The Deconstruction

"I'm having a hard time communicating with Ryan," the words fall out of Katrina's head as she shakes it. This is our sacred time together, a time to pour out wine and spill tears over the events of the past week. My weary soul always seems to find its rest right here at Katrina's kitchen table. I lend a gentle ear as Katrina talks about her husband Ryan, and lately she's been listening to me blow off steam about my parishioners without passing judgement. Katrina couldn't be further from the type of person I work with on a daily basis, and I am especially grateful for that during this time of my life.

There's something holy about the greenery that sweeps across her window sills. The delicate flora dances along the light and draws attention to the infinite array of golden flecks from the sun. I've always loved how this hour reflects a deep amber from our weekly bottle of Campo Viejo onto the macramé place settings. The scent of her fresh sourdough bread she makes special for us every Friday night fills me with a warmth that I only know when I am here.

I naturally lift the bottle to fill Katrina's glass, but to my surprise she waves her hand and signals that she'll pass. "But I want you to know," Katrina excitedly looks up, suddenly wearing an expression that is unfamiliar to me, "I've been praying about this." Katrina exhales deeply and searches my eyes for approval as she wipes away a tear and reaches for my hand.

I smile wide as any minister should, but my mouth is suddenly bone dry. She takes a deep breath and continues spilling her newfound beliefs as I trace the tip of my finger along the rim of my lonely wine glass to slow my heart-rate down. I let out an understanding "Mmm," whenever it seems appropriate. I know this is a life-altering moment for her. Ten years of friendship, four years that I've been a minister, and this is the first time she's ever willingly brought up God. I'm shaking my head yes and no in all of the right spaces, but I'm starting to worry that my thoughts are growing loud enough for her to hear.

It's one thing that I have to deal with feeling like I'm in the closet during the work week, but now I need to worry about remaining hidden from Katrina? I say a silent prayer, or more like a desperate wish, to remain present with who I am and the person I'm becoming. I'm not abandoning God; my idea of God is simply changing. I want to experience the fullness of my humanity without the fear of eternity falling apart.

I want to show my shoulders in the early Autumn sun. I so achingly desire to enjoy the flavor of a dry Tempranillo more than once a week in the safety of this place. I long to sing along to the poems I hear on the radio about making love and feeling lost without fearing that I'll be struck down by lightning.

"And I see it now," she says with a new spark behind her emerald eyes, "I am eternally condemned without Him. I am eternally condemned if I continue to live a life of sin," Katrina confidently confesses to me as she takes a generous sip of water. I'm suddenly extremely conscious of the tannins that rest on the tip of my tongue.

My throat begins to burn and my chest tightens as I feel my foundation spin away. There is a heat in my belly that can only belong to anger. Anger for my changing, for my challenging, for my questions, for my fears, but mostly anger for a culture that made me believe I would be punished for having them.

Only ten seconds into her filling me in on the fragments of her week and somehow a lifetime of devotion is leaving my body, overcoming my every ligament, and dragging me down into an abyss that I was once certain could only be Hell.

I always trusted in the stone walls, the leather bound scriptures, and the stained glass I spent my life surrounded by. My greatest support was found in the same creaking, wooden pew each and every mass. In this moment, however, I wonder if those pews were ever supporting who I was. Perhaps they were only carrying the weight of my self-righteousness. Perhaps they've been carrying the weight of a collective group-righteousness for eons.

"I've been so looking forward to sharing this with you," Kristina says with a laugh as she wipes away another tear. I give her elbow a tight squeeze of reassurance, but I'm all too aware that my smile is distant.

I should be happy for her newfound relationship, but I only feel isolation. Selfishly I needed someone in my life to not believe - now more than ever. Her mere use of the word "God" sky-rockets me into an alternate universe where I am the one no longer included in the great equation.

Do I believe in the divine orchestration of this world? Is every life, every death, every blade of grass plucked from the ground, and every flap of a butterfly wing written into the script of this existence? I used to think so. In admitting this I feel an anxiety that many would believe to be the cold hand of the devil on my back.

I'm taken back to Sister Madelyn's class in junior high. I can still feel my chin hanging to my chest and my eyes staring heavily at the floor with shame as she approached my chair. I'll never forget how small I shrunk in the presence of her condescending smile as she told me, "Oh, dear, those questions are the deceptive voice of the enemy whispering lies into your small, human mind." Her words were like an infection to my soul. In this very moment I'm convicted by a new truth. The truth that I have used my position in the same way Sister Madelyn did - to poison the beauty of uncertainty in hearts that are already perfectly loved by God.

I think back to every conversation I've ever had with Katrina. Always manipulating, never listening. I think of how calculated my words were in order to convince her that I held the keys to her eternal salvation. In the ten seconds that she has spoken to me tonight, I realize a great sadness - Sister Madelyn and I are the same. I have been tearing souls apart piece by piece and have somehow gotten away with calling it Love.