You Are What You Believe - Barak Bomani

Our friend Barak Bomani wrote this piece. It’s long, so don’t even feel like you need to finish it in one reading. Take it slow and pause when the Spirit invites you to ponder or pray.

You Are What You Believe
Barak Bomani

I met God

somewhere between Sunday School

and Big Church.

Sunday School had snacks

and Bible trivia.

Who built the ark?

Who killed Goliath?

How many disciples did Jesus have?

I learned the answers

before I understood the questions.

Then came Big Church.

That was where the grown folks went.

Women dressed to the tee,

big beautiful hats reaching toward heaven,

nails did,

men in shirts and ties,

shoes shining like salvation.

The organ knew when to moan.

The choir knew when to rise.

And every now and then

somebody caught the Holy Ghost

and the whole sanctuary stopped

to watch God happen.

At least

that’s what I thought

was happening.

As I got older

the questions changed.

Nobody cared much anymore

about who built the ark.

Now they wanted to know

what I had done.

Who I had done it with.

What I was thinking about doing.

What I needed to stop doing.

Apparently,

I had a sin life.

I didn’t know I had one

until I went to church.

Everywhere else

I just felt human.

Church made humanity

feel like something

I needed to apologize for:

Whether it was the people I wanted to hang out with

The weed I wanted to smoke

Or the words I wanted to say

Church became a pressure cooker

with a steeple.

Confess.

Repent.

Change.

Stop.

Don’t.

Never.

Shouldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

And whatever you do,

don’t let Sister So-and-So find out.

Because apparently

God knows everything,

but church folk

need details.

Just messy.

We compared households,

children,

marriages,

clothes,

bank accounts,

ministries,

offerings,

sexuality,

holiness,

and called the competition

discipleship.

The goal seemed simple:

discipline the sinful behavior

out of people

until they looked enough like us

for God to recognize them.

It doesn’t work.

Never has.

Never will.

Because you can frighten somebody

into changing behavior,

but gossip, guilt nor fear cannot teach them how to love.

And Jesus

was never particularly impressed

with people

who looked holy.

He kept disturbing

the well-dressed religious people

and eating dinner

with everybody

they had already decided

was going to hell.

Which makes me wonder:

What if we have spent centuries

perfecting the very thing

Jesus warned us about?

The superficial outside.

The performance.

The appearance.

The image.

So in the immortal words

of Shock G from Digital Undergroud:

“Stop what you’re doing.

Cause I’m about to ruin

the image and the style

that you’re used to.”

What if the whole thing

is simpler than we made it?

Not easy.

Simple.

Love.

Forgive.

That’s it.

Love.

Forgive.

And Christians hate

when you make Jesus that simple.

Because simple Jesus

is terrible for business.

We built institutions

around explaining him.

Degrees around interpreting him.

Denominations around owning him.

Rules around protecting him.

Buildings around containing him.

And entire theologies

around deciding

who gets access to him.

But Jesus keeps escaping the scapegoat mentality.

Walking through our locked doors,

sitting with our enemies,

touching people we called unclean,

and forgiving people

before they had the decency

to apologize.

Even while dying.

Father,

forgive them,

for they know not

what they do.

Them.

I have wondered about

that word for years.

Who is them?

The ones who betrayed him?

Them.

The ones who lied on him?

Them.

The ones gossiping about him?

Them.

The religious leaders?

Them.

The government?

Them.

The soldiers?

Them.

The ones who drove the nails?

Them.

The ones who stood around

and watched?

Them.

Sounds like everybody

to me.

And hanging there

between breath and death,

Jesus doesn’t say,

Father,

make them pay.

He doesn’t say,

Father,

embarrass them.

Expose them.

Cancel them.

Punish them.

Send them to hell

so I can watch.

He says,

forgive them for they know not what they do.

What kind of love

does that?

Maybe the kind

we keep worshiping

so we don’t actually

have to practice it.

Because forgiveness

sounds beautiful

until somebody hurts you.

Then forgiveness

feels like betrayal.

Of yourself.

Of your pain.

Of what happened.

My ego whispers,

If you forgive them,

they win.

If you release them,

you are saying

it didn’t hurt.

If you stop hating them,

who will make them pay?

Mind playing tricks on ya.

Forgiveness is not pretending.

It is not permission.

It is not returning

to dangerous places

because somebody quoted scripture.

It is not surrendering boundaries

to prove you love God.

Forgiveness can love you

from across the street.

Forgiveness can block your number.

Forgiveness can say

I love the God in you

and still never hand you

the knife again.

But forgiveness refuses

to spend another lifetime

bleeding

just to prove

that somebody cut you.

And maybe forgiveness

is for me.

Maybe it is for you.

Maybe it is for both of us.

Why does everything

have to have one winner?

That’s another religion

I am trying to unlearn.

The religion of winning.

Christians taught me

how to win arguments.

Right scripture.

Right doctrine.

Right denomination.

Right sexuality.

Right politics.

Right interpretation.

Right God.

We got so damn good

at being right

that we forgot

how to be human.

And now look at us.

Arguing to win

instead of discussing

to love.

Ostracizing

instead of inviting.

Assuming

instead of asking.

Dividing humanity

into people God loves

and people

we need God

to punish.

And somewhere

Jesus is still saying,

Father,

forgive them for they know not what they do.

Paul said,

“As much as it depends on you,

live at peace.”

He begged communities

to resist division.

But we keep choosing teams.

Counting.

Comparing.

Performing.

Policing.

Bible badges pinned

to our righteous chests,

walking around God’s earth

writing spiritual tickets

to people

who didn’t know

we were the police.

Maybe that’s why

love and forgiveness

feel dangerous.

Because neither one

allows me to control you.

Love does not require you

to become me.

Forgiveness does not require

your suffering

for my healing.

And neither one

asks permission

from religion.

So these days

I am trying something else.

Before I speak,

love.

Before I judge,

forgive.

Before I assume,

ask.

Before I exclude,

invite.

Before I decide

what somebody deserves,

remember what I have survived

because somebody

gave me grace.

This is not weakness.

Jesus showed us

how dangerous this kind of love

can be.

It can get you crucified.

But apparently

it can also

resurrect you.

So I am setting

my intentions differently now.

Not:

How holy can I look?

Not:

How right can I be?

Not:

How much scripture

can I quote?

Not even:

How much sin

can I avoid?

But:

How deeply

can I love?

How freely

can I forgive?

How fully

can I become human?

Because after all these years

of Sunday School,

Big Church,

good ole hymns,

shining shoes,

Bible trivia,

church gossip,

altar calls,

rules,

regulations,

fear,

and trying desperately

to be good enough

for God,

I have come to believe

something dangerously simple:

You become

what you believe.

So if God is fear,

you will spread fear.

If God is punishment,

you will punish.

If God is exclusion,

you will build walls.

If God is judgment,

you will spend your life

looking for defendants.

But—

if God

is Love,

eventually,

somewhere between

your wounds

and your resurrection,

you will have to become

Love too.

And maybe

that

is what salvation

was trying to teach us

all along.