“Are you even a Christian anymore?”
I sit on the edge of my bed, nervously picking at the fringe of the goldenrod damask bedcover I bought in the Year of Independence after college, among the first real purchases of self-definition and homemaking that I can point to in those months. That was the year that God told me to stay in Waco on the back porch of my favorite coffee shop when I was reading Luther, one of my least favorite brothers in the faith. That was the year where my only clear calling was to go to church.
[God told me. That’s a phrase I’ve never totally been comfortable with, even in the days my tongue was made of fire. Now I’m moved to write it with much caveat and stipulation. For now, I will just leave it there for you to worry over, because I do not have the energy for such things right now. ]
“Are you still a Believer?” she asks differently this time.
I laugh nervously, off guard. I’m tempted to point out that faith described this way is relatively new to the Christian grammar. I don’t know how to tell her that yet it stings, that I wonder why she can’t recognize me any more.
“Yes? I say the creed every week…” I begin, ironically not knowing how to ‘defend my faith’ in this moment, wanting to add and sometimes I even believe it…