Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 31

The identity I’m not obligated to explain

The other day I had an existential crisis in the Religion section of Barnes and Noble. No matter how much the doubts build up, I can’t stay away from the words of apologetic preachers and theologians. Each time I walk through those aisles, I hope my eye will catch sight of a title that will clarify things for me, or at the very least, help bring back a spark.

I walked past titles of books recommended to me in college; books that came to me in such perfect circumstances, I wondered if God deliberately put me in that particular space with that particular person so I would receive the book not one moment later. I remember devouring words and chapters that fed me and gave me life. Several years later, rereading those words is like finding stale pretzels under the couch.

Something wasn’t working. The words hadn’t changed, so obviously that something that “wasn’t working” had to be me.

Hours earlier, one of my professors sent me an email to wish me a happy new year, and my heart lit up like I just heard my favorite sermon. And it confused me, because never in my life have I made a big deal out of Rosh Hashanah. In fact, my father died on Rosh Hashanah, so it’s definitely not a highlight on my calendar anymore.

It was more the camaraderie of the greeting, a shared secrecy. Not many people know what this holiday means, but she did, and she knew I did too. I was part of an “in” group, even if it’s a small one.

Maybe that’s it: it’s the feeling of camaraderie that I miss. Pair any number of Christians together, and you never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes not even a mutual declaration of love for Jesus is enough to ease the strain of disagreement about issues like abortion, homosexuality, works-based or faith-based salvation, old-earth or young-earth creation. You can’t expect complete homogeneity in any religion, really, but there is one thing I can generally count on when in the presence of other Jews: a shared understanding of what it is to be different. To hear politicians rattle on about a “Christian nation” and feel like they’re leaving you out, or worse, that they’re implying you don’t belong here.

Even after adopting a new faith, I never ceased feeling like an outsider. Suddenly my Jewishness, my “otherness,” stood out like a bright cell phone screen in a dark theater, and I wasn’t even doing anything to make it obvious. I still chafed at the thought of Jesus being the only way to heaven. Still dreaded not having anything to do on Christmas; still felt like a Grinch who would rather stick forks in her ears than hear yet another carol (hymns are good, though).

I have bobbed and weaved around this question for years: What do I do about Judaism? It’s like it’s destined to follow me, regardless of the fact that I’ve actually never been a practicing Jew. I have no plans to start, but it’s a staple of my identity just like my blue eyes and “coffee stain” birthmark.

I don’t have to “do” anything about it, but it’s there anyway. It will throb under my skin any time I hear Christian-ese language that reeks of exclusivity, of intolerance, and implies eternal torment for those outside the tribe. It’s my knee-jerk reaction to mass condemnation of LGBT people, and my internal battle cry of Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a minority?!!

Interestingly, I believe Jesus does. But to believe in Jesus and remain indecisive about everything else that goes with him – the exclusivity, the eternal separation from God without him – well, I’m pretty allergic to cognitive dissonance. I’d prefer a little more stability if I’m going to pledge my allegiance to anything.

A few hours after I left Barnes and Noble, I saw this meme on Facebook:

Life is so much simpler

when you stop explaining yourself to people

and just do what works for you.

It’s a very simple statement. It’s not deep, it’s not complicated, it’s not much. Yet it was just what I needed to hear in my moment of excruciating anxiety (and I’m not exaggerating: I’ve lost sleep over this “I don’t know what I am!” dilemma), because the fact is that God knows what I am. He knows and understands the constant battle of “in-between-ness.” It’s other people who put the stress on me to have An Answer, a definitive label that everyone can recognize: Christian. Jew. Agnostic. Whatever. For some reason, I’ve been caring too much about what others will think: “She’s a walking contradiction!” being the worst possible pronouncement.

Somehow I got it in my head that it’s not okay to say, “I’m figuring things out.” It’s even more okay to say, “I’d rather not discuss this.” I’m more than willing to talk about it, but if a situation feels unsafe, then I won’t.

I’ve always been free to turn down dates with men I’m not interested in, right? Why did it never occur to me that I’m free to do the same with religion-themed discussions that feel uncomfortable?

Maybe my real issue is not “What do I do about [insert religious conundrum here]?” but rather, “What do I do about establishing boundaries?”

Like this post? Check out Confessions of a Jew-ish Skeptic, now available on Amazon.

Stay in touch via Facebook and Twitter.

