Dropping Bibles, Carrying Poems

I carry Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal for you.

Listen to Rebecca read this week’s reflection here.

I couldn’t wait to be a third grader.
Third grade was the first year you were old enough to be a bible carrier at church.

There was a training one Sunday. A group of kids learning the ins and outs of this important role. The bible came down the long narrow sanctuary aisle behind the cross and light and in front of the choir. It was placed on the high altar. It was heavy. So heavy.

I was terrified of dropping it. I practiced at home with one of my grandparent’s bibles. Even though it was big, it wasn’t nearly the weight of the one I’d carry once a month in worship dressed in a turquoise skirt—matching the carpet and pew cushions—held up with a weird pair of suspenders and covered by a white surplice.

And yet, I wanted to get it right. I wanted to make people proud. I wanted god to be pleased. I wanted to be part of the rituals. I wanted to sit in the little pew nestled up against the organ. I wanted to belong.

Fear sometimes looks like awe. But this was the intense, dreadful, panic type of fear. The fear of dropping that larger than life bible influenced how I carried it. I shuffled more than walked. My pace unnaturally slow. My balance off. Constantly looking down because I suddenly no longer trusted my own two feet. What if I stepped on the heels of the 5th grade acolyte in front of me? Or stopped abruptly causing the choir member behind me to stumble?

The 67 poems comprising Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal were written over a span of many years. Some first penned as early as 2011 and others coming to life just months before the final version of the manuscript went to the publisher. These poems represent a winding journey from fear to freedom, from tightly carrying my grandmother’s faith to tenderly dropping it when the weight nearly crushed my life.

I try to imagine my worst third grade nightmare coming true. What if I had dropped that bible in the aisle or while lifting it up to the altar? It probably would not have sparked a storm or caused lighting to strike. I’m sure some kind adult in the choir or teenager carrying the cross would have helped me pick it up and keep on going.

Maybe I carried things that harmed me and weighed me down longer than I needed to because I didn’t know what else to do besides dropping them and waiting to see the response. What if carrying unhealthy things in community seemed easier than living life with empty hands all alone?

Signing and selling copies of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal. Connecting with with curious readers.

Last Thursday I offered poems from Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal to a church as part of their Lenten programming. Carrying a stack of books up the stairs and into the building with zero fear of dropping them, I had a new thought. What if the opposite of carrying isn’t dropping, but releasing? What if composing my own faith isn’t about dropping my grandmother’s faith, but releasing it? What if I’m not waiting to get in trouble, but for something new and creative to return to me?

Again, last Sunday after carrying a bag of books into another church and sharing about them with the congregation, I had a moment of clarity. How tightly I was carrying a faith that broke me because I was terrified of dropping it! What would people think of me? Or say? Or do? Where would I belong? Find community, meaning and purpose? How would I spend Sundays? What about eternity?

Some beliefs need to be dropped. Others require more tender love and care, and are yearning for a ritual of release. Birthing Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal has become just that, a ritual of release. A gentle letting go of lingering shame and guilt, sorrow and grief, anger and fear, of a faith that became a system benefiting from my time, talents, and service while requiring me to hide my authentic presence.

Frequently, I am asked when am I returning to the denomination of my grandmother’s faith. If I’m honest, I loathe this question. If by returning you mean (and many do), re-entering the ordination process, the answer is a firm no. If by returning you mean, curiously seeking a source whose essence is love, the answer is I am.

At the core of my Grandma Bernie’s faith was a call to love god, neighbor, and self. As I’ve become less focused on how to “rightly” love god, my ability to fully love myself has strengthened. My desire and commitment to love my neighbor has intensified. My courage to speak against judgement and injustice disguised as love continues to grow. Healing continually brings to me the awareness that this love is not limited to one set of authorized lyrics and copyrighted tunes bound together in a committee approved hymnal.

My grandmother’s hymns are part of me. I tried unsuccessfully to erase them from my heart and memory. So, what do I do with them? I allow them to guide me. Not toward a denomination, physical church building, or strict doctrines of belief, but rather toward an inquisitive searching faith. Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal captures a story that is more curious than certain.

What does it sound like to leave church and still wonder about god?
To remember the past without sacrificing the future?
To celebrate your own light?
To examine the words you sing and what they really mean?
To refuse to continue singing about theology you no longer believe?
To step away from the faith of your grandmother and compose a faith of your own?

If you are carrying a faith that hurts more than it helps, that harms more than it heals…
If you are ready to drop it all together, even if it shatters…
If you are eager to release it and wait for what returns…
I carry these poems for you.

Curiously, Rebecca

• What beliefs have you dropped?

• How would you describe the faith you carry?

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