When I was a kid, I would lay on my back looking up at the trees, swaying to the breeze in the summer sun, listening to them sing to each other. The trees were mostly liriodendron, commonly known as tulip poplars. I frequently hung from the limbs of the acer (red maple) in the front yard. One of my favorites, at the end of the hedgerow, was a juniperus (juniper). Moving across the country, I am now surrounded by thuja plicata (western red cedar), the beloved tree of the Coastal Salish peoples on whose land I live. 

I’ve always felt at home under the trees.

In Leslie Feinberg’s revolutionary book Stone Butch Blues, she wrote the following:

“I laughed and rolled over on my back. The sky was crayon blue. I pretended I was laying on the white cotton clouds. The earth was damp against my back. The sun was hot, the breeze was cool. I felt Happy. Nature held me close and seemed to find no fault with me.” (p. 17)

I find comfort among the trees, beside gentle lapping of water on the shore, the earth, creation, the gift that is life. I feel free to be myself among the trees, no judgement, no shame.

I created this space to share thoughts and ideas about what I hear when I am quiet with and in creation, and my own personal spiritual journey. At times I feel deeply connected with the creator, other times I feel as though I am wandering this cold world alone. Often, I take to looking for myself among the trees. When I have lost myself, I know where to go to find myself again: along the lapping waters of lakes, creeks, streams, and at times, beside the roaring ocean. The dancing, whispering trees always near.

MY FAITH BACKGROUND

I share these snippets of my personal life experiences to give context to what I share in this space.

I grew up inter-faith. My parents were married by a Lutheran minister, the same one who baptized me as a baby. He was deeply involved with Sister Parish, active in work in Central America. My godfather is a gay man who wanted to become a Catholic priest, but they wouldn’t let him in.

I went to Catholic elementary school, and went to Holy Mass every Wednesday, but didn’t take the holy communion or reconciliation sacraments. My mom is agnostic and deeply against organized religion because of it’s role in colonization and oppression. When my school called her, encouraging her to allow me to participate in first communion like the other kids, she stood her ground. I would not participate just so I could “fit in.” When I was little, she said that I could be anything I wanted when I grew up, “even a sex-worker!” she would exclaim, but “never a missionary.” Jokingly (or not so?) she said she would disown me if I became a missionary.

My father is a Christian. He is an ordained member of the clergy in the Episcopal Church, but only in the last several years. I like to tell the story that when he and my mom were dating in their late teens, he was considering becoming a Jesuit priest, but he was in love with her. He ended up choosing my mom (and ultimately me and my brother) instead of the church, thank goodness! But, 30 years later, he was finally able to answer his call to become a priest as well as a father and husband.

My grandpa–my father’s step-father–is Jewish, so I grew up going to family celebrations for Rosh Hoshana, Hanukkah, and Passover (the Seder). I loved the ritual, story-telling, and history of these practices. Rosh Hoshana was near my birthday, and the honey and challah were one of my favorites. Dad makes the best Motzah ball soup, and Bubby and my uncle made family-famous gefilte fish. It was Pesach that grew my love of horseradish (maror – bitter herbs).

As an elementary-school-aged kid, I didn’t understand the difference between school experiences and these family celebrations. Bubby had a “Hanukkah Bush” decorated like our Christmas tree. I vividly remember getting a glow-in-the-dark rosary from Catholic school and running to my Jewish great-grandmother Bubby, excitedly showing her. I remember people laughing at me. I felt stupid for not understanding the difference. That shameful memory has softened over time. It was all the same God to me, and now I find pure beauty in that.

In middle school, we moved, I went to public school, and we started going to an Episcopal Church as a family via my father’s faith rekindled through a renewed relationship with his godmother. I don’t know why my mom went with us. Maybe the sense of community? I went to this church through middle and high school. Under the watchful eye of the youth group leader, some of the girls who were in my girl scout troop and who were also in the youth group at church–a group of four of them –bullied me for years. I remember doors slammed in my face. I remember sitting alone on the curb in the parking lot. No one ever did anything about it.

