Christianity does not have the exclusive claim to God.

There, I said it. You can label me now. Reduce me to a category, or better yet, a brand, like we've done with God.

I just think maybe God is like me: A Large that can't be squeezed into a small.

A big muffin-top that bulges over low-rise jeans, even "relaxed-fit" ones.

A form that refuses to stay in any container, even cross- or steeple-shaped ones.

A quiet stream that is also a pillar of raging fire. A lion that is also a lamb.

A Father who is also called "Many-Breasted One." Google it.

A loving wise man who throws tantrums in the temple.

The Unknown God and "YHWH."

An Unfathomable Power that we don't even have sounds to express.

And we think we can nail all this down with one creed, a few rituals, and 66 books.

Sounds to me like we're making someone in our own image.

What would it take to open up the lines a bit?

Leave some space between our words to let the Indescribable seep through, expand, and mess up our syntax.

Let the Holy Chaos randomize our code.

Then we might see that we really don't have the puzzle figured out, even after ages of apostolic succession, ancient scholarly councils, apologetics, hermeneutics, and innumerable sermons.

So maybe we could work together with others and swap stories to get a bigger picture.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Nah. That would be heresy. At least that’s what I’ve been told that God told somebody somewhere sometime, and if God said it I believe it and that settles it.

Nevermind.

I am a terrible Christian. Because if being a good Christian means serving a God that needs me to defend him, primarily on Election Day by voting down liberals, I’d rather be a heathen. Secondly, if being passionate about Christian social justice requires a presupposition that conservatives are narrow-minded bigots, I will be apathetic. And if being a model Christian equates merely to climbing a social ladder within the gilded sphere of those who are anointed, appointed, and correct, I choose to be anathema. Furthermore, if being “a new kind of Christian” only means keeping up with the latest trends, practicing slam poetry, and endlessly debating soteriology, ecclesiology, and eschatology, well, I’m just going to barf.

I choose to skip out on all those classes. I need to get off campus and into the wild. I want to roam a weedy trail in the backwaters of spiritual civilization. I want to stay in the woods after dark. I want to climb a tree in the middle of a storm and feel how God’s wind bends even the strongest, most firmly rooted trunks of religion. I want to skinny-dip in a stream to feel the Current swirl around my limbs and joints, pulling away the religious soil I’ve accumulated. I want to stand clean and naked in a meadow, raise my arms and yell in primal joy, in thanks for beauty, peace, and acceptance that doesn’t make sense.

I choose to live my spiritual life off the grid, beyond the tired matrix. I will exercise a love that devours sacred cows to make room for sacred possibilities.

And if that’s heresy, so be it. But I am not alone.

In a recent Sunday service, we explored how Jesus included everyone, inviting everyone to God's table. This week in Refractions we share some Bible stories written from a new perspective.

The Blind Man

I had been blind since birth. All I could do each and every day was sit by the road begging for someone to drop a few crumbs or a coin into my lap. I had to put up with the kicks and the ridicule, and the never-ending question of whose sin caused my blindness. Then one day, a man answered that question for me – he said “no one sinned, his blindness just gives me the opportunity to show compassion by being a light to the world.” And then he healed me – for the first time in my life I could see. I had no idea who he was, all I knew was that I was blind but now I see. When I proclaimed that this man, this Jesus, must be of God I was kicked out of my synagogue. But I found Jesus and committed my life to helping him be a light in this world. Jesus not only saw me, he gave me my sight. Others chose to see only imagined sin in me, but Jesus welcomed me and gave me a place at the table. (John 9)

In a recent Sunday service, we explored how Jesus included everyone, inviting everyone to God's table. This week in Refractions we share some Bible stories written from a new perspective.

The Eunuch

I was made a eunuch so I could serve as treasurer to Kandake, Queen of the Ethiopians. For years, my people had followed the Hebrew faith and worshiped the one true God. When business gave me the opportunity to travel to Jerusalem, I was overjoyed at the chance to worship in the Holy Temple there, for the scrolls of Isaiah proclaim the Temple is a house of prayer for all nations where even eunuchs are welcomed by name. But when I got there, I was turned away because they didn’t consider me to be a true man. As I traveled home, hurt and confused, a man appeared on the road and started to talk to me. Philip told me about Jesus, the son of the One God, who had been rejected by the religious system too, but then started a new way where all are welcome to worship in spirit and truth. He said even his daughters are prophets spreading the teachings of Jesus. Enveloped by the all-inclusive love of God, and I was baptized right there on the side of the road. When I returned home and spread the good news to my people, all of Ethiopia chose to follow the way of Jesus. Rejected by some for not being a real man, I was welcomed by Jesus and he gave me a place at the table. (Acts 8)

In a recent Sunday service, we explored how Jesus included everyone, inviting everyone to God's table. This week in Refractions we share some Bible stories written from a new perspective.

