Thanks to FNHC and Sally for forcing me to examine my relationship with Christianity once more. It has been the source of so much cognitive dissonance over the years, and so easy to defer and deflect, that I rarely find myself here without external accountability. Unfortunately, I also process at a glacial pace, and have to take care when journaling to not over-narrativize my thoughts.
Like Sally, I believe my issues with Christianity stem from deeply ingrained ideas about pride, shame, and justice. I grew up with the Gospel, but have never been able to fully accept its central tenet of grace: not because I don't need it, nor because I don't deserve it--but because I will never deserve it.
I'm remembering a sermon (delivered at a conference I attended in high school) about the prodigal son. The preacher talked about how our sense of justice, and the world's sense of justice, aligns with the older brother, who worked faithfully for his father for years without celebration. But it's the father's wholehearted embrace of his wayward son that exemplifies God's radical love, that upends our calculus of actions and reactions and equal exchanges.
What's funny (read: tragic) is a) how easy it is to be on the offering end, b) how hard it is to be on the receiving end, and c) how hard it is to reconcile these even after being on both ends so many times. To offer forgiveness is to be on the moral high ground, and there is catharsis because you know the victim (you) has moved on. But to receive forgiveness is to enter this moral debt, to shoulder the shame and guilt, to stay up wondering if those you've hurt have really healed or forgotten. I am both the small group leader who has prayed for a disruptive teenager and the congregant who dropped out of church and fellowship for a year, too ashamed to respond to anyone; the TA who has reached out to a struggling student and the student who stopped attending lectures, office hours, or discussions; the bullied who eventually befriended his bullies and the friend who has let the friendship slowly die out.
I have firm belief in my ability to improve at most things, given time and effort. Sin does not fit well into this neat little worldview. It's hard to accept that there are parts of me that are fundamentally broken, irreparable, insufficient, and yet Christianity asks us to promise to try nevertheless. It's like trying to record a musical piece that you're guaranteed to screw up no matter how hard you try, except so much worse because there's another entity you're hurting every time--and so I feel my faith has ultimately ended up in this state of learned helplessness.
I still consistently attend small group and church, but I consider myself more adjacent to Christianity than part of it. I want to do good, and think striving towards Christ's example is ideal, but so much of me doesn't want to accept grace when I fail--I feel I should get what I deserve, i.e. hell. This feeling is only exacerbated whenever I'm in any kind of public position, like worship team or small group leading, where the consequences of my sin extend beyond me to other people.
This idea is so inherent to my worldview that it's hard to imagine that I could change it. So I have been, and still am, kind of two steps removed: I don't want faith, but I want to want faith. I will keep working on prayer, and Scripture reading, and worship, and whatever else, in the faint hope that God can change this heart, but if I don't have faith, then neither do I have faith that I will have faith, and so on.
Like Vivian mentioned, I do have some frameworks for thinking about how God views our sin--primarily from the child-parent relationship. And the categorical difference in how the child perceives their mistakes and tries to hide them, and the parent's (hopefully) understanding acceptance. But the intellectual analogy is one thing, and coming before God for the umpteenth time in repentance is another.
The previous points also apply to relationships (platonic or otherwise), where awareness of sin causes anxiety about people getting too close. Letting people down, getting let down by others, exposing our flaws and shame and insecurities. The most healing and growth have come from the hard conversations I've had with other people, incl. yesterday, but of course, shortly after John 3:16:
This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.
John 3:19-21
And our schedules are so filled these days that everyone is constantly tired, and there's not much time to hang out or catch up. All of these things make it easy to just keep people at arm's length and attempt to process experiences on my own.
I'm not averse to getting to know people at a deeper level, and do occasionally make an effort to be vulnerable or intentional. Probably most people are the same. But it's hard, and uncomfortable, and so we always end up in these local maxima where everyone would like to be closer, but is afraid of the commitment. And nobody wants to lead the charge, because that's unpleasant and they're unsure what everyone else is thinking. Also everyone's kind of comfortable joking around or playing games anyway... so maybe it's fine to just leave it as is.
On the occasion where someone does finally call out the situation, I think there is some element of God working, inspiring a desire and restlessness for the more authentic community that Christians are called to. But yeah, community is hard, and I'm not really sure what a modern-day vibrant church community should look like, or what my role in participating or creating one should be. Should probably reflect more on this before the coming year.
Kind of funny that God will work through people who are struggling in faith, and everyone will feel inspired--everyone except for the original person. I suppose in a community of people who are struggling (i.e. every community), it eventually evens out?