Why I Hate Church: Part Four

From a humanly perspective the only reason I went back to the youth group was girls.  There were several who were kind and gave me attention.  They were reaching out to welcome the newcomer and their efforts paid off.  One young lady in particular caught my eye and my heart.  In the process of pursing her I became close with her family.  They “adopted” me as a new believer, and through their example of familial love I began to understand how faith played an important role in family life. 

They weren’t perfect by any means.  The mother was single, her husband left her for another woman, the children fought, siblings can be vicious, but at the end of the day what held them together was a grounded faith in Jesus.  It was this faith, which permeated their entire lives, that captured my heart more than anything else.  And though the heart of the young lady I pursued would always be elusive, I became life long friends with the family.

As a young believer it was important to connect with the larger body of Christ as a family, and I found that I spent more time with them then I did with my own.  That connection began to ground me in the things that were truly important, and yet as I struggled to allow God to forge a new person in me I experienced the difficulty in my changing values.

Before, relationships were about me, my desires, my feelings, and how they could satisfy my flesh.  As I explored relationships within the context of this new moral framework the harsh reality of my flesh became evident.  And because the person of my romantic interest held herself aloof I dated half the girls in the youth group, trying to fill a need that could only could be found in Christ.

The tug of war between what God was doing in me, and what my sinful flesh desired was a battle too great for a young man to endure.  Why would I give up on my hearts desire by denying that which I thought was what I wanted?  I had seen this turmoil play out in the lives of others.  I remember one young man who I looked up to as an example of Christian living only to find that when the girl of his affection broke it off he abandoned any semblance of faith. 

The church is a harsh bedfellow because in its promise of safety and security lays a chamber of horrors where the world of the flesh is peeled away.  However, what lies beneath is the image of God in Christ, and what better place for it to be revealed than in the safety of people who love and care for you.

Last night my family sat on the porch as the wind blew hard and the rain fell.  In a large tree in front of the house a squirrel built a nest in the crux of two branches.  We saw her sitting just outside the nest when the wind began to blow.  She disappeared and we marveled how she must be snuggled safely amidst the storm. 

I find it interesting how we fight for what we think is the best for our lives only to find the striving to be fruitless.  There came a time when my heart’s attraction finally gave me the attention I had longed for, only to find, in that brief moment of time, that our hearts were meant for others more subtle in the hand of God. 

“But you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out, “Abba! Father!”

Being adopted into a new family takes adjustment that can be painful, but if the pain is endured the outcome is glorious.  Of course that isn’t why I Hate Church.  I’m just saying… (Continued).  

Why I Hate Church: Part Three

Why would anyone want to go to church?  The week is busy enough; if Sunday morning is taken away that only leaves Saturday to sleep in and revive the body’s energy depleted cells.  What would possess a 9^th grade boy to answer in the positive his mother’s question, “Does anyone want to go to church with me?”  It wasn’t as if we had been going, and what was my mom’s sudden interest?  Whatever the reason we went and not just one Sunday, but for three Sundays in a row.

My mother grew up in the Methodist church, but she didn’t want to limit the possibilities of finding a church were she could be happy.  So, off to the Presbyterian Church the first week, the Methodist Church the next, and finally the Southern Baptist Church.  There wasn’t much difference that I could see, though the pastors in the first two wore robes and the songs more somber.  The Baptist church was a little livelier, but all in all they were…well, church, singing, preaching, and an offering plate.

Yet, out of the three churches only the Baptist church sent someone to visit us in our home.  The Pastor was a nice man with a broad smile.  I don’t recall what he talked about but he was warm and inviting.  He left some literature, which I never read, and encouraged us to attend his church again.  Not more than a day later another pastor from the Baptist Church called and wanted to stop by, this time to visit me.  All this attention seemed a little pushy.  They were like salesmen hocking their religious wares.  Pastor Larry Pritchett had the dubious honor of being responsible for the teenagers of the church, and probably dreaded visiting me as much I did his coming.  He too was friendly, and to my delight, didn’t stay long.  Like the pastor before him he invited me to attend a Wednesday night bible study.  Like that was ever going to happen.

It was bad enough I had given up my Sunday morning to attend their church, and now they were asking me to give up a Wednesday evening; and for what, to listen to another sermon?   Two Sundays went by and church became a distant memory.  I was back to enjoying a leisurely day with my horse.

