Faith, Bourbon, and Swearing

When I talk about grace, sometimes I get a look from someone. As though I’m entering into dangerous territory. As though its too messy, to sweaty, too corporal.

I was raised Catholic. Our god was one of letters and words. And god knows, as a writer, I love words. But Catholics, we love our theory. Just wars, ethics, and all. We love the esoteric. We can speak of how god moves a river, but not how we feel about that.

I spent time as a Friend, as a quaker. The idea of direct connection with god worked for me. It spoke to me. The idea that I could be called to give a message just as others could, it worked. Sitting in meetinghalls in Georgia, listening to words different from mine. Listening to poets discuss faith and beauty, and how a sunrise over cement buildings in Atlanta reminded them beauty was always present, well, that works for anyone, right? Except, it was just words. Words spoken into a quiet hall.

Up north, here, its like a dry county. As if we evaporated the sweat and tears out of our faith experience. Often, when speaking of faith, people are surprised by me. Law degree, former litigator, sassy feminist. People like me don’t talk about callings. We don’t speak of chasing the light.

But my faith isn’t dry. And it shouldn’t be. The faith that called to me, when I was in a dark place, a place where the constant pounding of anxiety, the rapid beating of my heart, the never-ending loop in my brain reminding me of all the things I’ve done wrong and all the things I didn’t accomplish, that faith was not words. That faith was not theory.

That faith was felt.

Felt in my body, in my heart, in my hands finally unclenching. It was felt in the ability, after doing battle with an eating disorder all summer, in the ability to enjoy food. My faith takes me out of words and theory and thoughts into the ever present everyday. It takes me into the small things, the sweetness of honey, my cat’s impossibly small nose.

It may be a bit uncouth to speak of faith, of callings, of those who can honestly say they’ve been saved. It may be a bit unsavory or even impolite.

I am a polite, well mannered person.

I am also polite while I drink bourbon and swear.

And I am polite when I say please and thank you to a god who does not relent in her attempts to reach you.

When I drink bourbon, I feel the rush of warmth of ingesting it from my mouth through my chest and into my belly. There’s no denying it. Why drink bourbon if not to feel the heat?

The same is true for swearing. Maybe the English swear only with words, but for me, I tend to throw a swear at someone. Leaning into it. Digging my heels in. Last night, when my computer decided to upgrade three things at once, there was much swearing in many directions. It’s possible I aimed my swears at the outlet in the wall, as a security upgrade occurred when I left the computer plugged in over night. It’s possible I may have turned towards the west, aiming swears towards Redmond, Washington, like a muslim aims her prayers towards Mecca. My swears last night were full bodied too.

Anger, frustration, swears they originate in the belly. They long to rise up and be let out. They want to be acknowledged, felt and validated.

The same is true for faith. If you are only thinking of faith, instead of feeling it, then can it work on you? If your prayers are soft unoriginal words submitted to God, like so many lines in your notebook in school, then how can she find you? How can she direct you?

No, faith, like bourbon and swearing, needs to be a whole body experience.