December 2000

Bethany, 18, is a freshman at UMass-Amherst

I'm going to shamelessly borrow/swipe/steal, however you want to term it, the format of this article from Chance's column last month. Apparently we've be thinking about similar issues or something...

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Dear Jesus,

They taught me to love you before they taught me how to read. I can't remember a time when I didn't visit your house weekly as a child. My parents always said, still say, that if I ever have a problem that I should imagine you sitting in the corner, and that you'll have the answer for me.

Where were you when I was six or seven, never believing that you loved me?

Where were you when I came to the conclusion that salvation didn't apply to me? I was nine years old then.

Where were you when I sat in church as a teenager, wondering what the hell was wrong with me?

Where were you when I fell in love for the first time and was so confused?

Where were you when I wanted to die, when I sat in class wishing that terrorists would take over my school and shoot me so I wouldn't have to do it myself?

Where were you when I was sitting on a hotel bed in Acapulco, letting the truth about my orientation crash over me like a tidal wave?

Where were you when I was trying to come out to my dad? I almost passed out that day.

Where were you when I was trying to come out to my friends? I was on the verge of throwing up for two days straight; I had headaches that pounded in my brain until I wanted to cry.

Where have you been when I feel so alone?

Where were you all the times that I needed you so much?

You didn't carry me, not like in the Footprints poem. You didn't give me a single measure of comfort or reassurance. Even the repetition of a dozen Hail Mary's or a few Our Father's never gave me the comfort I needed. I believed in you. I *believed* and you couldn't even be there when I needed you.

Well, sometimes I still need you. Need the comfort of a savior. And you still aren't there.

I realized something a few years ago. I realized that I didn't have to follow you. I didn't have to believe in you. My religion was my choice, no one else's. So I left your church, left behind me the five years of Catholic school, the year I taught Episcopal Sunday School, the years of running a club for kids at that Episcopal Church, the years being on a Christian Education Commission, the years of believing and being ignored to suffer alone, in silence. I left you behind. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I really had faith. Ironic, isn't it?

Yet, occasionally, in the darkest nights of my soul, I sometimes want a faith that tells me everything will be all right in the end. Yet every time I almost give into that, every time I almost go to church, I remember how repressive it felt, how much I felt like I would never be saved, that you would pass me over for salvation. I remember how it felt to believe that I wasn't worth your time. I remember how alone I felt, how I couldn't even get comfort in a church, a place I used to flee to for comfort.

I don't know if the priests promised me more than you can give, and if that's why I was so disappointed. I don't know if you even love me, despite my faults, despite my not believing in you. I believe you exist, but I don't believe you're my savior. Because, Jesus, you never tried to save me from myself-from my fears and my pain and my self-hatred and my misery. Maybe that isn't your job. But I was always told you would be there for me, and you weren't.

Maybe it's false advertising-if so, talk to your PR people, because they suck. Maybe you really don't love people like me, all the gods know there are enough preachers that say that. Maybe I just couldn't hear. Maybe you were busy. Maybe I always needed you on bingo night or something.

Whatever the reason, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm sorry, but I am. Sometimes I think I don't really know what I believe anymore. But it's better, in the long run, to be confused than to be let down even more. Right now, I realize how little I know about faith and religion and even about what I believe. That's okay, though, because what little I believe involves finding out things for myself. Since, you know, the last time I was told what to believe it really didn't work out for the best.

You've got enough followers, Jesus. I don't think you'll miss me. Gods know I missed you for long enough. Take care of them. And the next time some girl calls out to you in pain and fear and self-hate, listen. You just might keep her in your flock. Learn from your mistakes, Lord of Light, Prince of Peace. That's what I try to do. And a happy birthday later this month.

Sincerely,

Bethany-Faith P. Kimball

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Bethany-Faith P. Kimball is a freshman at UMASS-Amherst. She's 18 years old, can be contacted at k41632@yahoo.com and loves email.