I was brought up to believe in a God with flowing robes and a beard. He looked to be in his sixties – maybe seventies but he was a in good shape. He was white with long white hair and he did not look pleased. Actually, he looked kind of pissed.

For some reason I never understood, he liked us to pin little plastic cameos, called scapulars, to our undershirts and whenever we went to church the girls – not the boys – had to cover our heads. Our God was big on keeping score. Apparently he counted every single sin that everyone had ever committed and he broke them into two groups – venial sins: little sins (like “borrowing” your sister’s Girl Scout sash because she had more badges than you and telling everyone it was yours) and mortal sins, like killing someone – even Hitler – for which there was no redemption and you would burn in hell for eternity.

Depending on the offense and the priest that happened to be in the confessional that day, you had to say a bunch of Hail Mary’s to get your soul off the hook. This God, whom I had been tip-toeing around all my life, was the One I was supposed to ask for help – the One who would help me climb out of my black hole, keep me sober and calm my mania.

I was screwed.

Still, I knew it was going to take a power greater than me to get me through, make me healthy and maybe even happy. My best efforts had failed – I knew that. The medications and therapy eventually helped but before they did, I needed faith to believe that they would work. And after the depression lifted I needed faith that if I ever slipped into that black hole again, took a drink or lost control of my mouth, body and brain, I could count on some kind of higher power to help me out.

Luckily I had been introduced to a 12-Step program which gave me permission to believe in a God of my understanding, not the understanding of some guys in robes who are sure they knew how many Hail Mary’s would redeem me for wishing the sisters at school would be transferred to a convent in Biafra where they could feed all those starving kids who made me feel so guilty for my bologna and Velveeta sandwhich.

I came to believe that a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity – which wasn’t too difficult because I knew I couldn’t do it. But then I had to turn my will and my life over to the care of God, AS I UNDERSTOOD HIM. This wasn’t easy. I had been driving the bus for many years and I didn’t want to be a passenger. I didn’t want to trust another driver to get me where I wanted to go without getting into an accident or running out of gas.

Even when I would occasionally let God drive the bus, I sat right behind her, giving her directions and telling her how fast to go. This God of my understanding didn’t get mad – even when I told her to get out of the driver’s seat because I couldn’t stand how slow she was driving or that he had missed a turn. He didn’t get off the bus, just got up out of the driver’s seat and sat quietly, patiently behind me until I got tired. Then he took the wheel again.

This went on for a really, really long time. Finally, I got sick of driving altogether. I decided it was more fun looking out the window, not knowing where we were going but having a helluva good time on the way. We talked and joked. Sometimes I ranted or whined. She just kept driving and I figured she knew where she was going. We have never run out of gas or had and accident while he has been behind the wheel.

That’s pretty much my relationship with my God today. She drives and I look out window, listen to the radio, talk and sometimes even listen. Sometimes we stop at churches. I like the church that has the women priests and a gay bishop. I am happy not driving. In fact, I hate driving and wouldn’t think of driving drunk. We go up and down mountains but I know things will level out.

Amen.

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From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (January 11, 2010)

    Last reviewed: 11 Jan 2010