I once met a man who'd lost his leg below the knee. He was seeking treatment for phantom pains. The part of his leg that was missing still bothered him. He ached below the knee, not at the sight of the wound, but where he'd once been whole. He had an itch that could not be scratched.
When I left the church, an amputation was required. Friends suggested I try Unitarianism or that I just go on sabbatical. What they didn't understand is that I'd rather have a limp than a crutch.
Given time to rant, I can tell you to the point of making you sorry you'd asked all the things that I can no longer love about the church. Read some of my earlier posts and you'll see that I've already railed against the religious theater of Sunday morning. I've already been outspoken about the Christian's natural instinct towards intellectual property rights of truth. To continue the list, I grew so tired and weary of the Christian doppelganger, the "in this world but not of it" culture that looks like a sinner and talks like a sinner but walks a different path. The band Petra put out an album called "Sheep in Wolves Clothing." Living in a culture surrounded by churches, I can tell you that I'd rather run with the wolves. Perhaps it's just the comfort of the devil you know.
I was dedicated to that culture. I've lead worship, broken bread, and laid hands on the sick. I've worn ashes on Wednesday and fasted til Sunday. I recruited, encouraged, admonished, rebuked and literally shouted from the mountain tops. I was immersed and emergent. I walked prayer labyrinths. I saw you at the pole. I went to Cornerstone Music Festival. I did everything right.
I got called a heretic once. A baptist church sent a group of people to visit our emergent church. We spoke about denying Absolute Truth and the falsehood of certainty. They said Jesus was the Absolute Truth. I said maybe, but I'm fallible so there's no way of knowing for sure. They called me a heretic. I was pretty proud of that.
But for all the stupidity, the useless arguments, the clever t-shirts and meaningful coffee table books, it's not really the Church that I'd amputated. I've remained friends with a lot of those folks. I still listen to some of the music, though not as much. No, I didn't cut off the Church.
I cut off God. I re-dug my god shaped hole and I did it with a spoon.
It started with the earliest heresies. I realized that I didn't need Mary to have been a virgin when Jesus was born. Nor did I care if the miracles were allegorical or historical. Soon, substitutionary atonement went out the window and with it the divinity of Christ. I found that what was most compelling was this: I was created just like everyone else and we should love each other. I'd stopped believing in a metaphysical heaven, instead I loved to quote Jesus telling his disciples that the kingdom is among us. When two or more are gathered, whether Jesus shows up or not, we're still gathered, so let's make something of our time.
Once after a particularly moving worship service, I asked my friend Peyton, "How do we discern the difference between the spirit moving among the body and the power of suggestion mingled with mob-mentality?" He said, "That's a dangerous question to be asking here. Let's go get a beer."
Tonight, my fiance and I started reminiscing about all the Christian music we'd listened to. I don't know how it started, but soon enough we were on grooveshark.com with a playlist consisting of Five Iron Frenzy, Caedmon's Call, and the Newsboys. Yes, the Newsboys. It was like seeing an old friend, but not one I'm interested in reconnecting with. I don't know that I'd Friend christian-me on Facebook. Then again, I don't know that I'd Friend me on Facebook at all.
Here's the thing, faith unlike flesh, regenerates. It has seasons. I don't see a second season coming around. A rebirth isn't inevitable. But I'd be okay with something a little more intriguing.
I do miss something though. I've got a phantom pain where all of this used to be. I'm almost afraid to type this. An uncertain atheist is like blood in the water to the attentive evangelist. The trick is that certainty is what got the spoon of my amputation started in the first place. I want to be clear that I'm not looking for healing. I'm whole. What I amputated wasn't a necessary part of me. Being unnecessary doesn't make it any less important. I used to say, "I am not ashamed of the gospel of jesus christ." Now I say, "I am not ashamed that I used to be not ashamed of the gospel of jesus christ."
I don't like calling myself an atheist. I use it for lack of a better word. I won't call myself a christian. I left it for lack of a better god.
In truth, I really can't stand the Evangelical Atheists. The kids who worship Dawkins and Hitchens are just as annoying as any Pentecostal.
I've jokingly called rock n' roll the only true religion, but inside I kind of mean it. I love the music and the gatherings and the uncertainty and the pageantry.
