So, what do you do?
This week I flew to Denver for my best friend’s wedding. It was small, just nine of us at the courthouse, including the grooms. It was short and tender, legal documents were signed, vows were made.We witnessed the knitting together of two adult lives in the eyes of the state and then went out for lunch. It was joyful acknowledgment that such a thing is glorious and that queer joy is resistance. There was a small party that evening with more of their friends.
One of the best things about weddings is chatting with people who are strangers with one point of contact. One of the trickiest things about weddings is chatting with people who are strangers with one point of contact. First, we always start with the “how do you know the newlywedded ones?” And then you are back to the good old “and what do you do?” Back when I was the editor of a magazine, that was party chat GOLD. Similarly, everyone knows what you do when you say “barista” or “children’s librarian.” Sometimes I wish I had a job that could be named quickly: airline pilot, college professor, donut maker. I love hearing about other people’s jobs and lives, but I am still not good at explaining this stage of my life quickly. And I dont want to take up too much room.
I tell people that I write about the intersection of spirituality and sexuality, that I am a sex-positive spiritual director and a religiously informed sex educator, that I am a sporadic poet and a stalled painter. I tell them that I am the mother of a toddler and I have a part-time obsession with sleep.
There was a woman at the party who had overheard the shortest, tidiest version of my story, “I was a priest, now I’m not. I was kicked out of a church that both proclaims welcome to all and completely refuses to discuss polyamory.”1 She asked me, “What is your relationship with Christ now?”
It is fascinating to me that in ten years of ordained ministry, and years before that of being really, really churchy, almost no one asked me directly about my spiritual life unless they were judging my qualifications for ordination or employment. Now that I have left the church (or the church has left me), people ask.
It isn’t a bad question. I’m not sure I would ask it five minutes after meeting someone. But I understand why they do. I do not remember exactly what I answered her. It was likely the same vague dithering that often arrives instead of clarity. Turns out she is writer too, and we talked about literary type things before we drifted apart on the social currents of the party.
Here is my longer answer that I might have given while balancing charcuterie and champagne.
My relationship is longing.
My relationship is a memory of the shape and ease of prayer.
My faith is a web of desire and resentment. Like any relationship.
I miss the taste of certain words in my mouth,
and the texture of certainty.
I miss God desperately and somehow still believe completely.
I believe that the God I loved before is still in love with me, if she exists at all.
I am reading Julian of Norwich, and I want to believe her.
I am ashamed of what a bad Christian it turns out I am.
I still wish I were the kind of person whose faith never wavered
or that I had walked away without a backwards glance.
Later that evening, after she had left, someone told me that in addition to being a writer, she is also a sex worker and helps organize gangbangs.
Now that’s a cool job.
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To someone asking me now What do you do? My two word answer is 'actively retired'. And, that will then be followed up w more questions. Kerlin, thank you for your reflections.hj