The Highway.com

Its My Way or the Highway (. . .the Choice is Your's)

When I was thirteen, my father was sitting at the kitchen table looking over a set of blueprints, what would eventually become his retirement home. An old school Catholic, he went to confession every Saturday, mass every Sunday. He followed all of its rituals, was steadfast in all of its observances. I had been asking myself a lot of questions, and I figured my father would be the perfect person to ask.

"Why did God make so many things a sin?"

He looked up. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know . . ." I shifted on my feet and was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable, "Its not like any particular sin. . . I've just been thinking. There has to be a reason for every sin . . . "

I looked up at the ceiling, then over toward the kitchen door, almost as if I would find the help I desperately needed emerge out of thin air. My fathers gaze told me he wasn't sure where I was coming from. . . as if I dared to ask the wrong question.

"I mean. . . " I began defending myself, "I can understand things like not killing or lying or stealing, but what about the things like not eating meat on Friday . . . you know."

"I don't know." His impatience was evident. "Sometimes you just have to do it."

I walked away.

As I was looking at the red jacketed hardcover book on the shelf of the bookstore, The Dark Side of God by Douglas Lockhart written in golden capital letters, I thought of that moment and all the others that led me here. Like I walked away from my father that night, I had walked away from Catholicism feeling not quite satisfied, not measuring up. I had walked away from the Lutheran church, feeling the wool had been pulled over my eyes. I had walked away from the Bible church, not feeling like I had been in the presence of the Lord. I had walked past many churches, walked past many church goers. I had always found a way to avoid having to deal with really trying to find the answers I needed, blaming myself for my inequities, what I thought my lack of faith.

I always had a place I could walk to.

At a very young age, I learned how to detach myself from my feelings, to bury them and present a placid exterior. A priest once told me, "It takes fourteen muscles to frown, two to smile." I learned to use that to my advantage. A nun told me once, "It takes two to have a fight." I learned how not to be there. My father told me, "Sometimes it is just better to keep your mouth shut." By the time I was an adult I had transformed nonconfrontationalism into an art, especially in day to day life.

I always knew I could go home.

In my home, things were on my terms. In my home, I could be myself. If I felt like kicking back on the sofa with my pajamas on and watching television, I was free to do so. If I was sad, I could cry. If I was angry I could rant. If I was alone, I could silently "talk to God," the perfect listener never interrupting my train of thought, and never feel like I was a candidate for the rubber room. Privacy had become my unassailable fortress, my refuge. At home I felt safe.

As I considered picking up the book, I realized this was an illusion.

I thought back to the reasons that had led us to the bookstore, a friends attempt to bully us with her Christianity and a series of conversations with others yielding mixed results. While we heard some interesting answers to our question, they were the exception to the rule. Most of the people we asked had no answer, had never even thought of one. Most of the people either relied on what they had been taught in church and Sunday school, or they simply ignored the question. For the first time I realized they were letting someone else decide the course of their innermost faith, and I had not been much different.

As a child, I was taught that God made us in His image. He gave us a beautiful garden and a single rule. We broke the rule and all the others that followed. We had fallen victim to His arch nemesis, Satan. Because God loved us, He sent his only Son, Jesus Christ. The perfect sacrifice, He offered himself into the hands of sinful men, who tortured and crucified Him. He died on a Friday, rose on a Sunday, and opened the gates of Heaven with the promise of eternal life. He also left us His Word and "his bride", The Church, the only way for us to join Him. The Church had taught me of a loving, merciful God, our Father, who we must open our hearts to. As Jesus had loved us, we must love others . . . show mercy, compassion, respect. We must become humble servants and come together as one body in worship. We must become innocent as children and have one mind. We must surrender our will to His. Basically, I was taught that we are here to do as we are told. For those of us who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) do it, there was always the door. Its my way or the highway; the choice is yours.