So you ask me why I feel that I can't be a Good Girl in your faith.

And I tell you.

The virtues of my faith, whatever gods I'm pledged to, depend on me being free to make those crazy choices that but for command and free will would leave me hopelessly sin-struck. I have to be free to balance myself on that scissor-hinge between the letter and the spirit of the law, knowing that if, when, I slip, I'm cut, I'm rent in two.

Your faith seeks to provide me with safety, with firm lines outside of which I should not color. Your faith seeks to provide me with certainty. Your faith's rules are set for the lowest common denominator. And your faith knows that it's not for everyone. But they want everyone to try.

You've seen me dance along outside the lines of your faith, following an instinct that shows me the places where the cliff's overhang might cave in. This dance, the autonomy to take the risk and win the impossible, or take the risk and take the fall and face up to the Divine directly, is integral to me and my purpose in life. The benefits to others outweigh the risks to my soul. The lines your church draws, the helpful guarding railing sunk deep into the solid rock of the cliff, this far and no further, would stand between me and the Work I've pledged my life to.

And yet, the church whispers, try it. You might like it.

It's not a question of, does this woman know herself, her purpose, her soul enough to be told the purpose of the church, and to say no, that safety is not mine to seek. This church, it whispers, could be for everyone. We are all-encompassing. Try it. Try it and you may, I say. Shouldn't my oath's word be enough to demonstrate that I understand the purpose, I've seen the good and the evil it can accomplish, and I know the church would do irreparable harm to my self and my soul?

Try it. You might like it.