What's got my phantom limb twitching tonight must be somewhere in that part of my faith. Once at a worship service I lead, I didn't light any of the candles that I placed at the alter. Instead I left several matchbooks and lighters laying around and asked the people to light a candle when they knelt and prayed. I asked them to spark hope against the darkness so that we could join them in prayer. The image of the sea of candles flickering at the end of communion still tugs at my heart.
I'm frustrated because there is no secular version of that moment. I don't have the liturgy any more and I really miss it sometimes. One of the earliest Christian Rock songs was called "Why should the devil have all the good music?" I never thought I'd be asking why christians should have all the beautiful moments.
How do I create a worshipful moment in tribute to all the things I love? I'd love to start a church where instead of god we drew our hearts to one another. I want to kneel and be grateful for my small stupid life and my amazing fiance. I want to say thank you for my parents and my sister and her family. I want to let someone know that I'm hurting without having to let someone know that I'm hurting. I want to dim the lights and play music and weep and laugh. I'm not a heretic, I'm a believer without a belief. I'm an ist without an ism.
The man I met who'd lost his leg had to get a nerve-block to ease his pain. They blocked the lines of communication between his leg and his brain so he'd quit getting the false messages. I have no interest in that. He'd had his leg blown off in a war, he deserves his comfort. I don't want comfort. I want to stay close to these signals.
I'm going to play with this mystery a while. It's made me restless. I've found comfort in the phantom pain because it means part of me is receptive to an undiscovered element. I'm not really limping, it's more a stagger and it only hurts when I hold still.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Down In Front
What's the first thing you remember? Someone said recently that most of the time, when you're remembering something, you're just remembering the last time you remembered it. I follow the logic. I don't want it to be true, but I'm sure it is.
So how far back can you go and still touch the source memory? Asking this question I'm suddenly bombarded with the strangest glimpses - a rapid slide show of moments fires past my mental screen without context or any real trigger.
You want to reach back and remember the first joy. You want to tap into a catalog of well preserved moments of fun and kindness and tenderness. Instead you get window frames without walls. Context is loose at best, unavailable at worst. You long to recall Christmas at 2 years old, instead you get driveways with bicycles. Photos from the era tell you had fun on your 1st birthday and that you looked adorable on the first day of kindergarten. What you remember is the leather of your grandparents chair or how the tile in your bathroom looked like crosses and 8-bit spaceships.
I love the new Nostalgiatech that seems to be popping up. My new favorite app is called 8mm. It's a video app that throws a filter to match some fuzzy memory. You can even mute the sound and add the noise of a projector.
We had an 8mm camera when I was a kid. I think it was 8mm, it might have been fancier than that. It used real film that had to be processed. We had a cool little projector that required the know-how to feed the film into the thingy that looped around the little doo dad. It was all very technical.
We'd create a theater. A sheet would be hung, lights would be extinguished or faded. Then there was the moment of fascination as suddenly your very own image was on the screen. Moments ago, you'd watched a silent Donald Duck film, or a clip from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You could get movies like that from the library. We'd watch these produced films and my dad would narrate, doing the voices of the sailors in some silly fashion.
But the family films were the main event. Cookouts and reunions and Christmas trees and birthday candles. These movies weren't narrated, they had a live commentary track from my mom and dad. For me these moments were imbued with special value. My birthday was important enough to film. Donald Duck on a camping trip, Kirk Douglas battling a giant squid, and my birthday party were on equal standing. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
37 years before we took pictures of Penne Pasta, filtered them to look old, and posted them online for all to see, we had to be choosy with what we deemed important enough to capture.
Soon enough the 8mm gave way to the video camera. The lights could stay on and there was no need for voice overs and commentary because the sound worked just find. You could see yourself on the television. That felt special too, but now I see that there was something missing. Some of the senses were being denied.
Watching the old 8mm movies, the room got warm from the bulb and you could smell the film heating up. You could see the dust in the light of the projector. You could hear the reels ticking along. The movies were silent but the moment was not. The family talked when it was time and hushed when a now dead family member waved at the camera.
The whole house was under control of the 8mm projector. Light from another room was intrusive, stray sounds weren't welcome, not even music. You didn't just pop-in a tape while world operated indifferently around you. You dedicated the space and time to remembering to remember.
