Wholly
Some might say I'm well-versed. [Mighty Monday Vol. 5]
My room was ajar at the retreat, and I heard two of the congregation talking about me. In uncouth whispers, they critiqued my resistance to the guest pastor. They wondered, offended, why I had questioned his reduction of Asian women to noodle vendors. The couple dismissed my questions as “products of a liberal education.” Why wouldn’t I just conform? Why couldn’t I just humble myself and take in the Word of God? Why couldn’t I just be a good Christian?
Faith by nature, in my mind, is strong enough to survive doubt. It is stable enough to withstand the battering of shame-honor culture and commercialized Christianity both. For every Bible-belt blind believer, there is someone listening to the still, small voice of God in the desert. I am learning to quiet the temple of my soul. Instead of fighting in a white man’s contrived holy war, I connect to the Spirit. I let the Spirit move beyond what human eyes can see or do. I remind myself that the turnover of cells in our bodies is so extreme, billions die and others take their place every moment. It refreshes the age-old adage “made new every morning” despite the fact that these billions make up only one percent of the human body. The more accurate adage would be “made new every third of the year,” but that’s less poetic.
Science and faith have never been at odds for me. My God makes music in cricket-chirping summer symphonies and paints in shocks of wildflowers across Deep Well trailheads. My God chuckles when the calf last spring mistook the farmer as her mother. Julie gave her a tongue-lashing only real Southerners can, calling out, “Oh, honey, you’re confused. I’m not your mama.” The entire group burst out in giggles as the calf high-tailed it back to the herd in seeming embarrassment. God is also making conversation amongst strangers waiting for the A and C trains at Columbus Circle, embodied in the woman who asked me if I wanted to sit while carrying my one-year-old. At midnight, God is hanging out with the guys at the impromptu cookout in front of Utica Station. God has humanity down to a science.
I wonder how churches that were meant to be open managed to become so closed and broken. Why are only certain people allowed to be part of the metaphorical Body, and when did false dichotomy become false gospel enough? Why is it that every Easter children collect eggs, but a woman’s body still collects public opinions? Why is it that a woman’s body is still seen as fertile ground for debate? Should I still wear pastel and lace when politicians are lacing laws that collect children’s souls from the very ground?
Holy is the ground where all the people walk. Holy is God’s name which has been sullied by political ambition and pockmarked by virtue signalling. I was always told in so many words that I was unholy. Ungodly. A woman who thought too much for herself, who possessed too much wit they deemed ungraceful. How dare I argue? How dare I question? How dare I exist in my wholeness? Wholly, holy myself, breathed into life by Spirit. I walk out of the room with the door ajar, past the couple agape at my boldness. Alone but not lonely in the wilderness.