When
I was about sixteen, somebody from school asked me, “Why do you wear a cross
all the time if you’re not Christian?” I can’t remember my exact answer, but it
was something like “Contrast.” I saw it as an ironic juxtaposition against a
punk or goth-y outfit, and at that age, I didn’t grasp the callousness of using
others’ revered symbols as accessorized playthings. But there was another
reason behind it that I couldn’t yet articulate.
It was also because it’s a symbol of torture, both in its literal sense and in what the Church had done to many over the centuries, and I was very angsty at the time. Maybe the macabre element wasn’t all that contrasted with my black clothes and skull emblems. But it was also a symbol of rebirth and hope—not hope within a religious context, but in a general sense.
I’ve been fascinated by Christianity’s various forms throughout my life and had a visceral love/hate response to it since early childhood. I don’t talk a lot about the Christian chapter of my early twenties, partly because it may be hard for others to understand and partly because I don’t have much to say about it anymore. (I call it a chapter and not a “phase” because it wasn’t just a fad to me; an accessory cast off easily as a crucifix necklace. It was deeply felt at the time.)
I don’t call myself Christian anymore, and have not for years, for a few different reasons. One, because I neither see the Bible as a guidebook nor as divinely inspired. Two, because my social values don’t match the mainstream evangelical community’s at all. And three, because the word literally means “little Christ,” and I cannot with any humility compare myself to Jesus.
Although I no longer identify as Christian, I don’t regret that period. For me, it was a stepping stone to liberalism. Raised within secular political conservatism, it was an easy transition to Christianity because the religious right has co-opted the religion and painted their approach to it as the only true north. But within it, I saw social issues in a whole new light. I began to care about people I used to dismiss as lazy or entitled. It was a stopgap to the philosophy I now try to live by. I don’t do it perfectly by any means, and am still learning. But I’ll always be grateful to the more progressive side of Christianity for showing me a path I’d previously only heard of, and had never tried to walk until that time.
It was also because it’s a symbol of torture, both in its literal sense and in what the Church had done to many over the centuries, and I was very angsty at the time. Maybe the macabre element wasn’t all that contrasted with my black clothes and skull emblems. But it was also a symbol of rebirth and hope—not hope within a religious context, but in a general sense.
I’ve been fascinated by Christianity’s various forms throughout my life and had a visceral love/hate response to it since early childhood. I don’t talk a lot about the Christian chapter of my early twenties, partly because it may be hard for others to understand and partly because I don’t have much to say about it anymore. (I call it a chapter and not a “phase” because it wasn’t just a fad to me; an accessory cast off easily as a crucifix necklace. It was deeply felt at the time.)
I don’t call myself Christian anymore, and have not for years, for a few different reasons. One, because I neither see the Bible as a guidebook nor as divinely inspired. Two, because my social values don’t match the mainstream evangelical community’s at all. And three, because the word literally means “little Christ,” and I cannot with any humility compare myself to Jesus.
Although I no longer identify as Christian, I don’t regret that period. For me, it was a stepping stone to liberalism. Raised within secular political conservatism, it was an easy transition to Christianity because the religious right has co-opted the religion and painted their approach to it as the only true north. But within it, I saw social issues in a whole new light. I began to care about people I used to dismiss as lazy or entitled. It was a stopgap to the philosophy I now try to live by. I don’t do it perfectly by any means, and am still learning. But I’ll always be grateful to the more progressive side of Christianity for showing me a path I’d previously only heard of, and had never tried to walk until that time.
