Church Guilt: An Itemized List

Author's Note:  After reading Linda Klein's book, 'Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement that Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free', I felt seen.  (Highly recommended read, especially for 90's youth group girls!)  I immediately wanted to discuss my religious experience in a similar fashion: Writing from the discerning perspective of total immersion in church culture followed by LOTS of processing time.  To be clear, when speaking about "church," I don't mean Jesus.  I don't mean my relationship with my parents or with a specific denomination.  Church is the religious structure, the capital "I" Institution, constructed around the teachings of Jesus.  Sometimes this structure makes Jesus more accessible for more people.  And other times it regulates contact with Him to the privileged few.  For those of you nodding your heads already, I hope you feel seen, understood, and validated through these words.  Let's do this-

Did anyone else's childhood feature a weekly AWANA program?  It was my Wednesday church experience.  Core memories include reciting Bible verses, playing dodgeball, and painstakingly constructing pinewood derby cars.  Also, a particular "devotional" time remains firmly lodged in my brain.  The lesson opened with our AWANA leader detailing the job duties of a train station manager.  This particular manager's position was unique because it required scheduling and physically operating the movements of a drawbridge to provide safe passage for daily trains and the occasional boat.  The station manager's son, a toddler obsessed with all things train and transportation, begged his daddy to let him come to work.  Finally the station manager relented and allowed his son to tag along on -what promised to be- a slow work day with only one scheduled train.  Notwithstanding, the toddler was mesmerized by his father's workplace; he happily observed boats below, gently fingered the lever for the bridge, and gazed at the scheduling book filled with times and numbers.  The manager even took his son out to investigate the big machinery that made the bridge open and close. The day flew by and it was time for the much anticipated train to come.  The manager had his son help pull the bridge's lever and then he carefully monitored the displays, ensuring a smooth transition as the bridge slowly lowered into place.  During those moments of scrutiny, his toddler sneaked out of the station to examine the huge gears of the bridge in motion.  The small boy couldn't resist the moving metal parts.  As the train approached and the bridge nearly finished its decent, the manager saw his precious son crawling amongst the innerworkings of the bridge's gears.  He had a split second choice: Stop the bridge from closing and save his son -or- Allow his son to be crushed and save everyone on the passenger train.  And you know what he chose.  The train continued its journey unimpeded and the distraught manager caught glimpses of the totally oblivious passengers inside.  He couldn't help but scream from the station, "WHY ARE YOU JUST SITTING THERE!!  DON'T YOU KNOW MY SON DIED SO YOU COULD LIVE?!?!"

Okay.  Let's recap what this parable *actually told* a bunch of elementary schoolers: An unwitting toddler had death imposed on him by his father.  He, the toddler, had no choice in the matter.  This sacrificial death happened so train passengers could stay alive.  God, the Father, was angry and heartbroken about being forced to do this.  So-Jesus HAD to die because of me.  It's my fault and God is mad at me for it.  I boarded the train by being born, essentially making my life equivalent to His son's death.  That's a deep wound for a child to carry.  But here's what I internalized most: I am wrong.  Me.  

These days churches seem to be employing a much more loving approach to the gospel, which is a relief....and -IMHO- way more appropriate for sharing about the life of Jesus.  Perhaps sometimes it goes a little too far.  David and I used to joke about the popularity of "boyfriend Jesus," as it wasn't clear if certain worship music was written for a savior or suitor.  But at least we're in the correct aisle at the supermarket; there are worse things than erring towards extra-lovey love when talking about JC.  For example, here's the chorus from a 1994 contemporary Christian hit, Can You Still Feel the Nails by artist Ray Boltz:

… Does He still feel the nails
Every time I fail?
Does He hear the crowd cry, "Crucify" again?
Am I causing Him pain?
Then I know I've got to change
'Cause I just can't bear the thought of hurting Him

Wow, if you weren't already repenting, now's the time.  Yikes.  For a hot blooded feeler such as myself, the guilt was (still is!) a full-time job.  There were so many opportunities to mess up: Missing a morning quiet time.  Thinking (or saying!) a "swear."  Not evangelizing to un-churched friends. The possibility of unconfessed sin blocking access to Jesus.  Not reading the Word regularly.  Failing to stand up for my beliefs.  Allowing my purity to be tainted somehow.  The list went on.  For a person told that she didn't have to earn her salvation through action, it got confusing. Language was very black and white.  Sanctified or Sinful.  Right or Wrong.  Sacred or Secular.  Mind of the Spirit or Mind of the flesh.  Believer or Unbeliever.  There needed to be yes or no answers for all things, every situation. Undefined gray areas left room for compromise.  Or doubt.

