Rachel Held Evans
asked on her blog recently for people to comment on why they were a Christian. There were some great responses, including Ernie Bufflo
. Feeling inspired, I couldn’t help but add my own story to the pot.
photo © 2011 Philipp Antar | more info (via: Wylio)
My faith, like Rachel’s and “Ernie’s,” is tremendously a reflection of when, where and to whom I was born. I recently had to dig through church records to find the date of my baptism: March 24, 1985, not even 6 months after I was born. It was written in the records as nonchalantly as a weather report. Without knowledge or consent, adorable infant Cortney became adorable infant Christian Cortney. And there were scattered clouds with a high temperature of 55 and low of 40.
Except this post is about why I am a Christian and there’s a big difference between an acorn and an oak tree. Like my infant baptism, I’ve come to know Christ without my consent. Through friends that filled a need I didn’t know I had, through familiar hymns that bring me tears and through snot-nosed kids I traveled around the world to “teach,” Jesus shone through to me.
At some point a few years ago, I began to believe that God’s will for me included more joy and happiness than I could possibly create for myself. I can’t defend this idea except for the the fact that I’ve yet to be proven wrong. This doesn’t mean that tragedy is taken out of the equation, but as inspired by the cross, it does give me the strength to weather the storm and come out the better for it.
I used to tell people that I didn’t know if my faith begat my beliefs or my beliefs begat my faith and I’m okay with that. I champion critical thought thoroughly, like my liberal arts alma mater taught me. And I think religion and faith should be examined particularly critically. But I know my faith has been formed by an illogical blend of reason and intuition. How strange- there was this guy who lived 2,000 years ago, who said a lot of good and crazy things then acted out a lot of these good and crazy things, but then he died gruesomely, but was only dead for a sad few days because he rose again and lives on because or despite of the church. And I am a part of that church and the church is a part of me.
Because I never notice it until I see it in the rear-view mirror, but this is a life touched by a loving God.
(Does this read like the senseless rambling I feel like it turned into?)