Unashamed

Here at Carleton we have a publication called "Unashamed"--it's supposed to contain an open discussion of faith. Although I do not approve of the title (to me it implies that there might be a reason for shame), I squeeked out a mini-essay last night a few minutes before the submission deadline. The prompt was "Labels of faith... are you Labeled?"

So here it is. Now I need to start a paper. That's due in twelve hours.

...

There's something very human about putting labels on things. Maybe our tendency to classify the universe is buried somewhere in our neural circuits, for it's apparent that we draw great comfort from our labels and sweeping generalizations: the poison arrow frog, like the common toad, is an amphibian. China is a country in Asia. The people there are Chinese. I am an American. My classmates are Juniors. Some of them are Christians, and some of them are Atheists. Every one has a label.

Now, my plan is not to tell you that these labels are unfair stereotypes that unduly strip individuals of their essence. Stereotypes, after all, are just permutations of language, and I love language. Language makes poetry.

I do, however, think that there's a disconnect. We create linguistic conventions and hasty judgments about people and objects and everything that might possibly matter. These words and generalizations may be helpful, or even beautiful, but they always fall short of what's real. Does "mountain" really fit into eight letters? "Joy" into three?

Therefore, in my search for truth, I often find that I'm grasping for the grayness between labels and the emptiness that shimmers between words. This makes things confusing. I resolved last fall to devise a concise statement to divulge regarding my religious inclinations, but now I'm beginning to wonder if it can ever be that simple. For now, I will tell you this:

I'm a religion major: I write essays about faith. I've spent countless bewildered hours trying to fathom diverse manifestations of beauty and that ephemeral force that mobilizes hearts en masse. I articulate with inevitable labels why Israel is soaked with blood, how the ocean makes me feel, and exactly what constitutes a prayer.

I'm a human being: I struggle to compress my identity into a flat monochrome of text, an introduction, or a simple "yes" or "no" response to the question "Do you believe in God?"

I recognize the irony; I realize that I'm chasing down fog banks with butterfly nets. Sometimes my failure--this beautiful failure, that, in my mind, defines the human condition--makes me feel like crying.

But more often I laugh.