These days, I typically only get asked about my religious beliefs when I’m at my yearly physical, or in triage at the hospital. Which is to say, it’s not super common.

Still, I always chuckle to myself when they ask. Is it in case I die here today? So they’ll know which type of spiritual guide to call, which type of prayer to whisper (or not), and which place I may be going— the good place or the bad place? In reality, I understand its actual purpose. Still, it always feels like a surprising question in the context of the setting.

The last time someone asked me, it was a triage nurse at an urgent care. I can’t remember why I was there, but it wasn’t life threatening. Things were calm and conversational. She asked my religion and I panicked— realizing for the first time that I didn’t want to say Christian. Realizing, for the first time, that the Christian affiliation carried more of a negative connotation in my mind than I had been consciously aware of. 

I finally responded. “Christian— but not the judgmental kind. The kind that really does love and care for others no matter who they are or who they love. The kind that isn’t racist….ya know?” 

Without flinching the nurse said, “OK” and checked a box— presumably the Christian one. I felt tempted to ask, “Do you need me to repeat any of that? Did you get it all?” I imagined her writing next to the Christian box, “The nice but unstable kind.” 

She moved on to the next series of questions. I answered robotically, still stuck on how surprising that question and answer experience was for me. 

My mind flashed back to “Left Behind” movies and pastors in pulpits urging us to be not only willing but excited to die by gunfire for our beliefs. I remembered sitting in church with a rapid heartbeat, imagining gunmen bursting through the doors. I remembered thinking it felt crazy to be expected to stand up and say “KILL ME IN THE NAME OF JESUS.” I remembered bringing a friend to church one Sunday, set on saving her soul. And then the embarrassment when the pastor chastised non-believers and said that during communion, they had to stay in their seats while true believers could enjoy their delicious blood and flesh. The non-believers? Those bad boys and girls needed to sit there in silence, in thirst and hunger, and think about what they had done.

I remembered learning that women were the reason for the downfall of man (damnit, Eve!) and that menstrual pain and birth were punishments for that sin. I remembered praying every day on the walk home from school to be saved, because how do I know if I said the words correctly yesterday? Better try again today. And tomorrow. And the next day. 

I remembered shame. So much shame. 

Whatever flavor of “Christian” that was— that’s not what I claim today. 

At this point, with the state of affairs in the United States, I feel more strongly than ever that I wish there were a different name for my religious affiliation, my beliefs. My long explanation to the triage nurse would be even longer and more insane these days. I’d be better off handing her a thumb drive with a slide deck loaded onto it. “Here’s my answer to #8, please enjoy.”  

It would be filled with slide after slide of the modern day horrors that I see on the news every day, oftentimes with Christian white nationalist groups cheering them on. Claiming they are fulfilling a prophecy, making their God proud. I would include comment bubbles that say “THIS IS NOT RIGHT AND IS NOT MY BELIEF.” 

What do you do when you have separated so far from the religion you used to call home that you no longer know what to call yourself? Do you even need to have a name? I feel tempted to say “I’m spiritual.” My mind flashes back to the pastor in the pulpit again, talking about how the people who call themselves simply “spiritual” don’t know Jesus and just like the Catholics, Muslims, Jews, and the Uncertains— they’re all going to hell. 

It’s always the threat of hell, right? It was a major focus of religion from childhood to early 20s. For many years, I deconstructed from that type of Christianity and eventually found my way back to a Methodist church that *strangely enough* has never once threatened my child or me with burning in a lake of fire for eternity. 

Different types of Christianity exist, the same way different types of Buddhism, Catholicism, Islam, and all belief systems exist. But I find myself wondering— if the variation and the spectrum is so incredibly wide, to the point that each side looks at the other and says, “You can’t even call yourself a (insert religion here) with those beliefs”— where do we go from there? 

There’s no point in trying to prove each other wrong, it doesn’t work anyway. I just know that I see so many loving, caring, kind, supportive Christians. And I also see the complete inverse of that. Who also call themselves Christians. 

I know that in the same way I no longer feel super excited to wear a red hat or a T-shirt with an American flag on it (not that this was my typical fashion choice anyway), I no longer feel super excited to claim a straightforward, no chaser, on the rocks Christianity without an explanation.

All religious groups have spectrums and have people who cross over into a controlling and hateful side. It’s interesting reading about how it can and does show up, even in faiths like Buddhism. I guess that’s humanity, eh? Give us something nice and we’ll make burnt popcorn out of it. 

History shows that religion becomes most dangerous when it gets fused with political or cultural dominance. Leaders use religious rhetoric to justify violence and control. Faith repurposed as political armor (cue the “Onward Christian Soldiers” song that just played in my head). And again, this is not just Christianity. Every belief system has an arm that grows wild, dangerous, and unrecognizable to the rest of the body. And when confronted or questioned, that angry arm says “We are actually the real body, everyone else is doing it wrong if you don’t look like us. If you don’t swing angrily at the foolish masses like us.”

Once religion loses its mysticism— upholding the importance of awe, love, curiosity, and connection— it becomes defensive and territorial. It foams at the mouth, rabid and snapping at those who don’t operate in the same way. Mystics in every faith agree: hate is a symptom of spiritual disconnection. When the focus shifts from union with the divine to being right about the divine, love gets replaced by ego.

I feel pulled to answer the religion question with a simple answer: Love. 

I imagine a nurse writing “hippie” or “nice but unstable” on the “other” line. That’s OK. I’d rather be called those things than stand firm on a ground of hate, shame, and exclusion.