Free to Be (if you're a friend of JC)

This morning my coworker Eunice meekly slipped this on my desk next to my elbow as she passed them around Cube City.

My Dear Co-Workers:
I am putting together a newsletter for my church for our discipleship ministry. I thought it would be a good idea to place in the newsletter how different individuals view and define discipleship. Please help me by giving me your definition of discipleship. I need your definition to come off the top of your head. That means do not use a dictionary, thesaurus, or the internet. Participation is not mandatory but would be greatly appreciated. If you can, please complete and return to me by the end of today. Many thanks to you. (Eunice) Do not attach your name.

Within minutes, this email appears from my workfriend Pashmina: i’m not going to lie: I don’t even understand what discipleship means. I seriously don’t. I’m kind of annoyed that this was passed around.

We had to do a lap around the office to talk about it. ‘Cause, really, what can you do? I’m a Dianic-Wiccan-leaning Pagan, she’s a culturally-Muslim Agnostic. We both figure this woman means no harm, but we’re both offended. It’s not like this is the first time the assumption of Christianity has come up.
Ultimately we decide to just ignore it, not make a fuss but not participate. What’s interesting is how I felt when she gave it to me. My first reaction was to write something for her! Like, say “I’m actually not Christian, Eunice, but this is what I think discipleship probably means”. I could probably give a pretty god definition, actually, I grew up in a Protestant denomination called “Disciples of Christ” and all.

Here’s the really fucked up part: Some part of me feels embarrassed not to be a Christian. I feel like my existence is just sort of rude.

This is the insidious damage the Christian guise of the patriarchy inflicts. I’m swimming in the American national identity, a pollutant in the sea of Christianity, the presumption washing over me until I feel like this is just how well-mannered people conduct themselves; it’s propriety to be part of a church. Like saying “I’m not Christian” is sort of like saying “I watch a lot of porn”. Both of these are true, but it’s not polite to mention either one at work.

So the question I have is the origin of this shame: Am I embarrassed because Cube City is a casually Christian environment that makes me feel like an outsider by omission? Or is this a symptom of growing up Christian and still feeling the tentacles of guilt that come from leaving the Church?
Well, I don’t so much have guilt about leaving the Church, I really, really don’t. It’s more like growing up Christian gives me some insight into how this little memo from Eunice happened and some empathy for her. I’m certain, 100% certain, that she never thought it would offend anyone. She’s just asking, right? She said you don’t have to do it, right?
I can see her good intentions. I can picture the newsletter committee trying to work on their issue, in the windowless church office or the fellowship hall, after the opening prayer, over sugar cookies and Styrofoam cups of grape juice. I can imagine their excitement about Eunice’s great idea to ask her officemates to define “discipleship”, the earnest attempt to incorporate an outsider’s point of view. I don’t want to put her down, she’s trying to create something. She’s part of something that makes her feel special, she’s a contributor. Somehow I’m not able to be annoyed with her, even though this memo is hers alone, not an office-sponsored request.

But here’s my damage: These Christian assumptions feel like an army of termites trying to eat into my identity and make it rickety. Like a casual, even unconscious, but insidious way to break me down, erase me.

The office Christmas party that seems to last the whole month of December, with religious symbols all around, and coworkers (seriously, this happened) are offended when I say “Happy Holidays”. Religious posters on the walls of offices. The pressure to be a Secret Santa. Bible quotes in email signatures. Devotional booklets or Bibles on 5 of the 9 desks in my area. The office closing early the day before Easter. Inviting coworkers to church-sponsored events over email. Church fundraiser order forms in the lunchroom. Everyone here apologizes when they say “Oh my God!” as though it’s a cuss word and says “God Bless You!” when you sneeze. A what’s-your-zodiac-sign conversation where two people at the table said “I don’t believe in that, I’m Christian.” The anti-Halloween “Devil’s Day” discussions I’ll overhear starting soon. Our information and referral operators ask “Do you belong to a church?” when people call looking for help. Every third person wishing me a motherfucking Blessed Day.

Each of these examples seem so petty – it’s harmless, why get all upset because people feel strong in their faith? They didn’t ask if you were Christian when they interviewed you, right?
Ok, true, it’s not like anything illegal is happening here. People are just expressing their personal beliefs. But it’s far from harmless. To me, it just makes it a hostile environment. When I say “I’m not Christian.” I get the startled, scandalized “oh!” And a glare like I have three heads and eat babies.

Which I do, but still.

God's Vagina

Recently I went to a jobconference where Bishop Desmond Tutu delivered a keynote address. He was speaking to an organization that provides infrastructure for human services delivery; a group that helps people as its primary function. He was rumpled and grandfatherly.
He told the hundreds of helpers there that God needs them, God depends upon them. God must work through people to enter the understandable world, both the help and the gesture of help are God's need and delight. He spoke in a little tiny voice, "God says Help. Help me, children. Be my arms to one another. Be my voice, my comfort, my tenderness. I need your help!
You all here, you are God's hands."
And oh, I wanted to help God! when he asked, like I was a child in Sunday School again, hearing the voice of the Lord asking me a personal favor. A mission (Send Me!) to do a piece of work for Him in the world. Something tiny in the grand Plan, but significant, essential and I'm the one who can do it and who has to. Because of who I am, God saw my troubles and flaws, and they make me dented in just the perfect way for this special quest.
It was really like that for me, I was a pious kid. And am a pious adult as well, but I changed my God when the original didn't speak as clearly to me anymore. My new model is sexy and kind, raw and motherly, She loves us and doesn't give a fuck about us and uses us and ignores us and pleasures us. And, of course, She's too big for the whole monotheism suit. But the surge of longing and compassion, that trippy feeling of wisdom intertwining with surrender and power, those feel the same no matter The Bigness's shape we each prefer.

I am God's Vagina. We're all God's Vagina, yup, but I want to know it. I wear woman through and throughout, this lifetime right here -- my appreciation of the holy wonder of the vagina is fanatic and absolute.
I want to pull all the damaged ladies I've met (oh, Big Mama, I sure have met a lot) into a sweet embrace that soothes and fixes you up all right, safe and warm and healthy. I want to teach people with pussies and those without all about the GLORIOUS majesty of the vagina. I want to draw the power that pulses in roots twisting through soil and starlight beaming through time into my splendid cunt, to push it through my body backwards into a shudder, joy birthed into the world through my pleasure.
So I do these cunt-powered, vagina-loving things. I teach pelvic exams to med students by talking them through giving me a exam, I describe the location of the urethral meatus and the vaginal introitus by using my own home-grown as the model. I did phone sex in grad school, used the authority of seduction to teach basic anatomy, teaching men how to make other women come. I taught pregnant teenagers how to find their clitoris and why that might be fun to do.
And some of the sex that All Things Holy have led my way has been in service of healing the most intimate of needed repairs, mine or theirs. I'm in a 7 years-so-far-long process of connecting to a person and her vagina, an excavation of the depth of human capacity to love and nurture one another. And then there's that other bit...I worship a God that has a VAGINA.
I'm out of practice for this mission now, whew. My day job isn't deep and holy and juicy anymore, and my intensity is fading. My compassion, my libido, my drive to make a better day for women and girls, I'm rusty all around. I feel like I have arthritis of the vagina, yeah, a little. Cobwebs and self-loathing, doubt and apathy, that stuff can clog yer pipes. I need to renovate in here. But I can do this work.

And because I can -- you know it -- I must. God said.