Mary Oliver
It’s easy to laugh at the delusional behavior of fanatics who’ve thrown away everything in anticipation of Christ’s oh-so-specific return for them. A couple of weeks ago, I found a half-sheet of paper shoved under my Welcome mat. Evidently, someone, or a group of someones, had felt an imperative to canvas my neighborhood with a modest warning of Jesus’s impending return on May 21, 2011 (at 6 p.m. to be exact). The humble typewritten notice informed me that, although time was short, I still had time to prepare for said return. Whether by “prepare” the writer meant for me to vacuum my house and bake a cake or to get my House in Order by saying “the sinner’s prayer” (a term that is unique to Christian culture, yet, strangely, never endorsed by Jesus himself) was not entirely clear. But based on what I’ve heard in the aftermath of the May 21 Disappointment, whether by leaving their marriages, quitting their jobs, or standing on public street corners, shouting warnings at drivers and pedestrians, thousands of people “prepared” in ways that suggest they took this prophecy quite seriously. I, on the other hand, upon reading my hand-delivered warning, crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Unless Jesus himself directly texts me with a VIP message along the lines of “Fyi: will b coming bk on [insert specific date/time here]. B there/B sq” then I’ll just keep living my daily life, teaching students the importance of reading, thinking, and writing clearly; reexamining a million certitudes that once defined my existence; and spending time with family and friends who have become my family. If I must “do” anything to be ready for Christ’s return (if/when the time does indeed come), then I’m altogether sunk.
I learned decades ago—the hard way— that living my life as if Jesus might show up at any second was not conducive to my mental, physical, or spiritual health. During the 1970s, I was caught up in Christian Culture’s all-consuming assurance (or threat, if you will) that Jesus was bound to turn up when I least expected it, like a thief in the night. Such an analogy scared the crap out of me. I mean, who anticipates a break-in? After all, what kind of guy breaks-in? Certainly not someone who loves me and wants me to love him in return. But fear has forever been the fuel that propels religion, and to a fearful girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved and to belong (to someone, almost anyone), this fear-inducing theology worked its magic. Believing that my fiery little Pentecostal preacher (an uneducated, yet successful capitalist in his own right), like red-faced, locust-eating prophets of old, was privy to God’s top-secret intelligence, induced me to lie awake on countless nights, like a caffeinated meerkat on sentry-duty. If Jesus were going to break in at any moment, not only must I clutch my salvation with a death-grip, but I must also marry and have at least one baby before his return. I didn’t mean to imply I wasn’t thrilled by the notion of being caught up in the clouds with Jesus, but doing so with my virginity intact was something akin to kicking the bucket shortly before winning the Publishers Clearinghouse. I mean, yeah, word is that heaven is paved with streets of gold, but man, to have that van pull up in my driveway, the balloons, the oversized check? Are you kidding me?
So I lost a lot of sleep. Not like a normal person suffering from bouts of insomnia, but like a crazy person whom, desiring a taste of sanity, swallows an entire bottle of crazy pills. Each time the church door swung open on Wednesday nights, there I was, front and center, listening to my perpetually angry pastor yell about Daniels seventy weeks and creatures with heads of lions and eagles. He pounded on his lectern, like a trigonometry professor trying to pound impossible concepts into a classroom full of lunkheads. His formulae seemed convoluted to me, but what did I know? He was the expert, after all, and I was afraid. Very afraid. Nights following such sermons left me lying awake for hours, terrified. Compounding my sense of panic was the long shadow of guilt. How dare I not be atwitter with joy over the notion that Jesus might show up at any moment? How dare I desire a husband, home, and children of my own in comparison to the glory that awaited me? How could I even *think* about needing to get to Disneyland in the near future lest I never again were to visit The Happiest Place on Earth? What was The Happiest Place on Earth in comparison to the ambiguously rad Happiest Place in the Universe? Lying alone on my percale sheets, the ones that were strewn with tiny yellow rosebuds, I’d scold myself: What a shallow, trifling young girl I was, to desire the garbage of this world’s best offerings rather than appreciating the unspeakable treasures that awaited me. In addition to losing a lot of sleep, I not only surrendered peace of mind, but decided I did not need to make a plan for my future. At least not a plan that extended beyond getting hitched and impregnated. Plans were for people who had no faith.
More than thirty-five years have passed since those days when Fear was my Warden and God was a Thief. It took me decades, but I finally made a plan and a life that I love. I am no longer ashamed to say that, due to my somewhat limited vision (I speak in metaphorical, not literal, terms), I am in no hurry to exit this planet. Yes, it is full of horrors, unspeakable horrors, but oh, it is also brimming with glory. I no longer know what I once knew about making myself ready for God’s Grand Entrance, but I’d wager my life that it has little, if anything, to do with parroting a manmade monologue designed to make me believe I have sealed some sort of deal with God despite my day to day neglect of the suffering world around me. I hope, along with my debilitating fear and bad theology, I’ve also managed to reduce the level of moral superiority that I clutched like a Bible. Not long ago, I told one of my daughters, “If anything should happen to me suddenly or unexpectedly, I want you to know and to believe that I have never been happier in my life. And I’d like if you could make that clear at whatever sort of memorial service might be held on my account.”
Decades since approaching life like a victim of Jesus and circumstances, I have come to love both life and Jesus much better. As for being “ready” for his return, I’m no longer certain what that means. I like to think my salvation is part of my daily routine. Whatever it may mean (and I don’t think any of us can really know), I believe it is either active and continuous, or it is nothing worth having. I’m hoping—trusting—for the first option, and far more alive than I ever was when living by the cryptic interpretations of men who had much to gain by controlling their flock (particularly the ewes within said flock). Disasters of biblical proportions are happening all around me, far more than during the 1970s when, in haste, I marched down the aisle to marry a stranger with whom I’d make babies and mayhem. I’m not waiting on my rooftop nor stuffing flyers under Welcome mats. I’m merely living and loving my life, better on some days than others.
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