What I Miss (And Don’t Miss) About Christianity

 

I can’t help, but feel this longing for Christianity. With all that I’ve experienced– all the hate, the rage, the conflict– one may think I wouldn’t miss any of it.

They’re kinda right.

I don’t miss the warped theologies that put legalistic drivel ahead of caring authentically for our fellow person.

What I don’t miss about Christianity is self-professed leaders of God perpetuating themselves as ‘prophets’ whilst projecting their insecurities to the masses via fear, shame, and manipulation tactics.

They’re kinda right.

I don’t miss a religion fostering a patriarchal standard that renders me worthless based on my vaginal walls.

I don’t miss a religion that propels an odd thought process of HAVING to give love to a supposed all-loving God and savior BEFORE he can return said love (conditional love for 200, Alex).

They’re kinda right that I don’t, won’t, or can’t miss a brand of religion that tells me I HAVE to believe in a proverbial cape-less spiritual superhero to be anything if I can do anything and I can ONLY be anything if I admit I’m not anything without this thing.

Whew.

Nope, I don’t miss that Christianity.

I don’t miss feeling guilty for doubting when doubts should be ushered in with joy.

I don’t miss being blamed for just being TAMMY, when I should have been appreciated.

I don’t miss being called a ‘witch’.

I don’t miss the self-righteous stares and whispers.

I don’t miss being prayed over just because I saw through the bullshit.

I don’t miss the condescending judgments.

I don’t miss being spiritually measured by a black-and-white metric.

I don’t miss the hate.

I don’t miss the bigotry.

I don’t miss the xenophobia.

I don’t miss the sexism.

I don’t miss the misogyny.

I don’t miss the unsolicited guidance.

I don’t miss the gossip.

I don’t miss the lewd looks from men.

I don’t miss the obnoxious shoulder rubs.

I don’t miss the Christianese speak.

I don’t miss the mindless sheep.

I don’t miss the brick wall Christianity built to further themselves in a sanctimonious way to say, “We’re Christians. We’re better than you, heathens.”

I don’t miss any of that charlatan malarkey.

But I do miss certain aspects of Christianity.

As a poetic person, I miss having the rose-colored glasses of innocence on as I view Jesus to be a spiritual giant no one could touch — to have this person as an unattainable, untouchable role model was kinda great.

And I miss it.

To sit at a table during a potluck with nervous energy with seven other Christians WITHOUT wanting to stab them with a salad fork.

That’s what I miss.

I miss the feel of community during  praise and worship even if the songs were repetitive sophomoric piles of dung. I used to enjoy them compared to the nauseating feeling they create now.

I miss it.

I miss the part of Christianity where I blindly believed a loving God listened to my every prayer and followed me around like a love-sick puppy.

That’s what I miss.

I miss the euphoric feeling a sermon stirred within me. I believed and applied every word opposed to how sermons create more cynicism as of late.

I miss being an innocent, wide-eyed Christian.

And if I’m really honest, I miss being dumb.

I miss being blind.

I miss being submissive.

I miss being an eager student absorbing everything.

Not for Christianity or Christians, but for the idol Jesus on the Cross.

I miss THAT guy.

That guy who I clung to when I was raped.

That guy who I wrapped my arms around after my father was ripped from me.

That guy who dried my tears when I was bullied and tormented.

That guy I sought after another botched suicide attempt.

That guy who caught me after I was punched in the face.

That guy who covered me with hope after I was called a whore. Again. And again. And again.

That guy that didn’t care how messy I was; I was his messy disaster.

That guy. I miss THAT guy.

I miss hopelessly believing in that guy.

But I can’t pretend any longer.

I can’t pretend to believe in an idol that’s a farce in my mind.

That guy, Jesus on the Cross, is a farce. A ridiculous lie to make me feel warm and fuzzy until real shit happened.

And real shit DID happen.

I don’t blame him.

I don’t hate him.

I just love him differently.

In a way that I don’t need Christianity.

In a way I can still miss him AND continue on my healing journey from systemic religious abuse.

So maybe I don’t really miss Christianity.

Perhaps, I’ve come to terms with the dysfunction that resides in it. The awful, abusive, manipulative relationship I didn’t desire any longer.

Maybe, I don’t miss any of it.

Maybe, I just miss me.

Maybe, I miss my inner child.

Maybe, I miss believing my truth and not giving two shits about anything else.

Maybe, I miss instinctual authenticity.

Maybe, I miss the symbolism of Jesus on the Cross, not the literal translation.

Maybe, I miss that Jesus on the Cross who was a long, winding metaphor for trusting myself.

For understanding I am my greatest advocate.

For knowing my worth.

For knowing my love.

For knowing my eyes (and how they view the world) are the only eyes I need to rely on.

So, really, I don’t miss Christianity. I miss myself.

Welcome back home, Tammy.

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2 thoughts on “What I Miss (And Don’t Miss) About Christianity

  1. Tammy, my first blog was “findingellen” – and was created because the spiritual abuse I was enduring had turned me into someone I no longer recognized. While I haven’t given up on Jesus or Christianity, I HAVE given up on church, pastors and leadership, church politics, and everything that was un-Christian in the church. And I have come to the conclusion that most of what is “right” in the church is done for the wrong reasons – for recognition, status, building personal kingdoms, etc. All that just to say, I relate to your post. Thanks for writing.

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