Editor’s Note: I’m interested in writing about my journey of faith and my exploration of spirit, but I’m frustrated by the odd vocabulary and pedantic tone most people use when writing about such matters. So I’m experimenting with writing simply about faith — in this case, by limiting myself to words of just one syllable.
I grew up in a home where we knew The Truth.
We knew The Truth thanks to our church, where a man with a red face told us God’s will for our lives. He would quote God’s word verse by verse. He would pound on the Good Book. He would shout The Truth at the top of his lungs, and those of us in the pews would nod and smile grim smiles.
But, in the end, The Truth did not set us free. In fact, it weighed us down.
Our friends, we were told, were lost. Their homes were on fire, and it was up to us to pull them out. And if we did not save them — if we did not do our part to tell them The Truth, get them to church, make them do God’s will — their fate was our fault.
It was up to us to save their souls.
Though I was just a kid, I took this to heart. God had a plan, and I was part of it. My friends were lost, and it was my job to find them, to teach them, and to bring these lost lambs home.
Of course, this world view did not sit well with friends who felt they, too, had The Truth. And so, we spent day after day in a war of words — a war I knew I would win. We both had faith, but I knew their faith was in a lie. My job was to find a way to break their false faith and show them the Light.
I was good at this, and, so, once in a while, I would bring a friend to Christ.