I call myself a United Methodist, but most Methodists wouldn’t believe what I believe.
This I believe—I was once an on-fire Christian who loved her life, her God and doing good in the world. I still am. But I no longer believe that only the confessors of Jesus as God go to heaven.
This I believe—I was once in a country of mostly people who didn’t believe as I did. And what they believed still worked. My Sunday School teachers, after belligerent questioning, would admit pitifully that these were the misguided damned. Even if they hada doctrine that was as justifiable as the Bible, practices of disciplined prayer and faith that moved mountains—they still damned as murderers and traitors.
This I believe—I fell in love. His book wasn’t my book, his language wasn’t my language, and he was a fan of Enrique Inglesias. Ouch. But we climbed a castle together, I drew his portrait and he showed me the garden around his home. He stayed up with me all night, fixed my musical instrument and carried my bags, even when he had class the next day in another city.
This I believe—There was a man named Rumi and with his friend Shamz, tapped into the love and lifeblood of God and crafted it into stories and poetry. They weren’t Christian either, but they believe what I believe—God loves those who love him and want to live well. Period.
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