I have a post over at Antler. Here’s the beginning:
Each morning before work my father read his Bible in the living room while he pulled up his socks and laced his shoes. I waited in the hallway for him to close the book and I’d go to him and sit on his knee. When my father bought a Bible for me, and with it a purple devotional, I joined him in the living room, reading and bowing my head in silent prayer.
When my friends, burdened, come to me and say they no longer believe in God, I tell them I love them nonetheless and understand their plight; that the faith of their parents no longer resonates with their hearts. The words used to describe my faith, the ones I read in old translations and from bright colored devotionals, are clichés and I no longer know what they mean. I must find new words and new language. The truth is I’m just as lost on my own, wandering and doubting, questioning and desiring clarity. But I refuse to return to the old images and metaphors, which fit loose like a dusty, moth-eaten suit in my father’s closet.
I’m crazy, you know, searching for this something. We’re all kooks when we actually say, “I need something more.”
Jump on over to Antler to read the rest.