Phantom Pains

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