What I was Looking For

Every once in awhile I read something that resonates with me so deeply that I begin to wonder if the author climbed inside my head. This post is one of those. It so beautifully states how the author came to take the role of a cynic in the church and why that is a place of pain in light of our expectations of Christian community. Particularly, my heart broke ever so slightly at the last section:

"What I'm saying is that once there was a paralytic. And there were people who picked up the edges of the mat where he was lying and carried him through the crowds. In order for him to be healed, someone had to take on that weight. Someone had to haul him to the top of the roof, and lower him straight down through so that he could get to Jesus.

And before the Church is anything else, it has to be that.

People who see. People who carry.

People who will grab onto each other's sharp edges and lift."

In all those moments when I walked away from the Christian communities I'd known, the moment in which my heart felt shattered into an irreparable state, and I couldn't articulate what it was that was so heartbreaking, it was this. It was the fact that I wondered if I had taken the gospels too literally. I wondered if the stories of people carrying others, overlooking their shame and condemnation, and accepting them where they were had been written for another time. Because everywhere I went, I had to clear the hurdles of the expectations of Christian living before people would believe that I possessed a faith worthy of their investment. 

When I fell apart, becoming a spiritual paralytic, there was no one to carry me. My sharp edges were a burden too great to bear. As my struggles spiraled into a depressive grief, it was too much to ask for someone to sit in the ashes with me. Instead they visited briefly, peppering me with questions that would assign fault to me so that they would be justified in their lack of helpfulness. 

"Have you been doing your quiet time lately?" 

"How is your prayer life?" 

"Have you been reading your Bible?"

A laundry list of things to do that would supposedly fix me. Another burden that was placed solely on my shoulders. The problem is that when you can't walk, each of those burdens simply becomes another weight pressing you further into the depths of the dirt. Another question, another item to feel inadequate about. Another seed of shame and guilt sown in the depths of my heart. 

In those times I wondered what I had done wrong. I wondered if I had read the Bible incorrectly. Here I was expecting Christian community to be filled with the friends of the paralytic and instead all I encountered were the friends of Job. This must have been my fault. I must have made some mistake. My faith must not be as strong as theirs. I must not be right with God, whatever that means. 

But once again, as with so many times previously, this "help" only caused me to walk away. I couldn't find any way to heal when I felt like I was being introduced to a new sickness with each encounter. I wanted to put myself in quarantine until I could figure out how to find a place that isn't full of such pervasive condemnation. I could no longer walk and I was desperate for someone to carry me. When such help didn't arrive, I fell and when I fell, I fell away from those communities to which I thought I would always belong. 

In my darkest moments, I was looking for those people willing to carry me. Perhaps in many ways I still am. Brokenness makes you realize that faith is a state of shared community rather than one of personal devotion. We are all constantly carrying or needing to be carried. If we want to see healing, we need to take on one another's weight.

When the Word Becomes a Weapon

Upon my exit from the land of Evangelical Culture, there was one thing that surprised me most. After all that time amid small groups, Bible studies, Bible classes in college, chapel, etc., the pages of my Bible were well worn and I enjoyed digging into the text. But after my departure, things changed. The words themselves were the same, but reading them left me numb. I did not respond to them as I once had. They seemed foreign to me. I struggled to separate the text itself from the hurtful manner in which it had been distorted - distortions that resulted in abuse, control, and oppression. Those distortions now clouded out the true meaning of the texts.

I had never heard anyone talk about this. I wondered if something was wrong with me or if anyone else had experienced this. I do still read my Bible, but it took a new approach to get me there.

Yesterday I can across an article documenting an experience very similar to my own. If you've ever been in that situation, are currently in that situation, or are simply curious, I would encourage you to read it. The article is a bit long, but worth it. Below is the link along with a few excepts I especially enjoyed.


How Do You Study the Bible After Someone Has Bludgeoned You With It? 
(Quick side note: The title totally reminds me of this clip from the movie "Saved!")

"I want the reader to read, hear, and know well that I would have done anything to be able to read and study like I had before the crushing blow of realization of spiritual abuse knocked me flat. I had to develop an entirely new relationship with the Word and Bible Study (based upon purer motives), and this did not come easily or quickly for me."

"I knew that I’d been shaken, but I had no idea how deeply all of this would affect me. I felt like an empty shell of a hypocrite who had started out to worship and serve and know God. My motives and my efforts were good, yet I’d been mixed up in horrible things and with some flawed and dangerous people, serving the church instead of God."

"For all of my diligent study and seeking God, neither my knowledge of the Bible nor the Holy Spirit in me protected me from this terrible harm! It seemed and felt like my whole religious experience had been flawed from the beginning, and I THOUGHT that I WAS standing “in His strength alone!” I’d done everything I knew to do to be wise and true, yet I’d believed a lie. Did I even have any radar? What good had it done me? I’d stumbled, fell, and I’d been hurt. In my black and white thought, it felt like the whole of the journey had been wrong, and it was the foundation for MY EVERYTHING.