A projector is special because in order to get the best view, you put it behind you. You split the room so no one blocks the light. In order to perfectly view the past, you had to leave it behind you and look the other direction. Then be still and let the images flood to the front. Televisions and cell phones and laptops don't demand this attention from us. They do what we tell them. You can pause live TV now. If you paused a film for too long, you'd burn the frame. The images of the past need to keep running or you could risk losing them.
I don't know what my first memory is. But some of the earliest are those nights, warmed by the bulb, fascinated by the image. We'd filmed the moment knowing that when we looked upon it we'd be seeing the past. It's not a sheet, it's a screen. It's not a screen, it's a window. It's a window without walls. The only context is that we were there.
My earliest memories may be of the act of remembering. There are no films of us watching the movies. When I remember sitting in my rocking chair, watching me race my cousins on my Granny's property, I'm tapping right into the source. I don't remember the race, but I remember the remembering.
Perhaps that's better.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
So how far back can you go and still touch the source memory? Asking this question I'm suddenly bombarded with the strangest glimpses - a rapid slide show of moments fires past my mental screen without context or any real trigger.
You want to reach back and remember the first joy. You want to tap into a catalog of well preserved moments of fun and kindness and tenderness. Instead you get window frames without walls. Context is loose at best, unavailable at worst. You long to recall Christmas at 2 years old, instead you get driveways with bicycles. Photos from the era tell you had fun on your 1st birthday and that you looked adorable on the first day of kindergarten. What you remember is the leather of your grandparents chair or how the tile in your bathroom looked like crosses and 8-bit spaceships.
I love the new Nostalgiatech that seems to be popping up. My new favorite app is called 8mm. It's a video app that throws a filter to match some fuzzy memory. You can even mute the sound and add the noise of a projector.
We had an 8mm camera when I was a kid. I think it was 8mm, it might have been fancier than that. It used real film that had to be processed. We had a cool little projector that required the know-how to feed the film into the thingy that looped around the little doo dad. It was all very technical.
We'd create a theater. A sheet would be hung, lights would be extinguished or faded. Then there was the moment of fascination as suddenly your very own image was on the screen. Moments ago, you'd watched a silent Donald Duck film, or a clip from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You could get movies like that from the library. We'd watch these produced films and my dad would narrate, doing the voices of the sailors in some silly fashion.
But the family films were the main event. Cookouts and reunions and Christmas trees and birthday candles. These movies weren't narrated, they had a live commentary track from my mom and dad. For me these moments were imbued with special value. My birthday was important enough to film. Donald Duck on a camping trip, Kirk Douglas battling a giant squid, and my birthday party were on equal standing. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
37 years before we took pictures of Penne Pasta, filtered them to look old, and posted them online for all to see, we had to be choosy with what we deemed important enough to capture.
Soon enough the 8mm gave way to the video camera. The lights could stay on and there was no need for voice overs and commentary because the sound worked just find. You could see yourself on the television. That felt special too, but now I see that there was something missing. Some of the senses were being denied.
Watching the old 8mm movies, the room got warm from the bulb and you could smell the film heating up. You could see the dust in the light of the projector. You could hear the reels ticking along. The movies were silent but the moment was not. The family talked when it was time and hushed when a now dead family member waved at the camera.
The whole house was under control of the 8mm projector. Light from another room was intrusive, stray sounds weren't welcome, not even music. You didn't just pop-in a tape while world operated indifferently around you. You dedicated the space and time to remembering to remember.
A projector is special because in order to get the best view, you put it behind you. You split the room so no one blocks the light. In order to perfectly view the past, you had to leave it behind you and look the other direction. Then be still and let the images flood to the front. Televisions and cell phones and laptops don't demand this attention from us. They do what we tell them. You can pause live TV now. If you paused a film for too long, you'd burn the frame. The images of the past need to keep running or you could risk losing them.
I don't know what my first memory is. But some of the earliest are those nights, warmed by the bulb, fascinated by the image. We'd filmed the moment knowing that when we looked upon it we'd be seeing the past. It's not a sheet, it's a screen. It's not a screen, it's a window. It's a window without walls. The only context is that we were there.
My earliest memories may be of the act of remembering. There are no films of us watching the movies. When I remember sitting in my rocking chair, watching me race my cousins on my Granny's property, I'm tapping right into the source. I don't remember the race, but I remember the remembering.
Perhaps that's better.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
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