The Adulteress

I know I made a few wrong choices in my life, and when those men grabbed me and dragged me to the town square while screaming "adulterer" at me, I thought this must be the end of me. I saw them gathering the stones, getting ready to punish, but then they took me to the rabbi Jesus. I had seen him teaching from time to time, and he even allowed women to sit at his feet and learn, but I never thought I would be welcomed there. As the men humiliated me further by telling this rabbi all that I had done, I found myself wishing they would just get it over with and kill me already. But then Jesus spoke to them, softly, asking if any one of them is without sin then let him be the one to cast the first stone. I stood there amazed as each and every one of them dropped their stones and walked away. And then Jesus looked at me and told me he didn’t judge me either, encouraging me to live rightly from now on. Although I had messed up my life, Jesus still loved me and gave me a place at the table. (John 8)

The Deacon

I am Phoebe, a Deacon in the church in Cenchreae. I was chosen by Paul to be his ambassador to deliver and read a copy of his letter to the Romans to my church, ministering and guiding them through his words. I was the voice of scripture for my church and I have a place at the table. (Romans 16:1-2)

The Teacher

My name is Priscilla. With my husband Aquila, I led a church in our home in Ephesus. I trained the young believers in town, teaching them about God’s ways and how to share their faith with others. Jesus equipped me as the voice of a teacher in order to spread his message to all. I am a pastor and a teacher, and I have a place at the table. (Acts 18)

In a recent Sunday service, we explored how Jesus included everyone, inviting everyone to God's table. This week in Refractions we share some Bible stories written from a new perspective.

The Woman at the Well

I was drawing water at the well, when Jesus saw me. I mean really saw me. He looked past the path my circumstances had taken me down and answered the questions of my soul. Instead of shunning me like most people, he asked me to tell others about his good news. I am the woman at the well – the first evangelist. I have a place at the table. (John 4)

The Mother of the Resurrected Son

As a widow, my son was my sole support. When he too died, my world shattered. As we were carrying my son’s body out to be buried, Jesus understood my distress. He went up to my son’s body and touched it – making himself ritually unclean in the process, but I saw that his compassion for me was greater than his fear of defilement. With one touch, Jesus restored to me not only my beloved son, but also my only means of survival in my old age. He made sure I always had a place at the table. ?(Luke 7)

The Daughter of Abraham

For 18 long years my body had betrayed me -- crippled me to the point that I couldn’t even stand up straight. But one Sabbath at the synagogue, Jesus saw me and immediately set me free from this devastating pain. I stood up, really stood up, for the first time in years and praised God. And when the synagogue leader challenged Jesus for healing me on the Sabbath – he looked at me asking why shouldn’t a Daughter of Abraham be set free from oppression on the day holy to the Lord. How can I help but follow such a man? Jesus didn't just restore my health. He gave me high honors, recognizing me as a real and valuable person. He gave me identity; he gave me a place at the table. (Luke 13)

It’s an odd thing that, months before my father’s accident, he should assign me this week to contribute to Journey’s website (he was supremely apologetic for giving me the days following Valentine’s Day…)

December 14th was the day I received the call to rush to Austin to be at his bedside, and on December 18th we let him fly. So, this day -- February 18th, marks the two-month anniversary of his death. As I have mentioned before, it seems a lifetime ago, and every day since has been a battle to carry on, to rise out of bed in the morning and make the best of the life I have been given.

Everybody leaves, dies; turns to dust and animal snack bites. Dust breaks down to carbon, oxygen, and other elements; floats, finds water, and grows into clouds. After the rains, I drink it from a plastic cup, it mingles with my blood and bile.

In this way, I’ve imbibed the wet revenant of Dostoevsky, eaten Socrates’ ghost. I pull into pink lungs the carbon crumbs of Graham Greene and his whiskey priest. And in these days after Salinger’s demise, I hope to fill some corner of a kidney with the microscopic residue of his wise white bones. Yet, I’m not concerned with reuniting with the dust of my father -- he is 1/2 my creator, and my cells are filled with inheritance & memoriam.

So tonight, if you think about it, light a candle to remember, or just lift a higher thought Up.

Bombazine, black as the rabbit hole I’ve tripped into. At its nadir a rabbit corpse; cold sticky fur caught in tufts on wet, red numbles, exposed with bits of pearly bones: gravity-cracked & lying beside a three-tiered Christmas cake, gilt-glitter-trimmed and beating a cherry heart.

Sweet scarlet syrup swirls with bitter blood on the dirtdark floor. In the corner a chair, an invitation to rest and reweave sinews unstitched in the slip. I dare not sit.

Dostoevsky was a gambler and I take a white slice of cake; full of worms, but the dead rabbit’s clean -- its skull glutted with treacly wine. Who can resist a drink? The wine stains my teeth, but stirs a spark.

“Out of the eater, something to eat. Out of the strong, something sweet.”

Fingers unknot organs the color of rubies; I braid a careful bracelet reminder of life whispered-out, then empty a pink body bag and fill it again with air from my lungs, tie it off with a bit of twine and jump.

My balloon lifts me up up, up until I can once again see sky. The sun is saffron and the grass is gray in the small church graveyard. I land on a mound of mud, shield my eyes with the back of my hand, and all I can know is this:

I have never loved an animal thing as much as I loved you.