Conspiracy is the word that comes to mind.  A friend of the family was visiting one evening, and in the course of conversation my mother’s and mine’s foray into the world of church came up.  They attended the Baptist Church and their teen went to the Wednesday night bible study.  They invited me to go, and what was I to say, no?  I felt trapped, and not wanting to be impolite I assented.

Interestingly enough, no one who invited me ever pressured me once the invitation was made.  I was drawn by a promise and pricket by curiosity.  No one picked me up; I simply got into my car and drove the 10 miles to the church, and the bible study was in an adjacent house.  There were a smattering of students gathered in groups outside.  They acknowledged me as I walked by, and hesitantly I opened and stepped through the door.  There was nothing in the house.  Students sat on the floor in a circle.  They sang a song at the beginning and Pastor Pritchett talked about the bible.  I sat and listened.  The simplicity of his presentation, his genuine faith, and the honesty of his convictions were captivating. 

Jesus said a curious thing, “No one can come to me unless the father who sent me draws him.”  This didn’t preclude the invitation of Jesus to James, John, and Peter, and Philip’s invitation to Nathanael.  But no one comes to truly follow Jesus unless the Father reveals its importance and enlightens the mind to its truth.

Interestingly enough I never saw the family who invited me attend the church, and my mother never attended again.  What seemed to be the duplicity of God was the sovereign working of his will.  But this isn’t why I Hate Church.  I’m just saying… (Continued).

Why I Hate Church: Part Two

Confirmation:  The process of supporting a statement by evidence.  A Christian rite conferring the gift of the Holy Spirit and among Protestants full church membership. 

     Memories are etched into our minds through strong emotional stimulus like joy, fear, and expectation, and through sensory perceptions like smells, sounds, and touch.  They are triggered when we least expect it.  From the time I snuggled with my grandmother till the sixth grade I don’t remember anything about church.  But the sixth grade must have been a defining moment for my parents, their need for me to become a part of something otherly.

     Confirmation classes were the indoctrination of young minds into the faith of their parents.  They were weekly meetings to instruct us on the nature of God and the disciplines of the faithful.  Yet, their content has long been forgotten, save one.   Each confirmation class was given a tour of the “sanctuary.”

     Most Methodist sanctuaries were built the same, the narthex, the nave and the chancel.  In a modest way they were built with high ceilings to inspire awe in the worshipper.  The raised platform at the chancel elevated the preaching of the word of God, and its easterly direction faced toward Jerusalem and symbolized the resurrection.  As the pastor continued in his obvious delight in describing the symbolic nature of the church, only one thing caught my attention.

     A curtain hung high on the wall behind the preacher’s pulpit.  I had seen it before and wondered what lay behind it, what secret was hidden behind its heavy thick construction?  As we walked from the back of the nave toward the chancel it seemed as if the curtain became larger and more ominous.  My imagination conjured up many scenarios, but only one of them could be true, and in the context of our tour I was certain that behind that curtain Jesus hung on the cross.     

     We were on holy ground; we were walking toward the great mystery of our time; we were being initiated into the church and shown its greatest triumph.  The pastor sat us in the front row and wrapped up his tour, and to my consternation hadn’t revealed what was of utmost importance.  “Are there any questions?” he asked.

    I sheepishly raised my hand and quarried as to what was behind the curtain.  He turned and stepped into the chancel.  My heart was pounding as he took hold of that most sacred curtain and when he pulled it back my heart stopped.    I didn’t understand.  Where was the cross?  Where was the man who was supposed to be hung on it?  All that was there were the speakers to the organ, tastefully covered by an ordinary curtain.

     Fear, awe, expectation, and disappoint are strong emotions that have etched that memory into my mind.  It left a sour taste in my mouth toward those who held the mysteries of the faith.  I saw the absence of the cross and the Christ as a failure on their part to provide the tangible evidence of all that they taught. My sixth grade mind couldn’t comprehend what Jesus had told his disciple Thomas, “Blessed are they who did not see, and yet believed,”  or what the Apostle Peter instructed, “Though you have not seen Him, you love Him, and though you do not see Him now, but believe in Him, you greatly rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory.”  This, however, is not why I Hate Church.  I’m just saying… (Continued).