Filed under: Social Issues, Theology Tagged: agnosticism, Christianity, Controversy, Judaism, self-care

When home is a hell-bound handbasket

Lately, longing on to social media reminds me of the time I picked up the front doormat to shake off the dust and dirt – and discovered a family of spiders underneath. Perhaps the people I know (or thought I knew) had racist, intolerant underpinnings all along, but there was never an opportunity or purpose in showing those qualities until this election. Suddenly, doormats are lifted everywhere, exposing ugliness that once was considered inappropriate to air in public, and it’s all okay. It’s free speech, after all. It’s American.

I haven’t been okay lately. As naïve as it may be in this day and age to consider any space a “safe space,” the truth is that I always thought America was one of the most progressive places on earth. I believed that my country was the embodiment of true democratic justice. And yet, this month the convicted Standford rapist Brock Turner served only three months of his already laughable six-month prison sentence. He’s a free man now, but I’ve seen more furious posts about Colin Kaepernick’s protest against the national anthem. I’ve seen posts insisting that “racism isn’t as bad as it used to be” and rape victims should just keep their knees together. A police officer was fired for not firing his gun.

Only in America?

I’m so emotionally worn out to the point of apathy. I’m edgy, restless, and depressed that the places and people I thought were safe are turning out to be toxic. I’m just plain tired.

I’m especially jaded by self-professing Christians refusing to put on a different pair of lenses and see the world through others’ eyes. Quite honestly, I’m terrified of people who claim to worship a refugee with minority status, and yet cheer enthusiastically at the prospect of electing a man who wants to build a wall to keep them out. I’m scared and anxious to the point of chronic nausea and fatigue, yet still I tell myself, This is America, this can’t happen here.

And I don’t even have it as badly as others do; I’m merely an observer of this chaos, feeling small and ineffective. I want to do something, and shut myself down with “What’s the point?” The people who have the most power to make positive change are using it for evil instead, and it seems they are winning. What good can I do?

I can’t change the world, but I can take better care of myself, so at least I am in good condition to make changes when the opportunity arises. I can drag my tired self into the shower and eat healthy meals. I can read good books. I can light candles and drink tea. I can go back to writing handwritten notes of encouragement and mail them out to friends who won’t be expecting them. I can cuddle my adorable cats, who believe the world is their catnip-laced oyster.

I can make the world better by first making myself better. And that’s all I can handle for right now. I’ve used my platform to speak out against injustice in the past, only to be met with hateful, trolling comments in return, effectively scaring me away from speaking out again (at least in the near future). But it’s not as if I didn’t know that speaking up has consequences; I was just ill-prepared to handle them. I want to be counted as one of the “good guys” on the right side of history, but I’m not quite the brave activist I thought I was. I’m not sure what else I can do.

Part of my self-care regimen is allowing myself to return to my childhood love of choreography. Fight Song by Rachel Platten has taken on personal meaning for me, and I’m so proud of the progress I’ve made with the first 60 seconds of the song (just please ignore Siri’s “low battery” warning in the middle).

Filed under: Social Issues Tagged: censorship, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, depression, evangelicals, Facebook, grief, rape culture, self-care, social justice

But what if I want the box?

Last year I took part in an interfaith dinner, in which all the campus religious groups cooperated and hosted an evening of food, learning, and good conversation. It was advised to write your religious affiliation under your name on your nametag, and I saw many amusing ones: “Spiritual but not religious”; “Jesus not religion”; “Don’t really care.” The standard “Christian,” “Jewish,” “atheist” tags were almost…bland.

Last year I put “Christian” under my name. This year I’m not sure what to put, because if you know me, you know that the labels “Jewish,” “Christian,” and “agnostic” are all, in their own way, applicable.

I know better now than to assume uniformity under one label. “Christian” tells me something, and yet not enough. The “Eastern Orthodox” and aforementioned “Jesus not religion” tags create two different images in my mind, as do “atheist” and “agnostic atheist.” All of them are designed to invite conversation, which is the goal, but still I hesitate to get creative in this area.

I appreciate the people who tell me that labels are stupid and limiting; that I don’t need to worry about fitting into anyone’s box. They mean well but they don’t understand how OCD works: I need clean, simple labels. I want the box. The labeled box fits easily into a shelf and looks like it belongs; a container with loose ends hanging out of it is a black hole where items get lost, not found.