The horrific Columbine school shooting happened the year I graduated high school.  America hadn't experienced this type of tragedy before and the world was in shock.  Cassie Bernall, one of the victims that day, was shot in the head after affirming belief in God.  A modern martyr.  Suddenly there was a push in youth groups to have students seriously evaluate their relationship with Jesus.  If we wouldn't "die for God," how could we possibly "live for Him?"  This was the line-in-the-sand approach to faith we were given.  Everything or nothing.  Doubt was the unspoken prayer request of sins.  So bad you didn't want to name it in front of others.  The "d" word eventually tagged on to the sinner's prayer as a preliminary question.  As in: Do you believe -without a shadow of a doubt- that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?  (PS Neither the sinner's prayer, or the supplemental "shadow of a doubt" quandary, reside within the pages of the Bible.  This phrasing was constructed by the church.  So, there's that.)  One week when David retrieved E from his classroom, the Sunday school teacher expressed concern that Elijah didn't answer a hearty "Yes" to the aforementioned question.  He.Was.Five.  At this point in his personal development, E was convinced the Cars' movie characters -yes, the cartoon ones- simply existed on the part of the planet where his Uncle Scott lived.  (Scott was teaching English in Vietnam at the time.)  And clearly that's why we didn't cross paths with Mater on our way to school in the morning.  Yeah.  Obviously a faith statement of this kind is entirely too advanced (and, in my perspective, too dogmatic) to be appropriate for a child.  But what about adults?  The phrasing alone is enough to make a potential convert second guess themselves.  Because today's faith forecast may be 100% chance of belief with zero confusion clouds in sight, but when the storms surface -and they WILL- what does a dark doubt thunderhead say about the depth of a person's conviction?  Such a restrictive profession of faith leaves no room for the stumbling uncertainty that haunts our hardest times.  It's a catch 22 that discourages (even condemns) authenticity when hurting people need it most. 

Do yourself a favor and follow @blackliturgies on Instagram

 

Later in life, discovering the presence of multiple approaches to Christianity was a breath of fresh air.  The conservative atmosphere of my church and private school/college encounters led me to believe that Jesus was the only way....and that literal translation of the Bible was the only way, 7 day creation was the only way, certain baptism practices were the only way, women as secondary teachers in ministry was the only way, and so on.  I find the person of Jesus and His teaching to be revolutionary, constructive, and animating.  But when churches start attaching doctrine -based on an extrapolation of Scripture- to the gospel, their belief barnacles can grow parasitic enough to suck the vitality right out of His message.

Despite my faith evolution through the years, one of the more difficult religious tenets to overcome is the "everything happens for a reason" mentality.  Although that particular phrase does not appear in the Bible, many Christians believe having a Sovereign God means every.single.thing. that happens is ordained by Him.  There are no mistakes.  Your burnt toast is teaching you some sort of lesson.  So, pretty much, everything DOES happen for a reason.....and it's probably a spiritual one.  Back when David and I were struggling through infertility, I asked our Bible study leader to please do a lesson about the difference between God's discipline in a life of sin, the trials/hardship/tribulation meant to increase a believer's maturity, and normal consequences that accompany existence in a fallen, imperfect world.  I poured over New Testament passages about these subjects.  There had to be a reason we couldn't get pregnant; how was God edifying us through this circumstance?  While attending church, family friends were ambushed over a similar issue.  A fellow parishioner confronted them, claiming the medical needs of their child resulted from "unconfessed sin" in the parents' (our friends!) hearts.  Even typing that sentence makes me feel physically ill.  Not many evangelicals outright claim credence in the "prosperity gospel" movement, but -when circumstances fall to either end of the terrific/terrible spectrum- these same persons are quick to credit God for the good in their life (or the bad in someone else's).

