Although I had always attended Presbyterian churches, it wasn’t until I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2001 that I began to form a vibrant relationship with Jesus. The members of this little church prayed for me so hard and so long that I knew I had to get better. I did get better, and I found an animated, noisy church family whose members shout “Praise the Lord!” whenever they feel the urge. I’ve adjusted to their exuberance, but I continue to grapple with their decidedly conservative perspective.
One of the first prayer meetings I ever attended was held shortly after the midterm congressional elections of 2002. The pastor went on happily about the many Republicans who had been elected. He said that from Christopher Columbus to George W. Bush, God has smiled on the people who have figured large in this country’s history. As a researcher who works with Native Americans, I’m familiar with the tragic history of indigenous peoples, and I know what was wrong with Columbus’s “godly” take on things. So I raised my hand and said, “I’m a liberal.”
The pastor immediately apologized for assuming that because we were Christians, we must all be Republican. “Well,” volunteered another church member, “the liberals have really ruined this country.” A sweet, white-haired grandma joined in gleefully, as the pastor tried to stem the tide he had started. I sat there wondering whether I really belonged.
It wasn’t the last time I would have doubts. I feel strongly that denying people who love each other the right to marry because of their sexual orientation is discrimination. My opinion is so far removed from that of my Christian friends that I felt compelled to ask my pastor about it. He advised me to read the Bible and Paul’s views on homosexuality. “But Paul also says that women shouldn’t talk in church,” I responded. He sighed good-naturedly. Although I am perhaps a thorn in his side, he consistently treats me with respect.
I find that people react more viscerally to my religious views. This is old news to my Christian friends. When I mentioned to the pastor that I’d be traveling a lot this winter and planned to use the time to get caught up on my Bible reading, he said that would be a good way to keep people from talking to me on the airplane. Sure enough, they kept a wide berth. Were they afraid that I’d proselytize them?
Some of my friends seem to share the same concern; once I told them I had converted, they just sort of wandered out of my life. Others have stuck around, even if they consider the born-again stuff a little dodgy. As a part-time college professor, I usually tiptoe around the subject in the classroom. Recently, though, during a lecture on healing, I ventured to tell my students I was born again. They embraced the concept, but we all understood how politically incorrect it would have been for me to talk in depth about my faith.
In truth, I rarely mention my faith unless someone else brings it up. At a meeting in Oregon, a Cherokee elder told me he was a Christian minister. When I told him I had been saved, he said “Hallelujah!” and asked if we could have supper together. At the table we created our own little warm center of joy, the same feeling I experience at church services and prayer meetings.
Recently in Washington, D.C., my taxi driver, a large black man with a wide smile, was joyfully praising God as he made his way to my hotel. I told him that I had been born again. “Well, then, you’re my sister!” he shouted.
Meanwhile, as the volunteer Howard Dean “victory captain” in my town, I recently hosted a Dean party for fellow Democrats. Eleven neighbors showed up to share thoughts and carrot cake. As we sat around the wood stove listening to the wind beat against the windows, it seemed I had another bunch of sisters and brothers with me. I had to smile, because I was reminded of what Bob Dylan sang about God: “Oh, Jokerman, you know what he wants.” I think God wants all of us–Dean advocates and born-again Christians alike–to be brothers and sisters. The joke is on me, for ever thinking there were real differences between us.