Unfortunately, the labels that suit me best are paraphrased quotes, quirky statements, and borrowed lines from books that don’t fit easily onto a Hello, My Name Is tag:

“My doubt is threaded with faith.” “Jew-ish.” “Christian with questions.” “Doubt-filled believer.” “On a journey.” I recently came across this quote, which I love, but definitely wouldn’t fit: “I want the presence of God Himself, or I want nothing to do with religion.”

But they all invite probing questions I might not have answers to. Or, if I do, they come out jumbly, in part because I’m still working through things, and also because I’m allergic to small talk and crowds make me itchy.

And yet, I believe these events are important, and may hold a key – be it a person on a similar trajectory, or insight from listening to another’s abbreviated story – to figuring myself out. I have learned a lot about God from talking with other people. I’ve learned more about the elasticity and purpose of faith by listening or reading someone’s autobiography than hearing a sermon. I hope others react similarly to my story.

“Seeker of God.” “Skeptic.” “Searching.” They’re all me. They don’t fit neatly in one box. I’m willing to bet, though, that behind the cross jewelry, the yarmulkes, and other decorative articles of faith, most people don’t fit neatly in one box, either.

Like this post? Check out Confessions of a Jew-ish Skeptic, now available on Amazon.

Stay in touch via Facebook and Twitter.

 

Filed under: Theology Tagged: agnosticism, atheism, Christian culture, Christianity, Judaism

Putting the answer before the question

Nearly a month after a Nebraskan family of five was killed in a car accident on their way to a missionary training program, Lyn Jerde, a writer for the Telegraph Herald in Iowa, asked the questions that many Christians are asking:

What kind of God would call people to a holy endeavor, then allow them to be wiped out when they answer the call?

If anyone tries to tell me that God “took them home” — including three tiny little children — because “God needed more angels in Heaven,” don’t be surprised if I respond with violence or at least violent words.

Expect a similar reaction to “everything happens for a reason.”

But say, “It’s a mystery,” and I’ll probably respond with, “Amen.”

I agree with her on the mystery part. After years of deep thinking and praying on the subject, I’m inclined to think that tragedies like these aren’t divinely ordained at all, but rather a consequence of the old motto “Shit happens,” and they are just as likely to happen to Christians as they are non-Christians.

I appreciate Jerde’s questions, as they are not popular and not often addressed in church. After her post was shared on Friendly Atheist, the comment thread is being taken over by pointed inquiries about Jerde’s concluding statement: “I will continue believing that God is good.”

On the one hand, as a person of faith myself, I find that a noble endeavor. On the other hand, these response questions are perfectly valid:

How can you claim to honestly wrestle with those questions if you have already decided on a conclusion before even asking?

I appreciate all the introspection, Lyn, but your conclusion was the ultimate non-sequiter. Despite it all, you continue to believe in a good God? Why?

If you are absolutely certain that your religion is the true one, this ceases to be an issue. You know that you are working with a limited amount of knowledge based on what you’re able to see of the stage from peeking through the curtain; you don’t have the full range of view and context that the audience has, and your doubts will be addressed soon enough.

Then again, there is something highly coincidental about claiming your religion as “true” when it happens to be the one you were born into…and the most socially acceptable religion in your country of origin. And if you’ve never taken the time to research and eliminate other religions based on reliable evidence.

Therefore I don’t agree or disagree with the responses to Jerde’s piece, and turn the question back to my readers: is starting with a conclusion before even asking the question an intellectually honest thing to do? Why or why not?

See also: “God will never forsake you”

The limits of divine intervention

Comfort rather than answers

Filed under: Social Issues, Theology Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, grief

Hello, Sober September

If you’ve read my newest memoir, you may recall a few chapters detailing my complicated relationship with alcohol. “Complicated relationship” feels more appropriate than the ultra-clinical diagnosis of “alcoholism,” especially because this struggle has come and gone in waves. Understandably, it was at its worst when my father died, and in the months before. This time two years ago, I wasn’t going to bed sober anymore. First I needed it to sleep, then to calm down, and eventually to “check out.” My childhood home had turned into a home hospice, and misery was everywhere I went.

Interestingly enough, I was sober the morning my father died. I was sober when I called my then-fiancé, who was unable to leave his job several states away, to tell him that he needed to come home. And I was sober when I spoke at the funeral, which I didn’t think I’d be capable of doing, sober or otherwise.

