Sunday, April 15, 2007

Spiritual Constipation

After sitting in church this am and listening to our (awesome) pastor (this is the guy who dressed up like the "red pill blue pill"character from the Matrix and did a few sermons, Matrix style), I realized that I am likely suffering from a form of spiritual constipation:

To be a Christian entails some degree of being in relationship with other followers, and I am avoiding it like the plague. Because, as Bob says: being a Christian means you have committed to not only loving God, but loving all people-- unconditionally. And since *true* love (vs romantic love) is a gift, a choice--it requires you to lay yourself open, leaving you vulnerable to being hurt. And since I have been found lacking in so many ways and snubbed in the past (the spurned lover! a tale as old as time...), I realized that I have found it less painful to discount my fellow parishoners out of hand, before they get the opportunity to reject me-- turning me into the bitter, lonely old gal I have become. Snif!

Because it is always easier to love people you know aren't going to reject you...

BUT: being afraid of rejection is no excuse for becoming an asshole.

The tech people (my husband among them, of late), are starting to put Bob's sermons on line. He just completed a series on the origins of the universe, which incorporated a fair amount of philosophy 201 and a smidgen of quantum physics. Bob (and lots of other pastors, truth be told) always says not to leave your intellect and scepticism at the church door on Sunday, which a long time doubter like me can appreciate. I am hoping those sermons make it, and soon-- my attention span isn't so great, and I probably take in about 35% of what is said (the doodling and list making probably don't help). He mentioned something a couple weeks ago about how the phrase "All Men Are Created Equal" would not have been spoken in a culture that espoused an evolutionary worldview (which, in the secret, blackest, depth of my heart I sometimes embrace, much to my shame.) And for some reason, I thought it was important enough to write down on my program. Wish I remembered why...

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