Yesterday afternoon I got into a heated discussion with members of the writers group I attend, about self-censorship in regard to the possibility of offending someone's religious beliefs. The argument was not about me, but about another member of the group who I was defending.
The point was made that we all self-censor to a degree, that none of us reveals the deep, dark secrets lurking inside us. I responded, "What do you want me to say? That I want to slaughter my family with an ax? That no matter how much I talk about love, I have so much rage and hated, frustration and resentment, that I want to shoot up a schoolyard with an automatic assault rifle? That if I had the money I'd hire some goons to drag every kid who bullied me in fifth grade with a black bag over their head to an abandoned warehouse where I could beat them to death with a lead pipe? That I want to watch my wife do it with a donkey? That I want my wife to watch me do it with a donkey?
I think I'm pretty out there with my writing. That I reveal a lot of my inner thoughts, no matter how personal or potentially embarrassing. That, if you'll pardon the pun, I'm an open book. That I do this in the meager hope that someone in turmoil or need will find hope or the strength to keep on living for another day knowing they are not alone in their thoughts.
I was then accused (again back to the religious thing) of not being a spiritual person because I do not blindly believe in an omnipresent, omniscient, triune God. I responded by saying that after everything I've read, and everything I've said during the last year week in and week out you don't find spirituality in my writing, in my words, in me? And I was promptly answered with a resounding, "NO."
Frankly this surprised the hell out of me, and I was further told that the use of the word hell was offensive to them. It's okay for them to say I'm going to hell for not accepting Jesus Christ (whom I greatly admire as a teacher and a prophet, and whose words and works I strive to emulate) as my savior, but if I say to hell with it, I'm a blasphemer.
After the meeting broke up, my son came to collect me, and as I transferred into the car and settled into my seat, I glanced up and saw the friend I had been supporting standing outside my window. I rolled it down and he looked at me and said, "What the hell was that?" I shook my head and said, "I don't know, man." We remained silent for a moment, and I asked, "Are you coming back?" and he said, "At this point, I don't know." I told him, "Well if you want to keep coming, I'll support you, but if not, I think I'm done." We agreed to keep in touch.
I have enjoyed the writers group. I always said that if my local library started a writers group I would support it. It inspired me to write, knowing I had a forum to present and discuss my work, and that of other writers in my community. That it got me out of the house once a week. And in all honesty, it was fun showing off.
I received an email this morning from one of the members who had taken offense at what my friend wrote, which, by the way, was merely a light-hearted and humorous retelling of an incident from his military high school days, where he mocked a teacher about a bible assignment. I guess it should be mentioned that he and I are the token Jews in a Christian biased community.
The email said that after the blow up, my friendship was important to her and she wants to meet at my home to discuss things privately. Since she told me point blank that my morality, that my charity, meant nothing to her or to God as a sign of my spirituality, why should I feel any sense of obligation to respond?
I have always shied away from groups because inevitably politics and the herd mentality take over. I have noted that my life is a series of expansions and retrenchments. I put myself out there, accept commitments and follow through on them, usually at my own emotional and financial expense, and then I pull back, and if you'll pardon the pun again, regroup.
Next Monday I have a legitimate doctor's appointment, and will not be able to attend the meeting. I think I need a week off to catch a breath anyway. Will I return to the writers group? Well, all I can truthfully say is that I don't know how the story ends.
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