Having gotten through the worst of the worst of times without it, maybe I’ve already proven to myself that I’m strong enough to cope better, to admit when I need help. I’m getting better at saying to my husband “I’m having another episode,” referring to a depressive episode, and he knows to keep watch. To check in with me. To be there. It seems cliché, but it’s true: I don’t think I could have gotten through the most challenging days without him.

Christian circles would refer to my husband’s role in this as being an “accountability partner.” In reality, though, it feels more like “babysitter.” I’m a grown woman, and sometimes I rely on other people to protect me the way a parent protects a toddler who doesn’t know she’s playing too close to the deep end of the pool. They are the ones who swoop in when I’m about to fall. Despite feeling childish about needing intervention, I know now that asking for help is really one of the most adult things I can do.

My journals went neglected for That Summer, the last one of my father’s life. Maybe that’s part of why I started to slip: I needed to write about what was going on as much as I needed my antidepressants. Writing, for me, is an antidepressant. Most importantly, it’s an exercise that helps keep me stay present, an expression that my therapist uses a lot – “What can you do to help Stay Present?” – and I know it’s working when it hurts.

Funny, I drank to escape feeling the depth of the loss, the slice of the painful memories, and here I am summoning them with a pen. But that’s life: feeling, remembering. It’s part of being alive. The human experience hurts beautifully.

I have learned there is a difference between sobriety and simply not drinking. Sobriety, for me, is realizing I don’t need a substance to escape anymore. “Not drinking” is more like white-knuckling my way through, wanting a drink but knowing I shouldn’t, because it’s bad. Obviously, sobriety is the thing that is worth working for, though not drinking is surely an improvement.

Being the last week of August, I’m starting to get a little antsy. The month of September will probably always be overshadowed by my father’s death, hence why it’s now Sober September in my mind (and I find myself humming Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” lately).

I don’t like the expression “lost the battle” in reference to cancer. While that’s technically what happened, my father wasn’t a person who could be easily defeated, and I don’t want to be, either. It has occurred to me that, while it may pale in comparison to the severity of cancer, my battle for sobriety is something that reminds me whose daughter I am (I refuse to say “was”). And that’s how I know I am stronger than this; stronger than I give myself credit for.

Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, cancer, grief, self-care, Writing

Why are we so easily offended?

The stereotype used to be that liberals were the ones easily offended by everything, and were politically correct to a fault. But lately it seems the tables are turning. In my world, both online and off, it is the conservatives who are the easily offended and make mountains out of tiny mustard seeds when there’s absolutely no need for it.

I ask myself often, Is this really what Christianity is all about, or is this just the Christian-tainted culture water in which I swim? I can’t imagine the early Christians bickering about the context of curse words or satirical Facebook memes when persecution and death were so imminent. At some point in evangelical history, aversion or disagreement on faith-related issues became perceived as a threat. For many people, the best way to protect their faith from crumbling like a house of cards is to surround themselves with like-minded people who never challenge their ideals. For many, it’s a virtuous act to avoid the world beyond their bubble.

#NotAllChristians

I wish I didn’t have to keep repeating “This message does not apply to all Christians,” but inevitably, someone will feel compelled to point out that #NotAllChristians act this way. And that helps proves my point: there are enough Christians in the fold to whom the criticism applies. If you feel offended, perhaps that’s a hint to examine your own heart. Why is it so hard for us to own up to our collective mistakes? Why is it so hard to acknowledge that we do have quite a few people in our midst who do the exact opposite of everything Jesus said to do, and call out hypocrisy for what it is?

A meme like this, for example, is not an indictment of everyone who attends a megachurch (there’s nothing wrong with that) but rather a call to keep our priorities in order (source):

Shortly after one of my seminary friends shared this on Facebook, the comment thread blew up with responses from other Christians about how offensive it was, that clearly my Christian friend had never been to their megachurch, etc. In other words, they completely missed the point. There should be “mega homeless shelters,” but in the midst of arguing the merits of megachurches and the people who attend them, the homeless people in question were completely forgotten.

