birthday party or Christmas play. Even someone who now considers herself agnostic can’t escape the pull of serenity one gets from a candlelight church service. Even someone as angry as she is at God for taking her parents away from her, has moments where throwing a prayer up to heaven is appropriate, even welcomed for the sense of hope it brings. Even someone who doesn’t go to church has moments where she witnesses things that can only be explained by not having any logical explanation at all. No, I am not a member of any church. No, I don’t consider myself as having religion. Yes, I’m still super pissed at God about my parents. Yes, I have faith – albeit not the kind of faith that those who make church and religion a part of their daily lives.

Even someone who doesn’t go to church has moments where she witnesses things that can only be explained by not having any logical explanation at all.

so says i

I’ve been fortunate, in that, I have friends and family who believe, and pray for me, and take their faith and their belief and throw it over me like a blanket that gives me the warm fuzzies. When I was unemployed, I heard from many, MANY people who told me they prayed for me – to find peace, to find a job, to be happy. I’ve got a number of friends and family whose church communities have supported me in my cycling endeavors, whether it be to come out and support me in person, or with their dollars, or with their prayers for a safe journey. When I tell people about why I ride my bike, why I’ve done 7 Ride for Roswells and now why I’m riding across New York State, I hear about God looking down on me and bestowing his blessing. I hear about my anger being my vessel for God’s blessings and how filling that vessel both with my anger and His blessings fuels me to continue when things get hard.

For my part, it’s not God that I want looking down on me. I mean, I’ll take whatever I can get at this point. I have a lot of angels up there, whether or not it’s heaven or some derivative thereof. I ride with their names on my legs, and on the tee-shirt on my back because I need their proverbial wings helping me along when I’m so sad that the weight of the losses drag at my legs like a chain bound at my ankle. And I have a lot of angels here on earth – those people who love me for me and don’t mind that I’m so irreverent. The prayers and the blessings and the thoughts all help me along, because I know that it shows people have faith in me, because they have faith that God will help me in my journey.

I don’t need an organized religion for that. I don’t need a building for that. I don’t need a pastor for that.

As with anything, I know my experiences, such as they are, have colored my opinions. My youngest sister went through the same set of circumstances (minus the burn in hell letter), yet, she has found a robust and welcoming church family. I am grateful she doesn’t feel what I feel about church and religion, because her faith and her love of God has brought her solace in times when nothing else helps. She isn’t angry with God the way I am, and knows she will see her loved ones again when she’s no longer a part of this world and moves onto the next. I appreciate that thought – I truly do. I just can’t get there. I can’t get there because there are horrible people out there, doing horrific things, and yet, my parents were taken. And not just taken, they suffered. I am aware that the bible attributes suffering with sin, and that they are now free of their suffering and sin, but it’s a circular argument to me, as we have to continually believe and suffer and die in order to gain eternal life.

Obviously, I have no answers. I’m not asking for anyone to understand my point of view, nor am I denigrating anyone who believes in the things I do not, and cannot. I don’t go to church, and I don’t read the bible, but I believe there’s something more to this life we live outside of what we are able to see. To loosely quote Bones “The Jesus myth is all about forgiveness, isn’t it? Absolution, the ability to transform ourselves. So you grew up suffering. In the myth, Jesus suffered and he forgave those–– Water to wine, raising the dead, walking on water, these defy the basic laws of physics, but forgiveness, that’s its value. That’s why the myth has endured.” Perhaps it’s not a myth, in the colloquial way we consider a myth to be. I think I’m better believing in the core value – the forgiveness that I need. I’ll get there, someday. I’m sure I will.

For now, I’ll keep asking those of you who pray for me and who impress God’s blessings on me to continue doing so, because that thought makes me believe there might be a place for a sinner like me, somewhere.