Yesterday I started to write a post about the sullen anti-hero who is at war with himself and with the forces of Hell. A force that walks between this realm and the spiritual realm using sacred weapons to slay hordes of infernal minions. An image often conjured up when the words “Prayer Warrior” are used to describe a person with a devout life of prayer.
It was intended to be an anecdote from my past, and an opportunity mock such an outrageously over-sexualized image of something that ought to be sacred and pious. What it actually (de)evolved into was a long discussion of my history with Protestantism and my walking away from it.
I published the post with some reluctance -which for me is highly unusual. I read it many times over before finally choosing to go back and tear it down from this page. It didn’t belong here.
It is not some deep dark secret that I find myself in a sort of spiritual crisis. It isn’t so much that I have a problem with God as much as it is that I have a problem with his people. I have written openly on the subject more times than I’m willing to admit. Usually the practice is quite cathartic and theraputic. This wasn’t the case last night.
With some strange sort of relief I find that this isn’t the place to go about my personal spiritual journey; to discuss at great lengths my history with Protestantism. My experiences and the emotions tied to those experiences will creep into my writing -it is inevitable-, but complete tellings simply don’t belong here.
This may very well be the first time in my life when I can honestly say that the public religious journey is not helping me figure myself out, and there is something so extraordinarily liberating in that.