Why I Don't Talk About Jesus as Much Anymore

I just went on the Mormon Stories podcast and read this Jesus poem out loud. Here it is in it's all its un-instagrammy glory.

Wow. What a wild week its been!

I got home this weekend from a family reunion at what we called “Mormon camp” (Aspen Grove family camp run by BYU). On our way home, Rich and I decided we needed to put ourselves on a strict non-LDS diet to de-tox from all things Mormon for a while, because woof, Aspen Grove was fun, but it was also….. verrrry Mormony.

ya know how it is….. nice, but just a bit much

And then on Monday my Mormon Stories interview was published.

I’ve been so blown away by such nice people reaching out saying such nice things! I have to say after feeling grumbly and out of place at Mormon camp, what a pleasant turn of events to feel such support on my journey! As a lover of gold stars…. truly thank you to everyone who has reached out!

If you haven’t listened to me talking about my spiritual journey for five hours- no worries! You can watch here or listen here (Those are links to part 1. Part 2 is the episode immediately following).

On Part 2 of the interview I read out a poem I published on my Instagram a while back in answer to people’s questions of why I used to talk a lot about Jesus and then stopped. People apparently are wanting to find the poem, but Instagram isn’t the best platform for that, so I will re-post it here in all its printable, share-able, non-broken-up-able glory.

This is kind of a full circle moment for me as I’m currently sitting in the very same coffee shop where I initially wrote the poem almost two years ago.

I remember my wrist shaking as I wrote the words, “because my own fingers are still pruney from trying to wash those blood drops off my hands.”

Anyway, enjoy!

Why I Don't Talk About Jesus as Much Anymore

Because a name that can bring liberation
just as often brings captivity.
Because a name that illicits song
just as often is used to silence.

Because that name means something different 
to every single person who hears it
and I never know
are you one whose scars are erased by that name
or who carries scars of self-loathing from it?

Are you one who uses that name to set others free?
Or to cuff them in shame when not compliant?
Are you one who feels a warm blanket of love
envelope you at the sound of that name?
Or does the name bring back nightmares 
of accounting for drops of blood spilt by the hands
of your inadequacy?

Because my own fingers are still pruney from
trying to wash those blood drops off my hands.

Because when they are called out for saying
hurtful things-
the influencer, the BYU professor, the apostle-
predictably their next month's posts 
are all about Jesus.
Because Jesus is always a safe topic-
free from criticism.

Because somehow the man who ruffled all the feathers
is now used to not ruffle any.
And I'm so tired of shiny feathers.

Because somehow, at some point
the man who radically preached
non-violence and
included everyone as his neighbor
has become the poster child
for gun rights
and turning out immigrants.

Because the man who freed the woman
from needing to return to the well every week
by showing her the living water coursing through
her own body
has somehow been confined into a miniature plastic well
body-guarded by men
which we must return to drink every week
in order to adequately apologize for existing.

Because his words are full of beauty, love and wisdom.
But so are the words of Lao Tzu, Maya Angelou,
Siddharta and Rumi.
And I've spent so many hours of so many years
dedicating myself single-eyed to the love
and wisdom of this one teacher,
that I can't help now frolicking off
to smell the flowers,
hike the forests,
and feast on the vast heavenly offerings
from other kingdoms
that I've missed out on while exploring only one.

Because to believe I need a savior
is to believe I am inherently damned.
And I do not believe that.

Because my heart is heavy
thinking of the milennia of women and men
who were taught with father, son and spirit
that diety is exclusively male.
And I mourn the millions of ways
the world would be different
if Mother God was allowed the throne.
The world-wide mother wound is so catastrophic
that I refuse to use even one more sentence
spreading the exclusively male Godhead.

Because his signature was forged on
policies, press releases, excommunications,
stock investments, and affadavits
of an institution that
displays his name like a hunting trophy.
And sometimes I lack the energy to try
and separate the real name from its
innumerable forgeries.

Because learning of the radical, all-loving, 
all-inclusive Jesus
ushered in an era holding the courage I needed
to set myself free
and I'll always be grateful.
The delicious taste of liberation Jesus
still lingers pleasantly on my tongue.

But now I find myself in an era
where the past feelings of a church and a Father
  who used that name as a bargaining chip
  in a business transaction
  where the currency was my guilt and fear
position themselves on the rug of my mind
and refuse to be swept under it.

Because I know many will glance at what I call
beauty and see only ashes.
To them, all is ashes without him.

But please know
the one who pioneered death and rebirth
surely understands the cycle
of beauty turning to ash
turning to beauty.

Was it not he who showed that each time
new beauty is birthed
old beauty must die?

I do not talk about Jesus much anymore
perhaps because the more beauty
arises from the bonfire of my former beliefs,
the harder it becomes
to muster the energy
to separate out the parts of his name worth keeping
from the parts begging to be turned to ash.