Another Christian friend shared this recently (source):

It’s possible that the outcry from this one comes from an inability to distinguish satire on the internet, which is why I firmly believe that Facebook should invest in a sarcasm font over another ‘like’ button. Satire, as you may know, is intended to point out a problem – in this case, an ethical problem – using humor. We know there are Christians who act like this. They’re the kind who want drug tests administered before families can go on welfare when Jesus did no such thing (or whatever a first-century equivalent might be). They want the “good” families, with both a mother and a father, who are married, to receive benefits, and to hell with everyone else. If you are straight, part of a traditional nuclear family, and vote a certain way, you gain all the Jesus Points.

What both amuses and saddens me is that the Christians who were so offended by this meme were acting just like the Pharisees that Jesus was trying to reach. People always ask me what it is about Christianity that appealed to me as a Jew, and one item on that list is just how much of a mensch Jesus was. He acted boldly and used strong words when necessary, knowing he would royally piss people off. His methods – flipping over tables, responding to questions with more questions – might be considered flippant and even rude by our standards. Read in the context of his time, Jesus’ actions were appalling, depending on which social class you belonged to.

Through a glass darkly

Here’s the thing: sometimes, harsh words (or memes in this case) are necessary to get a point across. My theory is that those who are most offended might be the ones for whom the meme was intended. I strongly encourage you to ask yourself why it is you might be offended. Does it upset you when Christians as a whole are portrayed negatively? Or are you embarrassed at being called out for behavior that you are guilty of practicing?

If it’s the former, that’s understandable. No one likes to be insulted, especially when you know yourself well enough to know you don’t personally deserve it. It’s important to keep in mind, though, that one denomination’s truth is another denomination’s heresy. Today we’re ashamed of the Christians who condoned slavery, but they were utterly convinced they were doing God’s work – and the abolitionists were the sinful ones.

Christians have hurt people. Christians have been wrong about a number of things. Those are facts, and it’s a mark of maturity to be able to own it.

Shaking off the dust

Growing up Jewish, I was misunderstood quite a bit, so much that I eventually got used to being asked if Moses was the “Jewish Jesus” and if Jews had a Santa Claus equivalent. Those questions (let’s admit, they’re pretty dumb) didn’t exactly stop in elementary school. They were asked of me in college as well. But putting up with that ignorance gave me a priceless gift: thick skin.

You know what’s funny? When I became a Christian, I thought it was required to be insulted at every anti-Christian remark, because Jesus warned that his disciples should expect persecution. I wrote what is now a pretty embarrassing editorial for my school paper – and sadly, one that got some of the most page views online – about how an ad in the student center from the Freethinkers club, “Smile, there probably isn’t a god,” was bonafide Christian persecution on campus. The nonreligious students bashed it to pieces on the web while my inbox overflowed with messages from Christian students and faculty alike, praising me for my bravery. It was all so bewildering. Today, though I still admire College Sarahbeth’s pluck, I’d want to smack her upside the head for being so naïve.

Over the years, I’ve developed a sense of self-awareness. It’s easier now than it used to be to admit when I’m wrong or guilty of something (though it does kinda depend on what it is I’m wrong or guilty about!). When I see memes like the ones above on Facebook, I know they have nothing to do with me. When I read blog posts by friends of mine who call themselves anti-theists, I’m not offended because I know that religion can hurt, and I know what they’ve been through. Venting can be a critical part of healing.

Today, I have my own faith and don’t feel a need to defend it. I’m aware of what my flaws are, for the most part, and what I need to work on. For all the talk about Christ dwelling in us, Christians are still people, which shouldn’t be difficult to understand. We can love our family members even if we occasionally have to apologize for the things they say or do in public.

Like this post? Check out Confessions of a Jew-ish Skeptic, now available on Amazon.

Stay in touch via Facebook and Twitter.

Filed under: Social Issues, Uncategorized Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Facebook, Judaism, Seminary, social justice, Spiritual Abuse

Fall semester PSA: don’t rape the freshmen (or anyone else)

Original text from my friend Bailey:

Every year, some assholes decide that it’s necessary to post signs across from campus while freshmen are moving in. From “MILFs Drink Free” to “Freshman Daughter Drop-off” to this year’s “Sorority Girl Sign Up,” this behavior is disgusting and unacceptable. But this right here. This is why I love my school. The first two weeks on campus are the most dangerous for a college freshman, and it is during that time frame that a new student is most likely to experience sexual assault. I am so proud of my CSU community for taking a stand against rape supportive culture, starting from the very first day students are on campus.

