Closet Christian

Jesus shares a space in my kitchen cupboard with the flour and sugar.  Sometimes the cinnamon hits him in the eye.

When the spices are particulary unorderly it resembles a voudou altar.

At the very least I can be accused of idolatry.

So what?

I had nowhere else to put him after the Mormon missionaries gave him to me for safekeeping.  I couldn't bring myself to pitch him in the trash.  Briefly considered recyling.  And didn't particulary want him on my wall.

The cutlery drawer was running out of room.

So that he ended up tucked away in my kitchen cupboard, supposedly out of the way.

And now I see him every day.  Regularly.  Often even.

He is very reassuring.  The peaceful, pretty, glowing, blonde Jesus that my Catholic grandmother introduced me to.

And, although I don't speak to him, he gives me a feeling of calm when I reach past him for the flour.

He's my little secret, tucked away for me.

So that I don't need to be saved by that guy demanding I come up to the altar and publicy profess my faith.   That guy who lured me in there, with my five kids, with a snazzy Hip-Hop version of the Christmas story and then proceeded to call me a sinner and imply that those of us who didn't follow his rules for following Jesus weren't as cool as those who did. 

As if I need to join a church that reminds me of highschool. 

(The Hip-Hop story was great, by the way, thanks.)

I do not know that I am Christian.  I do not accept Christianity's view that there is only one path to salvation and I am not entirely comfortable with the intense missionary zeal of Christianity, this need to make others believe the same way we do.  (I DO admire the immense work accomplished by missionaries and their devotion.  It was this guy on the pulpit recently telling me I was no good unless I signed up for his particular brand of Christianity that really pissed me off.)

And so I keep my Jesus in my closet. He reminds me that we are all brothers and sisters.   He reminds me to love.