We were having Margaritas, and my friend Luke paused in the
middle of a tirade against evangelicals.
"Oh, wait," he said. "Um, are you religious?"
I hate this question.
Because "Are you religious?" implies a yes-or-no answer: yes,
you're religious; no, you're not.
I'm not comfortable in either category, so I'm never sure what
to say. Do I give them the long answer? Or do I mutter "No," which
is shorthand for "I'm not evangelical or born again," which means:
"I'm not the kind of Christian you're worried about."
I don't even know, honestly, about calling myself Christian. I
go to church, but I think a lot of my brothers and sisters in the
pews would likely be suspicious of my suspicions about dogma.
On the one hand, I went to seminary for a short time and take
Christianity very seriously. On the other, I wrestle with the
fundamental tenets that make Christianity what it is and not
something else: the resurrection of the body; the idea that one
Middle Eastern man saves every one from sin and he himself is God;
the virginity of Mary; a personal God who keeps his ear open to
each of our problems.
Back in the early days of Christianity, all of these things were
up for grabs. I would have been comfortable being Christian then
(well, philosophically comfortable. That whole martyrdom thing is
another story).
Yet there is another side of Christianity. The idea that God is
love. The conviction that one should practice radical compassion.
The very challenging notion that we should treat others the way we
would like to be treated. The sentiment that individuality should
never rise above working for and with the group.
This is very difficult stuff. But this is what connects me to
the belief system that is Christianity. Because Buddhism, though a
completely different religion on a dogmatic level, has some similar
underlying beliefs, I tell people I am Christian-Buddhist, so I
don't scare them away.
I first started doing this about a dozen years ago, when I was
visiting New Orleans. I still wore a cross then, so often that I
would forget that it rested against my collarbone. I was being
hosted by a friend, but when she took me to the lesbian bar in
town, I noticed that her friends were shooting me odd looks.
"What is it?" I asked my friend finally.
She shifted feet. "They think you're here to convert them," she
said. "That you're not really a lesbian."
I put the cross in my pocket.
In the minds of this pack of lesbians, Christianity equaled gay
hate. In the mind of my friend Luke, who is straight, Christianity
equals a shutting down of conversation.
I hate the evangelicals for that.
This, of course, is very un-Christian of me. But the Religious
Right has taken something beautiful and tough and twisted it into
something ugly and easy.
The most vocal segment of the Christian church at the moment has
two heads: the Pope, who takes every chance he gets to try to kick
out of the Catholic Church anyone who disagrees with him so as to
ensure it's "purity"; and evangelical Christianity, led by people
like the late Jerry Falwell, who looked on the Civil Rights
movement with disdain, called Bishop Desmond Tutu a fraud, and said
that 9/11 was caused by "the pagans, and the abortionists, and the
feminists, and the gays and the lesbians."
As Luke pointed out, instead of approaching ideas that are new
to them with compassion and curiosity, these figureheads of the
Right instead try to kick these ideas-and people-out of the way by
declaring that God doesn't like it.
As if God's likes and dislikes were as easy to discern as
flavors of ice cream.
All of this means that my closet Christianity helps no one
(well, except maybe my dating life). What the world needs is more
diversity in Christianity, not less. Christians need to know that
being Christian isn't an automatic Get Out of Jail Free card when
it comes to intolerance; gays, lesbians and others on the left need
to know that "Christian" doesn't equal "enemy."
So Luke asked me if I were religious.
"Yeah," I said. "I am." And I gave him the long answer.