The first few weeks of fall semester make me nostalgic. As an old, married grad student, the thrill of being on a new campus looking forward to meeting all kinds of people (read: guys) is pretty much gone. But I remember the build-up of excitement brought on by TV and movies that made college campuses seem like The Place to find yourself and make memories.

I was raped in a college dorm room. That should never have been part of the plan. My perception of college campuses as fun, safe spaces disappeared. I enjoyed college, don’t get me wrong, but by the time I was a senior I wondered how different my experience would have been if I’d said something. If I’d gotten help sooner. I’ll never know.

For anyone still a bit confused on what consent looks like, this is a fabulous example that compares assault to stealing money out of someone’s purse, although it’s a shame that the violation of one person by another cannot be thoroughly understood as wrong by certain minds until put in monetary terms. Well, whatever works.

To echo Bailey, I too am proud to attend a school with a women and gender advocacy program that is both educational and supportive of survivors. From Kendall, another advocate at CSU:

We’re speaking out without any affiliation with any office in particular or any student organization, although most of us have been involved with the different Student Diversity offices during our time at CSU.

We’re speaking out because this problem matters and it effects all of us.

Because we believe survivors.

Because we know that someone will be assaulted or raped during these first few weekends.

Because we care.

I won’t say “Be careful who you go home with” or “Make sure you watch your drink at all times.” You can’t tell potential victims to be responsible for rapists. So I’ll use my platform to say this: don’t rape freshmen. Don’t rape anyone. Don’t rape, period.

Filed under: Feminism, Social Issues Tagged: Feminism, rape culture, self-care, social justice

Made for another world, but not like Lewis intended

I took the liberty of removing myself from a Christian blog group today, because I don’t have an “off” button when responding to theological viewpoints I find triggering; particularly the “God saved me from” rhetoric. I figured it was only a matter of time before the moderators removed me anyway.

Maybe it’s impossible to critique a religious viewpoint without sounding as if you are critiquing the person holding it, because faith is integral to a Christian’s identity. I get that. And the internet isn’t always the best venue for these discussions, when tone and inflection are lost behind a screen. I never know if the fault is the group itself, for being unable to handle dissension and disagreement no matter how politely stated, or if it’s just me, and not coming across as polite as I intend to be.

But even if the issue is me, homogeneity saturates Church culture, particularly evangelical church culture. Introduce yourself at a young adult bible study, and it will, in many cases, be assumed that you hold the same beliefs, attitudes, and convictions as everyone else. This has never been the case in Judaism (the kind I grew up in, anyway). In many, many Christian communities, disagreement can feel like a betrayal: What do you mean it was doctors, not God, who healed my cancer? How dare you.

This is why I read more skeptic blogs than Christian ones these days. They don’t share my faith anymore, but they get where I’m coming from and why I feel the way that I do about certain things. They don’t try to “fix” me with more bible verses and personal testimonies of what God has done for them.

Maybe the problem is that I’m too harsh and insensitive to others’ feelings, too judgmental because I’ve experienced certain things they haven’t, or too self-righteous because I spent ONE WHOLE YEAR at seminary and now I know everything. Whatever it is, one fact remains: because I grew up Jewish, I am automatically at a disadvantage for viewing things the same way that other (most?) Christians do. Old habits are tough to break, but old worldviews installed in childhood are even harder.


 



It’s not impossible to find community with people who have profoundly different life experiences and viewpoints than I do, but it is difficult. For all the reminders from well-meaning friends that I “just haven’t found my people yet,” it’s sure easy to get burned out trying.


 



Do I accept that I’ll never completely fit in, and keep my mouth shut? Do I continue being honest about my disagreements at the risk of hurting feelings and being dismissed? Such hard questions. Such desperately needed wisdom.

 


You know, I originally tattooed the words “Made for another world,” paraphrasing C.S. Lewis, as a way to remind myself that the hardships I face in this world can’t compare to the glory that awaits on the other side. But true to pattern, apparently, I don’t read those words the same way anymore, and that ink is only three years new. But by being born to Jewish parents, I literally was “Made for another world.”


The years I spent struggling to embrace that fact aren’t over, and the self-made, tongue-in-cheek identifier “ Jew-ish Skeptic ” feels more accurate with every passing day.



Filed under: Theology, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Facebook, Judaism, Writing

A fresh look at the parable of the prodigal son

It must be pretty obvious that I have a soft spot in my heart for the parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15:11-32, seeing as I named my memoir after it.

