Solitary Confinement
The farther I slide into unbelief, the more I find myself literally needing to be creative. The problem is I’ve started dozens of projects without bringing any of them to fruition. Why? I’m overwhelmed by passion I simply cannot express. Words fail. Images fail. I can thrash about on the guitar, but other than primal screaming, songs fail. It makes me long for a Fender Telecaster, a huge Marshall stack and a great crunch chord.
Weirdest of all is the isolation I feel. Even with those who are, at best, marginal believers I have no common ground. Faith brings order to their world; unbelief throws it into chaos. Staunch believers fall into three categories: Those well-meaning folks (and I say this with no malice or sarcasm) who are concerned for the health of my soul, those who feel I have betrayed them in betraying the faith, and those who have simply written me off as one of the damned and can’t wait to see me fry. But with all three groups, any conversation that turns in that direction results in bristling backs and hard feelings. Not that I want to further alienate them, but suddenly nothing is off limits; I’m allowed to think freely and am not constrained by a certain mindset or worldview. To keep from hurting others I find myself making ludicrous small talk or saying nothing at all.
Those who have not lived in the Southern Bible Belt have no clue how deeply the rift alienates. As I am fond of quoting, Walker Percy calls the Deep South a “Christ-haunted place.” Never is it more apparent than when one steps out of the status quo and calls everything he once believed into question.
Some of this I release while listening to music, and right now I wish I could hear eerie circus music, but I don’t know where to find any.
I hope this doesn’t sound like whining.
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