It was easy for me, then, to
become cynical
about the faith that I was raised in, to punch the holes into the theology of the people I grew up with and spot the gaps in the preaching and methods, and point a finger of blame when «they» got it wrong, to separate myself from the culture and, like most kids raised by immigrant
parents (because, in a way, my
parents were like immigrants to this strange new land of Christianity), I took for granted my life in the new Kingdom, completely unable to imagine a life without freedom, without
joy, without Jesus.