A Funeral for My Christianity

A friend told me that I’ve seemed angry lately, and at first, it really pissed me off.

I instantly mounted a spirited, vigorous defense, laying out the reasons she had assessed me incorrectly, but soon found myself trailing off, resigned to a harsh, unwelcome truth:

She was right, or at least she was in the ballpark.

It’s an easy mistake to make. From the outside, grief looks a lot like anger. The external markers tend to be similar: impatience, bitterness, violent outbursts, a loss of optimism. The difference is that the source of it all is a profound loss. Something or someone has died, and this is the mourning that has come to take up residence in your chest cavity in its absence.

Looking around at my country right now, I can’t help but grieve at the passing of the faith I used to know, the one I grew up believing would always be home for me, the one I once wanted to make my life’s work.

I am witnessing the second death of Jesus here in American Christianity, and no, I’m not dealing with it well.