A Post-Pentecostal Musing.

People hear that you grew up religious, and they can’t imagine you’d have a complex relationship with faith. If you believe one part, you must believe it all. But who gets more chances to see the absurdities than the devout? An answer that’s satisfying on Sunday becomes contradictory by Wednesday night. Belief is a wrestling match that lasts a lifetime.

— Victor Lavalle, Big Machine

What I am is haunted: stalked, reticent, silent. I can’t dance to any song, watch any film, hold any man without feeling surveilled. No thought goes unheard; no motive remains mysterious. I am hawked, dogged, tracked. There are no restraining orders. I can’t speak to the degree of shell-shock in others; I have only my own to catalog, to manage. What I have are memories, of an elderly woman shoving a huge leather-bound bible into my hands so the devil the pastor was about to cast out wouldn’t “jump into me,” as I sat waiting two rows behind the altar; of a man lifting a leg to the back of his neck and standing on one foot while ministers prayed for him; of the HIV-infected visiting prophet whose testimony involved locking himself into his church for three days until the spirit of homosexuality left him.

What I have is a residual belief in the strangest of all my strange experiences, a lingering pre-intellectual instinct that keeps me from being an entirely rational thinker. Some nights, I still think I’ll see a demon at the foot of my bed. Some mornings, I still wake and panic about whether or not the Rapture occurred while I slept and I, for whatever transgressions I committed between dusk and dawn, have been left behind.

What I see when I envision God is a vapor overlaying everything. A voyeur, a protector, an executioner, depending on the day. Binocular eyes, a sword to slay giants, and sickles for hands. Body of stone and body of air, at equal turns.

What I see when I envision Jesus is a hippie, barefoot, in blue tattered dungarees and a white linen tunic embroidered with navy thread. Listening and pacing and staring through the cookie-sized holes in his palms. Smiling and running frustrated fingers through crazy-thick hair.

What I hear when someone tells me he/she is a prophet is an echo: an imperceptible white noise beneath loud and sincere speculation.

In some half-carved hollow that logic can’t touch, I believe everything. No matter how thoroughly the messages of my brain excavate the corners of my body, they never find this hollow. Their reason can’t be heard here. I believe that prayer has the potential to animate paralyzed limbs. I believe people who insist that their malignant growths have shrunken to non-existence. I believe a bush can burn without being consumed. I believe a too-wistful woman can transmogrify to salt.

No amount of evidence or education can completely erase my socio-spiritual imprinting. What is there will always be there.

But age intensifies suspicion. Experience encourages examination. I cannot be a scholar without questioning. I cannot be a woman without relinquishing some of my naivete. I know that I know very little for certain, and wondering calms me.

I know that the answers I’ve always been given are not quite whole answers at all.


8 responses to “A Post-Pentecostal Musing.”

  1. oh i loved this one, stacia. love.

    “In some half-carved hollow that logic can’t touch, I believe everything.” — beautiful.

    wondering calms me too. it’s why i like walking. 🙂

  2. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

    I’m always blathering on about how religion and the belief in God can be more complex than people think (religious texts were the textbooks of their day). Of course I’m often called crazy for this, but many of the world’s religions rose to prominence during the Pre-Enlightenment era and it is assumed that as a result they have nothing to add to to intellectual matters. I beg to differ of course. You just have to know how to interpret them.

    God is a word that evolved to describe a literal phenomenon, just like air, wind or sunshine. Essentially God is a euphemism for evolution.

    Oh, and wow, what beautifully morbid Gothic imagery. Almost surreal.

    Sorry Stacia, I just love this stuff!

  3. Being that I practically lived in the church, my preacher of a father still sometimes questions me and my faith. I’ve always adored him for not pressuring me, but he wonders (as I figure a father of the cloth would) about my safety and spirit. I am often overwhelmed w/ questions that I am afraid to answer. At least you take the time to present your curiosity to others. Faith is a wondrous yet torturous thing…

  4. Wow.

    On Sunday, I woke up to find a note on my sister’s dry-erase board.

    Cindy, mom invited Fr. Roberto and a few seminarios over for breakfast .

    My sister cutely wrote the date on the note, as if I’d forget where I was and where I had slept.

    I wondered if my mom had invited the priest over to talk to her children who had long since stopped attending weekly Sunday Mass. It never came up, but there was talk about nuns while my sister and I were in the room. Weird.

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