between lonesome and blue
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So my brother and I are currently sitting in our living room; he on the piano, playing the Mary McDonald arrangement of “Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace” (the prayer of St. Francis of Asissi, for bonus trivia points) while I fiddle with the French seams on my stockings.
Bizarre or not, this is what our “getting ready to go to church” routine has degenerated to. And before you scratch your head and wonder what we’re doing going to church on Saturday, it’s because we are both fourth-generation Seventh-day Adventists. Read up on them and you’ll get a fairly good grasp of the root of my neuroses.
I haven’t got anything against the faith I was brought up in or of any others; just organized religion in general. Robert Fulghum, in his most excellent writings, once made the point of saying that if he could do it all over again, he would have joined the Salvation Army, as they were the only people who practiced what they preached. And while I don’t deny the good that has been done thanks to faith-based initiatives, I can’t help but wonder why it seems so exclusionary at times.
By that, I mean the very interesting case of my volunteer work with Chattanooga CARES and my occasional attendance at the local SDA churches. You see, like many other religions and the U.S. military, there is a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to being gay in the Seventh-day Adventist church. That bothers me an enormous lot. I won’t go into the “is it nature or nurture?” debate that rages around the causes of homosexuality, but I do believe that it isn’t something one just quits, like smoking or drinking. And I refuse to count it a sin.
It’s not a popular worldview, and I think my family has slowly realized my growing disillusionment with the strictures of organized religion. Don’t get me wrong; I still brought home a sedate, appropriate dress to wear to the church services. I just don’t prefer to do this now.
For me, worship is a long hike through Signal Mountain with camera in hand, marveling at the height and breadth of beauty. Or doing enormous loads of laundry just to get donated clothes ready for the Samaritan Center’s racks. That’s what I like and what so many people today lack—action. Sitting in pews are all fine and well, if that’s your cup of tea. Not mine. I prefer to get grit under my nails and scrapes on my knees.
I ought not to criticize what people choose to comfort themselves with. But I can’t help but pity all these people who pretend to care when they should have a heart to change the world.