A co-worker’s father passed away and I attended the Life Celebration to show the companies support. I have to say a Life Celebration is way better than funerals. It was in a new church, the newest type of church. It is a huge building that could easily have been a school. There was a café inside—a café! As I sat on the ultra comfortable seat listening to a preacher read and talk about passages in the bible, trying his best to make it relevant to his audience, I actually listened.
I grew up in a Southern Baptist Church with the preacher stomping, jumping yelling, screaming all about fire and brimstone. I tuned it out. On occasion I would hear a few words and decided it wasn't worth trying to understand.
However, this time I was in front of a calm preacher, which made it easier to hear, and I listened for the first time. Before this I thought I knew the basics of Christianity but I left more confused than ever. I came home to my wife, who went to “Church” school and always listened in church and in school. She got out one of the many bibles we have managed to collect from family members and did her best to answer all my questions.
Since this is my blog—prepare yourself—I’m going to say Christianity is ridiculous.
Come on, if any of that stuff about Jesus happened now days we would write him off as bat shit crazy—unless he really could raise people from the dead, then he would be amazing! That is where a lot of my questions started—bringing people back from the dead? Like zombies or people with brain damage, maybe they were just in a coma or were they in on it? What quality of life did these people have once they were “raised from the dead”? And let’s face it—Mary’s story is a bit far fetched. As Jesus grew up did his mother repeat this ridiculous story to him and that’s where he got his knowledge of it? Without this story from Mary would he have grown up as a “normal” boy? If truly connected to god one could argue this would have been a test, if he would have come to this conclusion on his own, and then there is the fact mental illness is hereditary.
So here I am—31 and still don’t know what religion I am. I know what I believe and what I believe is more than any book or person can tell me. What I believe is what I feel, it is what I know. It’s not hear say, it’s not someone else’s memories. It just is. I may not have a title or label for it but that doesn't mean it’s any less true, it’s any less real.