Why I Hate Church: Part One

Creases run vertical and horizontal across the photograph, gently folded, hidden away for safe keeping, and it's color has faded, yellowed by the years.  The boys stand in a line oldest to youngest ranging from five to eight years of age.  They are dressed in freshly creased pants, shirts, and sport bow ties. They would rather be in shorts and free instead of dressed in uncomfortable clothing.  Another photograph, equally discolored and folded, picture a handsome man and his lovely wife. He is wearing his best suit and she a print dress, veiled hat and gloves.  The date is unknown, but the occasion is Easter Sunday, one of the few days a year the family went to church.  The old picture stirs memories of a simpler time where parents occasionally introduced us to God, but didn't make it a habit.  

The youngest actual memory of church surfaces with the fragrance of a strong woman's perfume.  Sitting in the middle of church trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden pews I snuggled against the thick soft arms of my grandmother.  As stifling as the aroma of lilac could be there was nothing safer than hiding beneath her arms as the preacher droned on.  To still the fidgeting my grandmother pacified me with a stick of Black Jack gum, and for the moment I was occupied.  The songs and sermon have slipped from memory, but my grandmother's love and her desire to be in church has lingered.  

It was a different time where everyone in the small farming community attended church, prayed for God's blessing, and enjoyed the familiarity of family and friends.  Church wasn't forced but children grew up learning habits that would last, at least, another generation.  This is the romantic image of church that I grew up with, peaceful, loving, and accepting.  There were no conflicts and everything was good in the world. 

Jesus said that we must come to the Father as children, full of trust and faith.  They are innocent of adult sorrows and oblivious of the larger world around them. Seeing the world as new and adventurous they tend toward hope and a future.  Only through experience does the innocence of childhood fade toward cynicism. Safety and security are exchanged for pain and suffering.  We long for a simpler time where we can snuggle against the loving arms of our Heavenly Father and know that all is well.

As babies I am to desire God's Word, I am to hunger after his righteousness, I am to rest in his love and care.  He is my safe haven where the cares of the world fade.  He offers me the bread of life while the noise of the world drones on, and I close my eyes and know that this isn't why I hate church.  I am just saying... (continued)

The Circle Of Life

     Disney’s, The Lion King, made the phrase “The Circle of Life” a common refrain in American households.  Its main point was that life is a cycle of birth, death, and birth.  One generation moves on and another takes its place.  Birth and death are natural events and they shouldn’t surprise us.

     Yet, we are, no matter how young or old, death never seems to be pleasant or “natural”.  The scripture tells us that death is the last great enemy to be defeated.  When Jesus rose from the grave he was declaring an end to its power, and giving us all hope for a resurrection.  Of course, until Jesus returns, and brings about the consummation of the age, death will continue, but not without hope.

     It is our hope in Jesus that allows us to grieve without despair.  Jesus is the resurrection and our faith in him promises our resurrection to eternal life.   That is the great hope for the future, and the strong anchor in the present.  We continue on in the face of death because we know that it is not the end, but the beginning of life.  We accept it by faith rooted in the fact of Jesus’ resurrection.  We accept it by faith rooted in the character of God.  We accept it by faith rooted in God’s love and faithfulness.

     As many of you know, my mother passed away a couple of weeks ago.  She was 82 years old and in failing health.  We had talked about her faith, and she confessed Christ as savior of her life.  She wasn’t perfect, who of us are, but she was an example of a life of sacrifice for her family.  The last years of her life were painful, physically and emotionally, but now she stands before her savior whole, without pain, and with full assurance of God’s love.  She will be missed, but she now experiences the power over death, it has been defeated!

     But my mom’s death isn’t an end, because she and my dad leave a legacy of life.  Children, grandchildren and great grandchildren continue the circle of life.  With death a baby is born and it becomes our responsibility as part of that legacy to make the most of our life.  How do we love others and how do we love God?  We often worry about forgetting those who have gone before us, but each time I look into the face of my children and grand children and glimpse my mother and father’s reflection, I am reminded of my responsibility to lead them in the path of righteousness, so that they too will carry on a legacy of faith. 

     These past two weeks have been a whirlwind, but I am at peace because I know my mom is at peace.  And when I look into the faces of my grand children and hear them squeal with delight and the innocence of their youth, I am filled with hope and promise.  I’m Just Saying…..

Being An Outsider

Growing up in the military poses many challenges for children, especially if the family travels. Being transferred from post to post either made you resilient or bitter. Making friends for any child is difficult, but to make them over and over again creates instability, a difficulty to form strong bonds, and relationships often lasted only as long as the assignment. We were the consummate outsider.

