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Me, of little faith
The need for approval hums a timeless tune that resounds through the core of the human experience…
Acknowledge me, affirm me, love me, tell me I’m enough.
At the crux of the matter, it’s what we yearn for. As a writer, I can act like I don’t care what other people think about my work. Maybe you can relate. But unless the definition of being a ‘writer’ means ‘writing in a journal’, we both know that someone else (maybe even a stranger —gasp!) might see our work.
This need for approval gets me by the throat all the time.
It wasn’t too bad when I was largely writing things of a secular spiritual nature — things that anyone with a spiritual bone in their body could agree with without too much trouble. But when I turned the corner back towards the Christian faith, things got really shaky.
See, for many years, I questioned whether or not I was a Christian. Because if ‘Christians’ were the people in suits in front of huge auditoriums claiming they had all the answers about how to get into a golden, whitewashed country club in the sky after we croak — I was NOT one of them.
For years, I judged Christians. I lumped them all into the same bag. In my eyes, claiming you were a Christian meant you were also fundamentalist conservative¹, racist, anti-semitic, homophobic, and xenophobic with…
