I lost it. Again.
After months of effortless self-control, I came unglued over something that wasn’t worth even one second of my precious (and dwindling) life, and now I feel hungover like Bruce Banner after a raging all-nighter as The Hulk.
Not that anyone gives a rat’s ass, but it is tough being a Christian woman with an anger management problem. No matter how justified I feel, I always hate myself in the morning.
So now I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can’t play in the good Christian women’s sandbox ever again. I am making a vow to myself, and the rest of the world, that I will never join a Christian women’s group ever, ever again no matter how tempted I am to believe that this time it will be different. It will never be different because I’m the one who would have to change, and that is obviously outside of my grasp.
When I get around good Christian women I develop a nasty form of Tourette Syndrome, and all I want to do is run around naked, and scream, “Fuck this self-righteous, hypocritical shit!” at the top of my lungs.
This is a problem.
What’s in a Name (Calling)?
Jesus called the Pharisees a “pit of vipers.” I called the pharisees in my life a “group of bitches.” What’s the difference? Well, for starters, I’m not Jesus.
When will I ever learn?
Pharisees never recognize themselves. They are always blinded by their own sense of righteousness. And in the end the Pharisees hung Jesus on the cross as a heretic. There’s a lesson in that for those with eyes to see and ears to hear; I wish I’d grow a pair of either.
This time, like all the other times I’ve been in this place, I don’t regret what I said as much as I regret that I gave a shit and felt compelled to say it in the first place. How many times do I have to go down this road before I choose a different path?
Why do I keep ending up in this same damnable place? Michael Corleone answers that best.
I’m sick and tired of good Christian women sitting around like a bunch of clucking hens lamenting the whorish, ungodly behavior of other Christian women. I hate it.
I am sick of good Christian women shaming other Christian women who NEED divorces, abortions, to work outside the home, to use birth control, to vote the Democratic ticket, to stop having children, to tell their stupid asshole husbands to shove it, to put their children in public school, or to do whatever it is they feel they need to do in order to survive in this very difficult world.
I am sick of good Christian women deciding that somehow they are so fucking holy and righteous that it is their place to sit in the judgment seat and decide who is getting into heaven, and who is sitting outside the pearly gates waiting to explode in a burst of fire and brimstone flames. It’s self-serving bullshit that I won’t participate in, even with my silence, any longer.
I want to be bigger than this.
Self-righteous, good Christian women, who are convinced of their own spiritual superiority, are not my audience and not my mission field. They never were, and they never will be, And as long as I keep trying to please them I can’t do a damned thing that I’m supposed to be doing.
As a child, I stood with my nose pressed against the glass window of a fundamentalist, conservative religion. I wanted in. I wanted to feel a part of; to be accepted. But it could never happen. I was the child from the troubled home. My mother was an adulteress, and my father was a raging alcoholic. Good moms protected their children from girls like me. And they should. I was a bad influence, and according to some people I’m still a bad influence.
If you want to be a mindless drone in the Christian Collective then you should not be my friend. You definitely should not read my blog, or anything else I have to say anywhere else I say it. Please stay away from me. I am bad for you.
My life’s #1 goal has been to never end up a Nazi.
It has always deeply bothered me that good Christian Germans became Nazis. Think about it. For some reason it made total sense to people, who I have to believe were deep-down probably just like me, to allow their neighbors to be hauled off and sent to crematoriums.
How is it that good people do, or allow, such evil?
They did it because of group-think, peer pressure, and the fear of being ostracized. Granted, “being ostracized” meant being sent to a concentration camp, but that came later. At first, these good Christians had to sign on to the notion of building the camps, right? It started with not saying anything because being a good German meant going along.
Because of my fear that I’ll become a Nazi–or whatever the version of that will be in the future–I am always suspicious of groups. Once I join a group where there is one right way to think, and anyone who doesn’t think or act that way is wrong, or stupid, or destined for hell, some switch in me gets flipped. And then I flip.
I Am Not Good
I’m a marginalized Christian now, and feeling more marginalized by the minute. I’ll never be the thing that will get me what I want: Acceptance. I will always stand outside with my nose pressed up against the glass because I refuse to go inside and pretend that I’m something else.
Facts are facts. When I was 23, I had an abortion to keep from getting beaten up by my drug-dealer boyfriend. I am not a victim. I made every shitty life-choice a woman can make to get where I was, and another human being paid the price to get me out. That’s the truth of it, and no amount of flowery language–or pretending otherwise–will change it.
How many days do I not say the eff word to make up for killing my own baby for drugs? If I wear fugly baby-aspirin orange capris that make my ass look like a flat pancake, and cover up my sexy tits with big, over-sized men’s t-shirts that hide all the stumbling-block sexuality that is me, will God love me then? Will that redeem me?
Nothing will ever make up for anything I’ve ever done. Nothing except the blood of Jesus.
I Need A Big God
Either God is, or God isn’t.
Either God is good, or God isn’t good. I know for sure that I am not good.
Not for one second do I ever want to forget what I’m capable of. Not for one second do I ever want to lie about who I am. I cannot spend my time cleaning myself up for the righteous. I will never be one of them. And I won’t pretend otherwise.
So now I hang onto my Jesus like a tail hangs onto a kite that’s been cut loose from its line. I’m asking myself once again, “What does it mean for me to say I am a Christian?” One thing I do know for sure; it doesn’t mean running around policing everybody else and making sure they are being a good enough Christian. Because I already know, I am not good.