I guess what I'm saying is: When you experience a surprise, answer-to-prayer, special testimony video level of miracle pregnancy and THEN THAT BABY DIES, church people don't know how to process it.  To be fair, David and I didn't know how to process it either.  Still don't.  Assurances that Margot's death was "part of God's plan" -or- "a piece of our testimony" only drove the knife in deeper.  The foundational framework of faith, of my worldview, disintegrated overnight.  Having been "coached" in my innate wrongness from a young age, I obviously blamed myself.  The grief was immense, blotting out all else.  David fell into the unaddressed church void of men's suffering.  Because for as excited as Christians claim to be about heaven, they sure as hell suck at handling (and helping others handle) the death part of getting there.

Hear me out: Life and death and life after death are key components of the Christian faith.  Meaning Easter is pretty much the superbowl of Jesus holidays. A guaranteed victory where churches pre-game WEEKS in advance with egg hunts, cantatas, and palm branches.  Because it's easy to celebrate a resurrection. A restored relationship, completed adoption, renewed wedding vows, or overcoming a disease. What about death though? So many cultures honor their deceased in (what Americans would consider) an "extended" fashion: A year of still setting them a place at the table, a holiday physically spent in the cemetery- decorating graves and celebrating those who have passed, lighting memorial candles at a certain time or in a designated spot in your home. Most evangelical churches pigeonhole (or outright dismiss) these sort of traditions as sentimentality at their best and idolatry at their worst. Because Heaven. It has become the church's spiritual bypass for dealing with grief. We are told to rejoice, take comfort, our loved ones are in a better place! But the truth is that here -on earth- my daughter is dead and continues being dead. The hope of Heaven (and, to be clear, I'm really hoping for Heaven) doesn't change the razor's edge of those facts, though it occasionally pads the wound. In real Easter time, Jesus' friends had no clue about the triumph right about the corner: Their best friend had just been publicly murdered.  On "good" Friday they were holed up in a dark space, silently processing the horror they'd witnessed, and figuring out how they were going to survive. These situations cannot be handled by hot meals and "praying for you" texts alone. In her grief, Mary Magdalene went back to the graveyard.  Can I tell you about the day AFTER a burial? It's not cute. Nobody is saying your loved one's name. There is a pile of fresh dirt strewn with picked-over flower arrangements. There may be a tiny marker acknowledging your person. YOUR person. The one who is in the ground. Or, in Mary's case, behind a literal tombstone. She returned to grieve, as close as possible, next to her dear friend's body.  His corpse.  An ugly word for an ugly reality.  But she still came. And, if you believe the resurrection story, she was the first to glimpse the risen Christ. Not because she went to church or said the right prayer or acted the appropriate way. But because she brought flowers to a crash site. The scene of the crime. She came ready to navigate wreckage, clearing aside shattered glass and blood, for proximity to Jesus. And she got it. The Divine showed up in the dirt, the muddy aftermath of a burial. I'd encourage the church to take up THIS mantle: Stop merely talking about the hope of Heaven and actually BE the hope of heaven. The promise of a beautiful forever shouldn't eclipse the tangible and emotional needs people have today. By laying down religious requirements, you free your hands for actual service.  Perhaps we start where Jesus did that Easter morning- Lean into the deep well of a another's suffering and call them back to themselves by simply whispering their name.

 " Mary stood outside the tomb, crying. As she was crying, she stooped to look into the {empty} tomb....She turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know it was Jesus.  'Woman,' Jesus said to her, 'why are you crying? Who is it that you’re seeking?'  Supposing he was the gardener, she replied, 'Sir, if you’ve carried him away, tell me where you’ve put him, and I will take him away.' Jesus said to her, 'Mary.'  Turning around, she said to him in Aramaic, 'Rabboni!'—which means 'Teacher.'....Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, 'I have seen the Lord!'"  --John 20:11, 14-16, 18a CSB