The parable is about two sons who work for their father. The younger one asks his father for his share of the inheritance ahead of schedule – essentially saying he wishes his father were dead – and then skips town to squander his new wealth on frivolity, while his older brother stays and continues working for his father. When the younger son’s money runs out, he returns home and begs his dad for forgiveness. The twist in the story is that the father immediately welcomes him back, and even throws him a party. This infuriates the older brother, who complains that he did everything that was expected of him and yet he never got a party, much less a fattened calf for a celebratory dinner. His father calmly tells him that his son was lost, and he is rejoicing because now he has been found again.

It’s a beloved story for Christians because it’s a metaphor for God’s love for us: no matter what we do, no matter how much we screw up, he’ll always take us back like that father did.

I read this story a little bit differently. I saw myself as the younger brother, yes, but the “wealth” I squandered was my Jewish education. I “rejected” it all for a social club called Christianity (I’m sure that’s how many people in my life saw it). The end of the parable is a metaphor not just for God’s love for me, but of my parents’ love: they “took me back” (as in, let me continue being their daughter) even though my conversion was confusing and stressful for them. So the twist in my version, then, is that I’m still, in their eyes, a prodigal (more on that in my first memoir’s newest sibling).

I reread that parable again recently as part of an extended study with my small group, based on Timothy Keller’s Prodigal God. Like many stories I grew up reading, this one read differently through the hindsight of the years that separate me Campus Crusade for Christ and seminary, in addition to my father’s death, and a major faith crisis. It’s not the same story for me that it once was.

I no longer see myself as the younger brother, I’m the older one.

In Keller’s view, the older brother is like the Pharisees of Jesus’ day. His relationship to his father was based on following the rules, and wasn’t a genuine relationship at all. He was seeking glory for being faithful, and naturally resented his younger brother for shirking his responsibilities and still being treated like a king. Where’s the older brother’s reward for good behavior?

That poor brother, we’re supposed to think. His so-called “relationship” is all performance based.

Here’s the thing, though: I don’t think Big Brother deserves that bad rep entirely. Honestly, think about it: wouldn’t you be pissed off if you did everything that was expected of you – and perhaps then some – in your job, only to find out that the laziest employee on your team got the promotion instead? You might suspect favoritism, since he sure as hell didn’t deserve it. Or maybe he and the boss are sleeping together. Either way, that promotion should have been yours – the one who actually did everything right.

That’s not an unfair reaction. That’s a perfectly understandable one! Not only does the parable highlight the limits of God’s love for us (ie: there aren’t any), it also teaches the necessity of forgiveness. The scorned father had every right to turn his son away and say, “Sorry, you reap what you sow, kid. You can come home, but you’re really going to have to work at earning my trust again.” But he didn’t. He embraced his son with complete and utter gratitude for his return.

Clearly, this story only works on the assumption that the prodigal son was actually repentant. I’m sure he had to be, or else it wouldn’t be in the Bible. But one cannot dispute the fact that Christianity is filled with so. many. unrepentant leaders who still have yet to lose the respect of their congregations. Not Josh Duggar, who molested his sisters and a babysitter. Not the priests hiding from justice under the protection of the Vatican, and Pope Francis, who turns a blind eye. Not Bill Gothard, founder of the sect that the Duggars belong to, who was accused of sexual harassment by thirty-four women.

No, these people still have their book deals, their reality shows, their inspirational memes, and thousands of supporters. Their apologies, if offered at all, are prime examples of not-pologies that essentially say,” I’m sorry you feel hurt,” and not “I’m sorry I did the thing that caused the hurt in the first place, it was very wrong.”

Part of the reason these men still hold power over their followers is because of the unhealthy emphasis on forgiveness: a critical piece of the Prodigal story. It’s unchristian to withhold forgiveness. The father in the parable represents Jesus, and if Jesus did it, then we have to do it, too.

Needless to say, many of us have completely twisted the meaning of this, if we ever understood it at all. See, I did all the “right” things, too. For eight years I attended church, Bible study, small groups, had “quiet times,” sought God’s involvement in every major life decision, and turned down a handful of opportunities to have sex before I got married (that last one made me especially prideful). I took on the role of Kent State’s professional missionary and used my platform as a newspaper columnist to preach to my student body. I even went an extra ten miles and enrolled in seminary after college.

