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viewsLetter to Pastor Terry Jones
By Brenda G., Friday, September 10, 2010, 2 commentsDear Pastor Terry,
Subject: Befuddled
I am a lost disciple. I followed the discipline set forth in Vatican City until reaching a certain frame of mind. It's a defined way to live, and for a number of years I was in accord with these guidelines. We lived harmoniously—me and God, me and the middleman (the Priest), me and the guidelines—then one winter during the ninth month of my first pregnancy an Irish member of the fraternity of brothers proclaimed the child that I was carrying illegitimate. My baby was a bastard because my husband and I had not taken our vows inside one of the Pope's houses and our marriage was not legal in his God’s eyes. Harsh.
He didn't even blink, "I can't possibly baptize your baby my dear because the child you are carrying is illegitimate." And with that, he turned his back on me. I stood there in the middle of other more worthy souls that were busy looking up and down, left and right, anywhere but towards me. The anger in me reached boiling by the count of two, and my unborn daughter pounded me from the inside with her tiny little limbs and fists. I stood in that church until the tears dried. It didn't make sense to me that one of God's own disciples lacked compassion. The Pope and I divorced the moment I walked out of the church. Freedom.
To forgive is divine. A lesson crammed down the throat of any youth gulping down doctrine during Saturday catechism classes. Any good marriage counselor says the same to struggling couples. So, I took the high road and buried my hurt. Later I had my daughter baptized by a Priest that was doing the good deed in East Los Angeles. Life moved on. I stopped attending church, but I left the communication channel open between the big guy and me for philosophical discussions. One bad apple, as the Osmond Brothers sang, didn't spoil the orchard. Having an open channel to the celestial heavens can sometimes illuminate even the blackest night. I kept the faith. Faith isn't something tangible, and I had always been taught it's dependable. Conflicted.
I clung to my fence and the middle road, praying but not practicing. On intermittent Sundays I took a seat in one of God's houses, and cast my eyes towards the heavens offering up my thoughts, and when needed (on more than a few occasions) screamed from my belly for help. He never presented any, or showed interest in me, not once. Being a Latina, and raised by the laws of the Pope, I assumed all the responsibility for our failed relationship. I did. Sinner.
The last hope hurrah occurred when Dad was bitten by the black widow—cancer. I watched helplessly as he hung every hope on that God of his. Dad wasn't pure, but he never doubted or questioned his faith even though he was dying a slow, disgraceful death. Terry, Dad didn't want to be cured magically, or want instant longevity, he wanted release from his body. He dreamed of sitting alongside his God to talk of Poetry and to sing cowboy songs, not much. Watching Dad die was the most challenging period in my life—so far. When he asked me why his God was doing this to him, there were no words. Lost.
I don't to presume to know that any Gods are sitting up there atop Mt Sinai (Buddha, Ganesha, and all the others) but if they were, and let's assume for a few minutes they are up there watching over us, I have a strong feeling they're wondering what to do with you and that Irish Priest of mine. What I know for sure is that your actions—burning century's old literature for a reason that doesn't reconcile with the cause—will put those men and woman that continue to fight for the very freedom that allows you to burn the Quran in the first place, in greater danger. (I know in your heart this is not what you want and if you'll temper your passion with reason you'll see our troops more clearly.) From the fence where I am sitting it sure feels like you are digging up the buried bones of those that have died to defend your rights. Compassion.
Pastor Terry, I recommend that you spend an evening alone searching your soul. Why not slip some John Coltrane on the stereo, turn the lights down low and pour yourself a couple fingers of single malt and then ask yourself how burning a beautiful piece of literature is going to help the souls of the dead soldiers and ease the hurt of the families they left behind. Peace.
For every action, there is an equal or more powerful reaction. Ask yourself, what is the reaction to my actions? Will I be able to carry the burden of this single act the remaining days of my life? What am I teaching the children? Answers.
As a questioning soul, I am begging you to reconsider your motivations, as well as to revisit the reasons that lead you to become a minister in the first place. Re-discovery.
On my fence—watching.
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2 Comments
I hope the pastor reads this
I hope the pastor reads this and considers your questions. If he goes ahead with his plan, I think the burden of his deed may prove to be greater than he is expecting. Great post.
I am the least political
I am the least political person I know so writing a letter like this took me far out of my comfort zone. Thank you for you words, much appreciated.
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