As clearly as I can remember we moved about every two to three years. We lived in California, Florida, Illinois, Oklahoma, Greece, Turkey, and back to Florida again. The traveling can seem exotic, but as I look back there were no lasting friendships as a child. That isn't to say I don't have some great memories. My time at these different posts were adventures and I made the most of them; I was resilient. Yet, I was always the outsider among other outsiders. Maybe the common connection of military life allowed us to connect quickly, but not deeply. We were all outsiders. I feel a Star Trek conundrum coming on; We were on the inside of the outsiders. AHHH!

We all want to be included. That's what makes being on the outside so difficult. When we feel like an outsider and can't break through the walls that others set up, we either join with other outsiders or we become isolated. In typical fashion TV often portrays outsiders as either the nerds or the outcasts. But they ban together to form their own group so that they can be the insiders. When it comes right down to it, we all just want to belong.

God has insiders and outsiders as well. Jesus tells a story about people who were invited to a party, but refused to come. The party host sent his servants to the streets and offered an invitation to everyone who would come, poor, sick, outcast; all the usual outsiders. When the original guests saw who came to the party they weren't happy, and wanted to come, but the host said, "No, you had your chance." They became the outsiders by choice.

It is an eternal story. God invites us all to be insiders. He wants everyone to be a part of his group. He has invited us to the party. We are admitted to the party through our faith in Jesus. Our trust in him gains us access. Yet, there are so many who will not believe, not trust, not obey and by doing so set themselves up as outsiders. When they die they are will look across the abyss at all the fun and want to come in, but it will be too late.

What is great about God's invitation is that it is open to everyone; the poor, the sick, the downcast, the despairing, the outcast, the hopeful, the rich, and all who will come. They can come as they are, no pretense and no judgment. God will give them a new heart, a new life, and a new family in which to belong. I'm just saying.....

Gaining The Prize Can Be Hazardous

I just read an article about a man who won one million dollars in the Illinois state lottery.  The day after his golden parachute opened someone poisoned him with arsenic.   He wasn’t going to over indulge himself with his newfound fortune. He was going to be responsible, pay off debt and invest in his small business.  But the greed, that so easily consumes us, moved someone to act in violence.

            The Apostle Paul encourages us to press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus (Phil. 3:14).   The prize of eternal and abundant life is worth trading all the riches of the world, but there are hazards to obtaining this prize: 1) The world’s hate, 2) sin that entangles, 3) self-righteousness, and 4) legalism to name a few.  If we are to live victoriously we need to prepare ourselves for the inevitable struggle. 

            I just recently installed a spice rack in our kitchen (it was a group effort with two of my sons).  There use to be a built in ironing board in the wall.  The finished product doesn’t look too bad, but to get there we had to do a lot of preparation before the finished paint could be applied.  My oldest son, Joshua, took a hammer and screwdriver to the internal components of the ironing board.  It wasn’t easy, the old mechanisms were securely entrenched, and needed a lot of sledging to get them lose.  He ran out of time to finish the project before his family had to return home.  Over Christmas my youngest son, David, took up the banner.  With all the old components out of the way, his task was to fill in the crevices and ‘wounds’, and then sand down the rough edges.  It was a mess!  There was so much wood dust all over the kitchen that Rebecca and I had to wash the walls, the counters, and sweep and mop the floors. We are still finding dust in crevices.  After David installed the new shelves, I put on a fresh coat of paint.  It looks wonderful!

            When God brings us into his family the work isn’t complete.  In fact, there is a lot of hammering and sanding that needs to take place, and it is often messy.  The Spirit of God in us, working to bring about his will in our lives, and though he is doing the work it is a cooperative effort.  There are things that we must do to prepare ourselves for his work.  We need to surrender, submit, and serve.  

            By surrendering we acknowledge that we are sinners in need of a savior, and that God, in Christ, is the only avenue for redemption.  By submitting we acknowledge that God’s ways are best, His laws are right, and whether it makes sense or not, His glory is our greatest happiness.  By serving we acknowledge that we are not our own and the grace we have received is to be turned outward and extended to others.  We serve by loving and caring for others.  We serve by learning and leading.  We serve by reaching out with the gospel of Christ. 

            None of this is easy.  It fights against our old nature.  But greater is He who is in us, then he who is in the world.  Living a life of victory in Christ is ours by promise, and when we prepare our selves, God works in us to make us complete in Him.  I’m just saying….