And yet, here I face the worst faith crisis of my life, in which the hooks of doubt are so deeply embedded that I don’t know if I can emerge without permanent disfigurement.

It makes me a little angry when people who have never experienced serious hardship (so it seems from my perspective, anyway), never asked hard questions, act as if they alone hold the Keys of Truth, and anyone who disagrees with them has obviously never been Christian in the first place.

The parable of the prodigal son, then, is about many things: unconditional love, forgiveness, the importance of repentance. But ultimately, it’s a story about all the very human ways we approach God, and about being human, period.

Filed under: Theology Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Campus Crusade for Christ, Christian culture, Christianity, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, evangelicals, grief, Judaism, memoir, Seminary, Spiritual Abuse, Writing

On “faith-shaming”

When my faith starts to wane, sometimes all it takes to bring a glimmer of it back is a glance at my bookshelves. My library is filled with stories of kindred spirits who have walked similar paths, experienced similar struggles, and even had a similar upbringing. These are the pages I turn to for encouragement when the Bible is just too difficult to read, and I need a reminder about what faith can look like in an ordinary, contemporary life, for all its bumpy inconveniences and less than ideal moments.

I also own books that lit me up with the fire of conviction when I needed it – when I believed I was a brave, moral soldier on a college campus filled with heathens looking to eat me alive – that now terrify the daylights out of me. If you aren’t offended or convicted by the same things I am, they say, you’re not really One of Us.

One of us. Part of the tribe. A movement of like-minded people who collectively engage in a practice that blogger John Pavlovitz calls “faith shaming” whenever a member questions the status quo.

As explained in my previous post, the Christian status quo is hardly static, but certain doctrines were prevalent enough in the churches, bible studies, and small groups I’ve attended over the years that led me to believe they were 99% universal: that Jesus is God, that he came to free us from the bondage of sin, and redeem suffering so we can become like God. That last part is the most critical reason I became a Christian: I was looking for a context for suffering that was a bit more hopeful than the tongue-in-cheek “Shit happens” philosophy of the Judaism I grew up in.

For all my doubts about hell being just, my gay friends’ marriages being sinful, and Jesus being the only way to heaven, it’s the redemption piece that keeps me from running away as fast as my legs can carry me when Christians get scary. And we all know a Scary Christian or two…or fifty. Some churches are filled with them. Politics is crawling with them. And with these Scary Christians comes theology that isn’t just scary, but sometimes downright ugly:

I saw this meme on Facebook the other day and probably stared at it for a good two minutes with my jaw hanging open. I’m sure many Christians and former Christians can attest that this kind of “blessed life” does not, did not, match their version of reality. It sure as hell doesn’t resemble mine. I leaned on Jesus in the aftermath of my rape, of my father’s illness, and in the toxic environment of seminary, but according to this theology, if my faith were “real” then I never would have experienced any of those things in the first place. Those Christians in Syria being killed for their faith must have some unacknowledged sin in their lives or something.

The prosperity gospel is not a fringe sect in the United States (take a look at the uber-bestseller The Prayer of Jabez by Bruce Wilkinson, or anything ever written or spoken by Joel Osteen). It baffles me that PG adherents can read the same Bible I’m reading and come to the conclusion that Christianity is glorified Candy Land, I can’t bring myself to “faith shame” them even in my own head.

There’s no one I want to faith-shame more than prosperity gospel proponents.

And yet…

In the end, we all have different ways of coping with suffering. If the promise of a great reward keeps some people from all-consuming anxiety, so be it. Christianity can seem homogenous from the outside looking in as everyone raises their hands while praising and condemning the same things, but I can’t give up the fight to create something uniquely my own, just between me and God.

Like marriage, this relationship will not look like anyone else’s, even if it’s good and healthy. What’s normal in one relationship may not be in another, and yet neither is fundamentally “wrong.”

I probably “faith shame” myself more than anyone else, but the only shame-worthy practice I engage in is measuring the legitimacy of my faith by comparing it to everyone else’s. I have to remind myself daily that there is so much going on inside that I can’t see.

Like this post? Check out Confessions of a Jew-ish Skeptic, now available on Amazon.

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Filed under: Theology Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, Facebook, First World Problems, hell, Judaism, marriage, prosperity gospel, Seminary, social justice, Spiritual Abuse