“Deliberately Diverse” represents the individual thoughts and opinions of a group of Taylor friends who almost never completely agree about anything but are gratified by the opportunity to stimulate deliberately diverse discussions in our beloved community. Today’s column represents the thoughts and opinions of Kelly McRae NOT the Taylor Press.
I write about weaponized Christianity not from some intellectual distance, but from the center of my broken heart.
Church was my home before it became a deeply unsafe place.
So this picture of me, in church, laughing with hysterical joy while we baptize my youngest child, Franny, might not seem like a big deal, but it feels like a miracle to me.
Maybe a small one – maybe Baby Jesus himself didn’t have to be called in – but a miracle to me.
With the exception of a pilgrimage to the writer Anne Lamott’s s church (where she was very nice to her creepy super fan), I spent about a decade running from church.
But there were things I missed about it. When we moved to Taylor, we visited St. James Episcopal Church. I liked the service a lot. I liked the priest, who spoke with a poetry and grace and openness I associated with artists, not preachers. I liked that there wasn’t an angry white man in sight.
But I didn’t get my hopes up because I know how these things work. During coffee hour, I pulled the priest, Terry Pierce, aside and said something like, “Look, I know your website says you ‘welcome all’ - but do you really actually mean that? Like, could folks in the LGBTQ+ community be members and leaders here?”
She said yes, they really meant it. (A big slice of the turd pie of my Christian trauma comes from the horrific homophobia I was taught and lived out).
Fast forward six years, and there I am at St. James baptizing my youngest daughter.
There I am, still not knowing what I believe, but knowing that this is a place where I am safe, where I am loved, where God is a mystery and faith is a long journey that doesn’t have to be explained in words that make southern white men feel comfortable.
The way I’ve processed the hurt and joy of this journey is through songwriting. I have a new song called ‘Ashes.’ It’s about ritual and blessing and the sacred small joys of life.
Like backyard harmonies and meals with friends. Like gathering at a church, where everyone is truly welcome, to bless your daughter and bury your mama.
“Ashes on my forehead/Ashes in my hands/Maybe at Easter/ In the mystery we’ll stand/Flesh and blood and water/Bless my youngest daughter/Then we’ll walk beneath an open sky/Earth to earth, oh Mama, it is time.”
