If you tuned into our Sunday Service yesterday via Facebook livestream, we performed our song "Shores of Jordan" from the new record Hymns For My Atheist Sister & Her Friends to Sing Along To. On the recording, we are joined by friends Halley Neal & Sam Robbins, as well as a deep bass part by friend & producer Dave Coleman.
It's a song reminiscent of those gospely country church basement tunes, where the piano is best played plunky and out of tune, and the sentiment is one of unwarranted hope and deep longing. And in a lot of ways, that's the place it was written from.
As most of you know, both Scott & I were raised in Christian churches, growing up in a time of Purity Culture trends, Evangelical outreach, and the rise of Christian Nationalism. What started as a community when we were young, turned into an indoctrination that we couldn't reconcile with what we were reading, what we knew was true by loving our neighbor. For a lot of years following our childhood churches, we continued to try and assimilate. We found different avenues of belief under the umbrella of the old. Scott went from a Mennonite Brethren Church to Anglican. I underwent a serious theological battle from First Christian Church to an even more stringent strain.
In both cases, we were fighting for control. How do we keep this belief that we, at some point, had so much affection for and also function with love in a world of diverse ethnicity, sexuality, and theology? And then, more pertinently for me-- how do I function in a religion that overlooks me and my friends?
How do I love a religion that doesn't love me back?
The answer (for me) was, I couldn't. I began writing this song alone in our little camper a couple of years ago, in the street of my now estranged extremely religious friend in Grand Rapids. For years, we maintained our friendship, though we differed spiritually. After a particularly engaging evening of talking about God over evening tea and sweets, I had a distinct longing for her belief. It was so sure, so confident. Things were black & white. She knew where she was going when she died, and was sure of the fate of everyone around her. It seemed so... easy. Except, of course, for the matter of Hell. And for the matter of her being unable to have friends who are gay. And for the matter of her chronically submitting herself to a life of "helpmate" to a man who didn't respect her needs, and shoveling the Virgin-Mary-Mother-of-God ideal into her daily diet of caring for two kids alongside her chronic postpartum. While the answers seemed easy, the fallout was at her expense. She is in love with a religion that does not care for her in return.
We finished the song two weeks later on the back porch of our atheist friend, Rosco, overlooking the river that runs through his backyard and watching the squirrels gather the acorns in his yard. I was feeling the dreaminess of the home I have been given, of being here on this earth right now, and I felt the touch of the eternal. And all of the longing I had when starting to write the song-- for a time and place and religion that no longer existed-- became decidedly a place of ordinary holiness. The kind of green grass and moving water and the quiet voice of the love of my life speaking my name aloud. I may not have what I had as a kid who wanted so desperately to believe, but at least I was seeing without blinders. And while the truth of belief is perhaps less black & white, at least it is whole.
The following year, my friend from Grand Rapids broke up with me when I confessed to her when she was condemning the LGBTQIA community that I was bisexual. Somehow, I thought I would be the exception to her religious views. We have not been invited back to her home in a couple of years now, after 16 years of friendship. I reckon that not everything has changed since leaving the church. Sometimes, even on this side, your beliefs may lose you some friends. We have ended up back at Rosco's house, though. There, we talk about the belief of loving our neighbor, even when it's hard. We also talk about our belief of people to be who they are. And we talk a lot about his river, and how the herons will wait patiently as the water glides past them, waiting for their next right move.
This isn't a dichotomy. Not everyone who has a Christian faith has a belief that would keep them from loving their neighbor. Not every Atheist is able to be open to their community without baggage or bias. And these two things aren't even on opposing sides of the pendulum. The heart of this song is really about finding Extraordinary Love in the places we didn't look. We have some Christian friends who are some of the most stunningly accepting and loving people we know. We have some Atheist friends who are the same. Most people we know are doing the best they can, in and around their religious limitations and allowances. The bigger narrative is Love and how we can best understand and embody it. Whatever it is you believe, so long as it compels you to love who and what is right in front of you, you're probably on to something good. So long as it comes with a healthy dose of understanding that your narrative may not be the only or the best narrative for others. Sometimes, we all could stand to sit back from the river and to contemplate our next right move.
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