On that snowy day in the Episcopal church, the Gospel reading and the subsequent sermon based on it was a passage from the book of Luke, chapter six, known as the “Beatitudes.” The verses were from Jesus’ “Sermon on the Plain,” similar to yet different from Matthew’s version called the “Sermon on the Mount.”
For my daughter and me, the passage selection was fortuitous because we’d recently discussed how the Beatitudes might be a more apt Christian creed than, say, the Nicene or the 1689 London Baptist Confession of Faith. That is, if the creed were based on Jesus himself and not the dogmas that had formed around him.
After I’d re-examined my faith some 20 years earlier, I’d actually felt more regard for Jesus when I realized that his actual teachings weren’t about a virgin birth or substitutionary atonement or whether he was co-equal with God. Instead, he encouraged his followers—through words and actions—to feed the hungry, help the sick, and welcome the stranger…to love. He was love incarnate. And for that, he was killed.
At the time, however, my greater esteem for Christ did not lead me back to Christianity. But, over the last year, finding content creators like Doug Weaver (whose perspective on the books of the Bible resonated), Brittney Lowe Hartley (whose “no nonsense spirituality” was eye-opening), and Dan McClellan (whose scholarly approach to the scriptures made me want to study them again), I felt a renewed attraction.
Conversations with my adult daughter played a part, too. Though she had deep, spiritual scars from her strict, Reformed upbringing, she’d always maintained her own, separate connection with the divine. Around 2012, a chance viewing of Jesus Christ Superstar reignited interest in her religious roots, so she purchased a Bible and then over the years, took courses such as “The Old Testament” by Amy-Jill Levine and “The Dead Sea Scrolls” by Gary A. Rendsburg plus she read books like Joel Marcus’ John the Baptist in History and Theology. And, of course, we talked endlessly about what she was learning.
In March of 2023, my daughter and I moved into our current apartment. It was a hard move, even worse than a past, rain-soaked one where we couldn’t afford outside help and my second son had an emergency appendectomy. This time, our cat was hospitalized with kidney disease (thankfully, she recovered after months of treatment), we lost power during a late winter storm (we hung crocheted blankets on the windows for extra protection), and I got a case of the shingles (a light case but still). And those were only a few of the many things that went wrong.
Not long after we finally dropped off the keys to our former landlord, my daughter dug through boxes for her collection of Jesus Christ Superstar DVDs. It was near Easter season, we needed a distraction, so it seemed appropriate to have a JCS marathon.
It was glorious. We rewatched the 1973, 2000, and 2012 versions then viewed the wild 2014 Swedish Arena Tour production. We discussed thematic elements, lyrical content, acting choices, vocal performances, stage blocking. We compared and contrasted for weeks. Also, the performances moved me in a way they hadn’t before. The song, “Gethsemane,” repeatedly brought me near tears.
Even then, it wasn’t until the end of 2024 that I was compelled to act. Throughout the year’s election process, I’d watched certain politicians claim to base their policies on Christian principles only to ignore, twist, and pervert the clear teachings of Jesus. It made me want to do something. And not simply to address their misuse of Christ's message but also to join a more coordinated effort in alleviating the real harm being done to those they were hurting through their policies.
In addition, my daughter was floundering. She needed to find a supportive church but had little free time to look for one. So I did the searching by checking out streamed services online, and one I kept returning to was the nearby Episcopal church. I mentioned it to my daughter but the holidays postponed anything more.
Until Episcopal Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde. After seeing her homily at the interfaith prayer service following the presidential inauguration, I purchased her book, How We Learn to Be Brave. Something she said in it gave me hope that the Episcopal church might welcome both my daughter and her Jesus-loving agnostic mom. Budde writes about author, Ta-Nehisi Coates:
Coates describes himself as one who would like to believe in God but can’t, having learned at a young age that no god would save him from the brutality of this world. Instead, he has found spiritual meaning in his family, work, and ancestry, and in telling Black history that “does not flatter American democracy, but chastens it.” I am drawn to Coates’s writing for its poetic brilliance and historical narrative, but also because he finds the same call in atheism that I hear as a Christian to pursue the truth no matter where it leads and to live with hope grounded in things as they are.
My daughter started watching the nearby Episcopal church’s live streams with me, and I bought a new Bible.
That last one was a huge step. I still had three of the Bibles from my earlier religious era—a black New American Standard that’s underlined to excess with all kinds of wobbly notes in the margins, a burgundy New King James Version that was used at the Reformed church (also heavily marked but much neater), and lastly a tiny, pocket King James Version (that my daughter says only a gnat could decipher) with the Doctrines of Grace and supporting verses written in smudged, blue ink on a back page.
But I no longer believed everything I did when I poured over those Bibles, and paging through them made me feel like I’d be disagreeing with a stranger who used to be me. My daughter put it this way: you want to engage with the text, not engage with your past self engaging with the text. I needed to start over.
So I purchased a New Revised Standard Version, Catholic Edition. NRSV because I’d come to appreciate the translation. And Catholic because I’m unfamiliar with the deuterocanonical books and it seemed time (I’m reading Tobit).
Now, sitting in that nearby Episcopal church, we listened to the sermon. It was clear, thoughtful, and relevant. The Reverend spoke of how Jesus flipped power structures, preaching that it’s those the world overlooks—the poor, the hungry, the distressed—who are in fact the ones God sees most clearly. That Jesus spent his time changing (for the better) the conditions of the most vulnerable. That if we want to find God working in the world, we “roll up our sleeves” and do the same. Yes, yes, was my inner response.
Since I struggle with belief in “God” as commonly defined but do believe that if God is anything then “God is love” (as it says in 1 John), when I come across the word “God,” I often replace it in my mind with the word, “Love.” So if I want to find Love in the world then I’ll work to improve life for the hurting, the unprotected, the marginalized.
After the sermon, the congregation recited the Nicene creed (I’m refraining from that right now, but I did read aloud the Lord’s Prayer later). Next we prayed for others and ourselves, and participated in public confession and absolution for “sin” (a word I personally avoid using but I can respect the idea if it leads to healthy humility and responsibility). The offering, another hymn, and then communion followed.
Holy Communion (or the Lord’s Supper as Baptists call it) is the Christian ritual that uses the sharing of bread and wine to remember Jesus' death and resurrection. I had decided not to participate, but I knew that my daughter would since the Episcopal church we were visiting invited all to partake.
Though my daughter was raised in the church, since we left when she was ten, she’d not been able to make a statement of faith, be baptized, or take communion. And she very much regretted that.
I can’t describe the joy this agnostic mama felt as I watched my grown-up baby girl walk to the altar rail, kneel, and receive her first communion. She bowed her head, silhouetted by a massive window in the background where one could see a congregation of trees, covered in new snow, also bearing witness to her prayer.
My daughter crossed herself, stood, and returned to sit beside me. I squeezed her hand and knew that we were home.
A Disclaimer: If I mention certain authors or artists or content creators who have helped me along the way that does not mean I condone or agree with everything those folks have ever said or done (or will in the future).
I am reading both with fascination and with a clenched stomach. Old voices, you know. Brave you are.
"My daughter put it this way: you want to engage with the text, not engage with your past self engaging with the text. I needed to start over." -- I know so many walking this journey right now & you sharing your story will help many.