Truth

I am not sure when I stopped believing in Santa, the toothfairy, the Easter Bunny, etc. As the oldest, it was my responsibility to protect my siblings from the bitter truth (that there is no fat man in a red suit coming down our non-existent chimney) and to encourage their belief for as long as possible. This was for two reasons: 1) They are younger, and I should protect them and 2) More presents for me. The youngest believed for a long time, and I have been known to bold facedly lie about having seen Santa myself in order to keep the belief alive in her.

That is my problem. I am not sure that if I knew that God did not exist I could tell anyone.

I believe strongly in the little white lie. I think that some lies are not only OK but are also actually the right answer. (This leaves me in a bit of a pinch with the ten commandments, but that can't be helped.) I can't tell people the truth about themselves because I believe that lying to oneself is one's last line of defense. How much less, then, if I ever discover that Christianity is not true, will I be able to tell people that the whole basis for their lives is bogus? I would never be able to do it.

I was always puzzled by the book Silence, and I want to go back and read it again, but I've never been able to make myself do it. The book is about a priest who has to decide whether to deny his faith or to refuse to deny his faith and let hundreds of the people he's been working to save die. He renounces his faith, but the rest of the ending always puzzled me. Part of me believed that he did it so that all of the people had a chance, but part of me believed that he really lost the idea of God when he renounced his faith.

My problem is this: If I couldn't bring myself to admit to my younger siblings that there was no Santa, then how much less able would someone who has devoted his/her entire life to religion be able to admit to someone that there is no God.

Sometimes, I worry that I am lying to myself about the existence of God, too. I look around, and I don't understand, and sometimes, I just don't see how what I believe can be true.

Fear

Fear is the most paralyzing emotion I have. As a person with a panic disorder, I am afraid of everything. Things that most people don't even give a second thought to (Did I just say the wrong thing to that person? Did I leave the curling iron on? Is my car making a funny sound? Is my stomach making a funny sound? What should I do about x, y, or z? Am I living up to my potential? Should I get this cereal or that cereal?) drive me crazy. These questions, and ones just like them, race through my head, and while to most, they might seem like only ant-small thoughts, in my world, a stampede of ants is still a stampede.

And yet it is fear that at last sends me scampering back to prayer, usually. Yes, this is usually after everything I can do has failed to alleviate the fear, and yes, it is usually the only thing I can think of to solve the problem I am scared about. And heaven help the God who doesn't give me the answer I want, or so I seem to think most of the time.

A song I really like has a line that goes, "I never minded calling you a king if that meant that I could count on you to give me everything." So often, this is how I respond. Everything is cool as long as everything is going my way. Me and God can have a great relationship so long as he gives me what I want. Otherwise, he's an ogre, I'm way too cool to hang out with him, and I hate him. I can never decide whether or not this makes me a toddler or a teenager, but either way, it's infantile behavior.

Yesterday, something happened to cause me a great deal of fear. It's probably irrational. On Monday, I will probably find out that everything is OK and that nothing is really wrong. At the same time, there is nothing I can do and nothing I can find out until Monday. So here I am again, calling on the God I believe in from time to time to do something amazing and fix it all. I'm calling on him to make it all right because I want to believe that it is all right.

I am so fickle, both in my believe and lack thereof. How can one person hold so much doubt and so much belief? And if it doesn't go my way come Monday morning, am I going to throw another tantrum and refuse to talk to God for months even though, as far as I can tell from this blog so far, I seem to believe he exists? And if it does go my way, am I going to hold it as more evidence that he does exist?

Sometimes, I am appalled at my own lack of steadfastness. I feel like I should take to heart the part in Serenity where Book tells Mal, "I don't care what you believe. Just believe it." Sometimes, I feel like that's what God would say to me if I would hear him. Pick a direction and go with it. Stop flirting around the point. Either get on board and be a Christian, or get off the damn train, but don't hang from the railing or swing off the steps and make me come rescue you over and over again.

Even there, my fear paralyzes me. Even there, I don't know what direction to pick. I want to believe, but sometimes, I just don't. While it makes me angry with myself and with him, sometimes, I just "need someone with skin on," and when I'm scared, it never seems like he does.

At the same time, a lot of times, when I'm scared, he's the only one who comes close. I read my Bible last night because I couldn't sleep, and I stumbled across Psalm 4:8 "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety." So it comes to me that it doesn't matter what the outcome is. I know that I'll come through it regardless, not that "coming through it" neccessarily means the same thing on both sides of Heaven. One way or another, the answer will come, and if I really believe what I seem to keep saying I believe, then I'm protected. Not neccessarily from pain (because that was never the point) but at least from the fear, and that's usually what I have the hardest time dealing with anyway.

You Must Respect My Authoritae!

One of the main reasons I never really liked God is that sometimes, particularly in the book of Mark, Jesus can come off as a real jerk. As the older sister, I've always been the one to boss the younger sibs around, so I can see the classic signs of an older sibling written all over his reaction to his fam and to those around him.

When I was younger, I read the whole New Testament, including all four Gospels, at least twice, and after doing so, I came to the conclusion that I was the oldest and no one was going to boss me around, particularily after being invisible for several thousand years. That was probably the first time I decided that Christianity might not be my bag. In those days, there was no other option, though, because my parents are quite devout. They wouldn't have stood for even voicing the idea that I might be having a sibling rivalry with Jesus. So, I kept it to myself. But on the inside, I thought that he was a bit of a jerk. I'd always wished for an older brother, but wishing for one and actually having one are two completely different things. How dare he be the oldest?

