photo by Rachel Ford James
The Free-for-All Bookshelf here at work is a little bit tighter now, stuffed with my newest donations. I just emptied a big white crate filled with some of my most precious possessions as a Christian: books. I’ve had this collection sitting in my car trunk for over a year. It went with me on vacations, to-and-from work, and I just tried to ignore it when I packed my groceries or stuffed my suitcases into my little Mazda.
What was I waiting for? I’d already purged a large percentage of my Christian books in 2008 when I discovered (or, more accurately, admitted) my atheism. Everything from Bible studies and self-help to fiction and humor was either tossed in the recycling for good or donated to Goodwill for people to pick through if they gave a damn.
But this crate–this generic white crate that always pinched my fingers when I carried it–was the spiritual and emotional luggage from my religious past all in one place. Some of my most beloved titles were in there:
- The Cost of Discipleship and Life Together by Deitrich Bonhoeffer. Bonhoeffer was always able to touch the part of my dreams that desired depth, thoughtfulness, community, and courage.
- A Simple Path by Mother Teresa. I always loved her writings and even considered converting to Catholicism after reading what she and Therese of Lisieux had to say about love and its purity of devotion. I was attracted to the sweetness and passion I saw in their words.
- The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. I’m almost embarrassed to leave this book in the hands of a stranger. I scrawled notes and highlighted so many passages of this book that it’s practically a public confessional of my most formative years as a Christian (which happened to be some of my last years, so it turns out). I dove into this book with such emotional transparency that it makes me blush just to read it again.
- Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger by Ronald Sider. I challenge all believers to get this book and take it to heart.
- Restoration and King of the Jews by D. Thomas Lancaster. I went through a long, passionate phase as a Messianic believer in what might be called the torah-observant movement when these books about the unity between “old” and “new” portions of the Christian Bible meant a great deal to me. It truly changed the kind of Christian I was.
And these are just a sampling of the types of books that influenced me in my multi-faceted religious life. I admit, I still have an emotional connection to them. Like many people who seek comfort and guidance during rough times, these types of books were a help for me when I was grieving, curious, and alone. But like many former Christians I know, I’m now able to look back on those tools and texts and see them for another perspective, with the “veil” of faith and myth pulled away from my eyes.
It was difficult placing them on the shelf today, but I am glad and relieved to have already left those old beliefs and delusions behind. Not everything that makes us feel good or helps us through a tough time is true or correct. I’m sure if I had been non-religious during those years that I would have come out just fine all the same. I’m glad I had a searching and curious mind that was fascinated by those volumes but also able to see more to life than belief in a non-existent god.
What items have been hard for you to part with over the years? Items from past relationships? Books? Habits?
Photo by cbguille (flickr)
{See my previous post for backstory}
My mother and I decided to eat out last night. After our almost-discussion the day before, the elephant in the room was just too cumbersome. We needed to finish our talk, and I was finally–after over a year of evasion and privacy–ready to tell her.
When our hefty plates of stir fry were placed in front of us, she grinned. “I’m glad your roommate walked in last night.” I grabbed a chunk of meat and stuffed it into my mouth. “I knew that if we had said more, then I would have gone down the path of ‘Well what about this?’ and gone down the path of debate instead of doing what I wanted to do which was understand your journey and see what brought you to where you are today.” She clearly knew what I had to say, but wanted to let me vocalize it all.
I told my story.
. . . . .
My hand shook. I stared as it carried vibrating forkfuls of food towards my mouth–too quickly, I thought. I could barely swallow in time before having another bite to chew. I didn’t feel control over my own movements, so they happened anyway; I simply observed. The clichéd tremble amused me, and I chuckled to myself, which I’m sure came across as puzzling to my mother who sat across from me, leaning back from her empty plate as I continued to work at my food–barely touched.
The need to fill the silence between my mother and I was a desperate itch. I ached to scratch it, but I bit my food with vigor and stared at my stupid, shaking hand instead.
I had just told her I was an atheist. She’d listened to my story, and now she sat silenced, glossy-eyed, and buried beneath her thoughts. As I inhaled my food, I tried to imagine what she felt. Disappointment came to mind first. Probably a caring sort of pity, too. Perhaps she was praying. No, I knew she was praying. My mother always prayed. This is probably the first time she thought twice about praying aloud in front of me.
“I can see how it would be hard for you to deal with all of that alone,” she said.
No more silence.
. . . . .
After the big “moment of truth”, we started discussing various topics and thoughts: We talked about the Catholic church, masculinity and femininity, how she used to be an atheist, evidence for miracles, and that she doesn’t believe Christianity requires people to leave their reasoning skills behind.
Aside: You should know that my mother is one of the most thoughtful and faithful Christians of my acquaintance, and she’s also one of the most respectable, wonderful individuals I’ve ever known. When people talk about blind faith and dumb believers, they are not speaking about this woman.
At the end of our conversation, she mused, “This is astonishing…” I nodded, smiling. “You’re the girl who came home from camp in 7th grade and said, ‘Sorry Mom, I’m going to be a missionary.’”
“I know.”
“Astonishing…”
Who should I tell next?
Olin Thang on 
Cortez Frisch on 
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