What Is Faith?

The mural over the Westhope sanctuary porch to portray the land, referencing some of the Muwekma culture, centering on Spirit

River Brown
Congregation Member

In this moment of seeking the presence of God, I trust we can be our authentic selves:

Loving mercy, doing justice and walking humbly. I submit my story with prayer that Spirit

will fill our souls with Love that cannot be overcome by institutions or politics.

In 1980, I was enthused over salvation. With volunteers, I painted a church social hall. My

part was portraying the adults and children of the congregation, as if they were in the new

heaven and earth. The founding pastor, Gloria 1, painted the portrait of a glowing Christ to

preside high on the end wall; a benign, welcoming Jesus, rendered on canvas and affixed

to the mural.

Gloria was a New Age leader before Jesus appeared to her saying, “Do this for Me.” Many

of the folks who had gathered to create a metaphysical center left. The few who stayed

were baptized and began studying the Bible.

So, after my husband and I moved up “on the land,” renovating a two-story carriage

garage on the edge of a creek ravine, I found time to paint. I did a portrait of Jesus, partly

bare-chested like a prophet. Gloria 1 criticized it for looking too fleshly, not spiritual. So, I

put a robe on him. I also did a brush painting self-portrait that I didn’t show anyone. I was

naked, kneeling, weeping in a rain of repentance.

Later, I painted an oil of Christ bearing down on a white horse as a conqueror. I had to

switch perspectives and view it riding with the “army” behind Jesus. My “end times” beliefs

portrayed what many Christian nationalists believe: They are the saved and the others are

the damned and Christ will come sort it all out.

I forced myself to accept this chasm between heaven and hell. The teachings centered on

dichotomies: the flesh vs. the spirit; the world vs. God’s kingdom; read the Bible literally vs.

metaphorically. Discipleship, with the first pastor aimed for love, so she disciplined with kid

gloves. After her death, the second pastor took over with boxing gloves.

But my deepest pain was the divide between the saved and the damned. The signature of

fundamentalism is making a personal pact with Jesus in order to receive salvation. I

desperately wanted my loved ones to say the prayer, to take the step, to ask Jesus into

their heart. I was in agony over dual futures.

My childhood influence: My dad was playful and charming unless I disobeyed. Then he

was harsh and punitive. When I was young, we frequently visited Dad’s retired missionary

parents at their Arkansas home. In their church I heard of hell, mentioned as a real place,

you know, like a nearby town in Arkansas.

Mom had frequent hospital stays so I’d be sent to Grandma Lady Brown. She loved to hear

me read from the Bible. I’d chose Proverbs, but she also asked me to read from

Revelations. That gave me the willies. How that book made the canon cut makes no

sense to me now, unless it was to increase the fear power of the church.

Back to the 80’s Bible church: I heard Jerry Falwell at a large Baptist church. He had

traction with conservative churches and Republicans through the Moral Majority.

Advocating purity, Falwell’s message was that it is the church’s job to clean up

Washington. This is where I began to identify with America’s national conversion as a

movement. After I went to Falwell’s talk, my Bible teacher told me I was a fundamentalist.

A what?

I thought God was calling us back to basics, to live the Bible - so I protested at abortion

clinics, voted Republican, criticized textbooks at my daughters’ schools, and considered

the liberal church apostate -- without any real info on what the liberal church was doing!

Make that...none.

The church leadership became more controlling. There were disagreements over land they

purchased. We devolved. Leaders condemned members and ejected them from the

church irrationally. It was a frightening pattern, because I didn’t have anywhere to go.

Gloria 2 made up things continually to correct members for. The day came when I showed

up at the church office, tired of weird corrections. My posture was upright, and I was like,

“Well, what now…? which was my ticket to excommunication. She said God was not

planting me there, slapped me so hard my glasses flew off and I stumbled as she shoved

me out the door.

My notion of “faith” then was: Obey the teachings/the doctrines of the church. Obey the

leaders. But, that’s how well-meaning folks get out on the skinny branches. That’s how

delusion works, dear friends. I tried to understand what was happening, but when you are

deluded, by definition you don’t understand.

After about 20 years - a stretch of not even thinking of church - I worked two jobs, bought

a rescue house to fix up, took my mother into my home. I taught on the east side at Mt.

Pleasant School District and part-time I was in leadership with the SJ writing project. I hit

bottom with my mother the day she binged on gin while I was on a hike with my daughters.

I came home to an incoherent woman on her face in a pool of blood. ER took her to the

closest trauma hospital where by morning they admitted her to ICU. She raved to every

staff person that this was my fault. I didn’t say a word. The monitors showed the alcohol

level in her bloodstream. But I made a decision there: I’m in the trauma ward. I’m here to

learn that I am not a bad person.

I got an EMDR doctor through Kaiser’s Chemical Dependency department for regular

trauma treatments, which did wonders over time.

After the ICU event, while Mom was in a care facility, I called my friend Katy. I told her I was

drowning. Her reply: “Your foot has just touched bottom and you are rising up for air...” I’d

worked for Katy at the district office. Sometimes, Katy and I went out for dinner and wine,

to talk about teaching and education and we often discussed spiritual things. Eventually I

trusted her enough to tell her bits of my cult experience. Before COVID, she invited me to

attend Westhope. Never any pressure. Once I went on my own, on the Sunday that Katy,

Clark and someone else became members of Westhope.

Then, I also hung out with Pam, weeding the labyrinth, sharing chapters from our lives or

talking about books we’d read. And I’d ask pastor Erik pointed questions once in a while, if I saw

him in the parking lot. I discovered from Erik’s messages and the classes he taught, a

key: The Bible begins with Original Blessing and Christ’s message echoes that of Original

Blessing. We are all created in the image of God. It’s not about original sin or

condemnation.

I am learning to faith, as a verb. When we act in faith, not out of fear or the need to be

right; we don’t shun people, or ghost groups, not even those who hold different

perspectives.

Art is part of my soul work. At Westhope we did a mural over the sanctuary porch to

portray the land, reference some of the Muwekma culture, centering on Spirit. Next, I

designed a Celtic cross, which we use for the website logo. I will transfer the revised

version onto a six-foot round. It will replace the large wooden cross on the west end of the

church. These projects are healing expressions for me.

What I have learned, the long way, is that active Faith is transforming: It lets our authentic

selves speak and act for our good and the good of others. We bless by letting go of ego

practices that entrap us. Faith is not about perfectionism. And so, I find myself moving into

conversation or situations with much less fear. Being more alive. Joy. Hallelujah!

My hope is that you have spiritual friends who remind you that you are indeed deeply

loved. [Take a pause: Let in the Love, breathe it in, let it hold you...] I’m deeply grateful to

learn practices that connect me with a living trust in a Loving God. That’s faith.

And that Love, the God who created everything, is for every single being.

I just don’t know how She does it!