When I got older and began reading The Chronicles of Narnia, my belief was only strengthened by the portrayal of Aslan. I am probably the only person on the face of the earth who doesn't think Aslan rocks. I can't stand Aslan, and here's why: He only shows up when you suck. He also lets you know, in detail, why you suck even after you've admitted that you suck. And even after all his talk about not being "a tame lion," I still find him a bit on the harsh side. Aslan? Not my favorite superhero.

The older I get, the less I like being an older sibling. All the perks came when I was a kid. I may have gotten the biggest room, but I have paid for it many times over in skinned knees I've cleaned up, mistakes I've fixed, meals I've paid for, supplies I've purchased, and sacrifices I've made. I get tired of being the one who has to take care of everybody else. It burns me out. It makes me realize what Jesus may have meant when his family came looking for him (Matthew 12) and when the crowd told him that his mother and brothers were looking for them, he said that his disciples and the crowd were his family. I can imagine it was hard for Jesus to give up the responsibilities that should have been his and go out and be responsible for the whole world. Sometimes I wonder if he ever felt that he was letting them down, especially when he talks about a prophet being without honor in his hometown. At the same time, can you imagine having Jesus as an older brother? How could you ever live up to that! And if what he says is true, then he is our older brother. Ugh. Like what I need in my world is more pressure and guilt about living up to standards.

In addition, I've always had a problem with authority. I purposely do things to thwart it. For instance, sometimes, when it's late at night and I'm the only car even visible at the particular intersection I'm sitting at and I've been sitting there for several minutes and the light still shows no signs of changing, I've been known to run it. I pushed the outer limits of "walking" in the hallways. I hate speed limits. I seldom make rules for myself because I know that it's just tempting me to break them. I switched cold medicines purely because I don't think it's any of the government's damn business when I buy cold pills, and I refuse to give in to the idea that I should have to wait in line for a drug that is non-prescription. I don't like not being in charge of my own life.

And yet, here I am agin, back in the fold (loosely. I'm not sure I ever stay completely back in the fold, at least not for long) after Jesus or God or whoever it is that does the walking came to get me. And I never understand why because I am one of the biggest problem children on the face of the planet. They just get me back with the rest of the flock and then I'm off wondering around getting lost again. I don't even like the herd. I don't even like the fold. I don't even enjoy following a shepard. It's not like I'm even terribly bad so that heaven actually has a reason to rejoice. I'm just compacent and willfull even though I know better. I whine and complain and wander off over and over again, and yet I'm always searched out, pursued, carried back, and rejoiced over. I don't get it.

I guess that's what older siblings do: They come to get you when you wander away from safety. They rejoice when they find you, however dumb they may think you've been. They keep coming for some reason that's beyond my understanding, even though they know you don't want them and don't respect their authority. And you know what's probably the funniest thing about this? Whatever makes him keep coming after me, I hope he never stops.

Names

One of the thing I love about mythology and most religions is their emphasis on names. A name, in many mythological tales, tells you all you need to know about someone. Additionally, in many myths, everyone has two names: One for everyday use and one for secret power. Anyone who knows a being's true name has power over that being.

I have always had more names than I needed. When I was small, my surname held everyone's key to understanding me. "Oh, you're so and so's granddaughter? You're who's daughter then? Oh, well, how are they all doing?" Instantly, I had friends I'd never remembered meeting before. The trouble with going somewhere where "everybody knows your name" is that then everybody "knows" everything about you. Not only do they know everything about you, but they discuss it with everyone around until they're dead (not until you're dead--your legacy can hang around for much longer than that). For instance, I once heard my grandparents discussing someone who lived down the road from them who'd gotten extra sugar rations during the war in disgusted voices, finishing with, "And I tell you what; it stuck with 'em!" The whole community still buzzed with someone's misdeeds from over forty years ago, which is, I guess, what happens when the biggest news you've got is whose chickens lay the best eggs. This is the type of world that I grew up in. A surname was a thing that you carried, for better or worse, with you for your whole life and beyond, and let me tell you what, you've never carried anything until you've carried a name through a small town. You don't even know what weight is.

Aside from my surname, I had a given name that was used when I was meeting people and a nickname that all my family and everyone I knew actually used. As a small child, I had other nicknames as well. My sisters had a nickname for me, my mom had a pet name for me, my dad had one for me, an older couple at our church had one for me. Everybody called me something different. I did not really begin using my given name until I went to school. As I got older, I also had a series of school nicknames. When I got to college, I chose to go by the name that one of my best friends had given me, and it stuck.

So now, I have a professional name, which gives me a formal attitude; a family nickname, which makes me feel like a goofy child; a college/friend nickname, which makes me feel like a bad ass; and a secret name that I gave myself that no one knows but me. It sounds crazy, I know, but one day, I decided to test the myths and see why so many stories thought that a secret name gives power. And I found out that it's because a secret name does make you feel powerful. My secret name has no county, no allegiances, no responsibilities. It would not be recognized in my hometown. No one has turned it over on their tongues and attached meanings to it that I don't want and didn't ask for. It is the me that no one knows because no one can ever fully know another human being. I grasp it when I have trouble remembering who I am without everybody else. I hang onto it when I am in need of calm.

How does this relate to my faith? Well, it makes Revelation 2:16-18 a great comfort to me: "He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it" (NIV). If this is true, then it means that someday, we will get a name that only God has turned over in his mind. We will recieve the identities we were always meant to have.

It's just a small verse tucked away in Revelation where even most concordances ignore it, but to me, it means more than all the promises about a new body or a new attitude or even a new Jerusalem. What good are those things to me if I have to drag around the identity that everyone attached to me here on earth? No, to have a new identity, one that God has given me rather than one other people me or that I have given myself. This is the greatest comfort I can imagine. Someday, I will be loved for what I truely am, not for my reputation. A new name. A new identity--A hope--A future. What a blessing that will be.