I realized over the years that I’ve probably struggled with depression since I was in elementary school. I don’t know when, where, or how I learned it, but throughout my childhood, I distinctly remember reciting to myself my own version of Psalm 23: “as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil because you are with me.” I would almost say it as a mantra to myself over and over when I was afraid, lonely, overwhelmed, and suffering.

In high-school, two of my best friends were Muslim. After 9/11, our families became especially close friends. My father reached out to their families in solidarity, offering our home as a place of refuge in the waves of anti-Islamic sentiment that followed the national tragedy.

During college and graduate school, I felt no desire to go to church, or find a faith community. I did however, in freshman year, go on a spring break trip to Cherokee, North Carolina with a clear desire to “look for God.” I found God on a mountain top. I saved a rock from that spot, made a necklace and wore it around my neck for a year. When I came back to school, I couldn’t find God anywhere, except for in the sunsets.

After college, I tried to start going back to the church I grew up in, but struggled. The people who knew me as child and teenager were now older, and so was I. I knew all of them, but didn’t know them as an adult, and they didn’t know me as an adult. No one knew what to say. Many of them also happened to be the parents of the people who bullied me — I never told them. I felt the weight of the past choking me.

In the attempts to find God again as an adult, during a Maundy Thursday service at the church I grew up in, I “met Jesus.” The minister was reading the gospel of Jesus’ time in the Garden of Gethsemene, about how he was betrayed, alone, hopeless, crying out to God. He felt like he had been abandoned, and had no one to turn to. Wow. That sounded familiar. I was in my own garden, just like Jesus was. It clicked, this is what it means to be human. An emptiness which I had felt my whole life, it left. There were still some empty spaces, but not as deep as before. I felt Jesus take my heavy backpack, and take my hand.

I moved across the country to pursue a PhD and build a life for myself, on my own. I almost became homeless in my first months after moving. What got me through each day was to say what I was thankful for. Sometimes it was as simple as thanking God for the energy to get out of bed, and having another day to keep trying.

In that darkness, I stumbled into a church with a friend near a cabin he was caretaker for, about two hours north of where I had just moved. I had found God again. I walked out of that church for the first time, tears streaming down my face. I finally found a place I was supposed to be. We drove 4 hours round trip every weekend for a year and a half to go to that church. This church was non-denominational – more socially conservative, but what I needed at the time. Over time, however, I increasingly felt the muscle pains of the parts I had to lock up and keep quiet, like being queer, and a woman who has things to say, and a natural leader…and being in a relationship where we treated each other as equals. We let go of this church, and eventually each other.

Then, I eventually found a church 15 minutes from where I live. It is super queer and progressive, a Lutheran/Episcopal hybrid. During this past Lent, I was asked to give the weekly sermon. I have a voice and people see value in what I have to say – as a queer person, as a woman, AND as a layperson!

Recently, I have been more comfortable calling myself a Christian for the first time in my life, since I found this new, super queer church. It recently occurred to me that I have had mystical experiences with and communed with and prayed to what I understand as God my entire life. It’s complicated. I recognize the painful role that Christianity has played in colonization, imperialism, and genocide, yet I also acknowledge the power of the story of Jesus’ life, and the humility and love I believe he calls us to walk with.

I believe the bible was written by humans about events that likely took place. I also believe humans have been interpreting the bible in ways that further their own ends of power and control. I believe that Jesus was revolutionary in his teachings of love. He spent his time with the doubters, the “lowest of low,” the downtrodden, the meek. I have also seen in my own life, and through people I have become close with, the way that the story of Jesus and God’s love has allowed them to survive the darkest, most suffering-filled places of human existence. I know my journey is not over…I will continue to walk alongside him, and my siblings from all walks of life.

I am looking forward to using this space to share, as well as process and explore for myself. Thank you for being here.

Uk’ux ulew is the Maya K’iche’ (Guatemala) word for heart/soul of earth, one of their names for God.

Last Updated June 2019