The next morning, I picked up my Bible and *BAM*! For the first time in my life, those well-worn pages felt foreign and strange. I knew that book and could quote it and find in it what I could not quote by memory. I’d taken what was given to me and made it my own. Or had I?... At the time, the trauma was too intense for me to think clearly through the self-doubt. I went into an existential panic, unable to figure out what was really real. I knew those verses and I’d known what they meant."

"All I knew was that this Bible felt unsafe because I couldn’t trust myself at all. How did I know anything? I broke out into a cold sweat and wanted to vomit. I knew that Word was my best medicine, but if I couldn’t be sure about what it meant, the meaning I ascribed to the words could potentially be as bad as the poison I’d been ladling down my throat for four years in Mumford and Gothard Land. I’d taken it and had no clue that I’d been drinking something tainted. And then I felt anger that was so intense, I did not even understand it as anger."

"I don’t know how to communicate to you how deeply devastated I was. As I think back on it and having moved through this old pain, I cannot even really connect with the terrible pain anymore myself, a good thing. I mourned as if someone had died, but I wasn’t sure who had died. I think that a huge chunk of my carnal nature died, but a fantasy died too – one I’d lived in for most of my life."

I could go on, but I'll leave some of the article for you to read for yourself.  She goes on to explain what helped her work through it. The idea of this process being one of loss and mourning is one that resonates with me. Although I can't relate to every aspect of what she's saying, it's always comforting to know that this struggle isn't uncommon for those who have left unhealthy religious situations. If this is the journey that you are currently on, I hope you find help or comfort in this and I wish you all the best.

Bitterness?

I am a follower and a fan of Stuff Christian Culture Likes. Stephanie, the blog's author, often shares excerpts from emails she receives on the blog's facebook page. Sometimes they are complimentary. Sometimes they remind me why her blog exists in the first place. This week she shared one in which the writer said "The best general message of your blog: you can heal." Needless to say, a lot of the regular readers heartily agreed. But in the midst of the affirmation, there was a lone dissenting voice who claimed that such as statement has an "echo of bitterness and resentment."

If you have left a church or Christian group or ever questioned one in any way, I'd be willing to bet that you have been told "You're just bitter." I think that the thing that breaks my heart even more than the number of people who have been hurt by the church is how callously the perpetrators of such pain respond when the victims have the courage to call them on it. SCCL previously addressed the matter here.

The irony is that when you live in Christian Culture, they tell you constantly about the need to be honest, confess your sin, and to seek forgiveness and the resolution your problems with others. I guess they just don't think that applies to themselves. I was at a church service a few years ago where the pastor asked people to form small groups with those around them and discuss the question "Why do you think some people feel so hurt by the church?" It was one of the first times I had visited this particular church. It was during the time that I was debating my decision to move on from American Evangelical Culture and hearing that gave me hope that there were churches out there that got it. They understood. My hope was quickly crushed as those around me gave their answers to the question. A women boldly proclaimed "Nobody is perfect except Jesus. I think too many people expect us to be perfect and that's just unrealistic." The rest of the people nodded in agreement and provided answers that were essentially only rephrasing hers. I don't remember what I said. I think it had something to do with the fact that it's so difficult for churches and Christians to admit their mistakes. Honestly, I think I don't remember because my mind was racing. It was yet another moment where my anxiety rose as my own experiences where unknowingly invalidated yet again. It was the same response I'd heard so many times before. The response Christians give so often in Evangelical settings because they seem to have this assumption that it's only atheists and skeptics who've claimed to be hurt by believers. They loudly proclaim that people expect too much from them while the spiritually wounded that surround them die a little more inside and continue to reconsider their place in the body of Christ.

When you are hurt, you need to heal. It's not a complicated concept. To refer to that as bitter or resentful is naive, misguided, and extremely short-sighted. Even worse, as Stephanie and many others have pointed out, it's a silencing tactic. It's a tactic that proclaims "We don't know what to deal with your pain and frankly it makes us uncomfortable. So rather than wrestle with what the Christian response should be, we are going to try to shame you into dropping the issue. It's just easier that way. To achieve that, we will use a lot of spiritual words and quote a few Bible verses out of context to try to convince you that we are right."

I understand the importance of forgiveness, but I have trouble accepting that that means you just blindly accept any hurt from others or justify your own mistreatment of people as long as it's done in the name of the Lord. And since when does recognizing that you've been hurt and are in need of healing qualify as bitterness? As long as churches and Christians continue to hide behind declarations of "bitterness" and their own imperfection they will continue to be unable to develop the type of genuine relationships that truly bring healing. Unfortunately, rather than contemplate what that would mean, I'm sure anyone immersed in the world of American Evangelical Culture who is reading this is too preoccupied developing theories as to what could have possibly made me so bitter.

Christian Culture, you need a new argument.

A Confession

This year, I'm making a point to attend the Wednesday Lenten prayer services. I don't know if prayer service is the right term, but it's probably the closest. These aren't prayer services in the way most Evangelicals would think of the term. They have a format closer to a regular church service and contain a scripture reading, music, and brief sermon. But their overall focus is to drive you towards prayer and contemplation, providing a period of silence for both. Last night's service was a service of darkness and light, with a candle procession. It was beautiful. But what has stuck with me most was the focus of the sermon the pastor gave.

As I've mentioned, Lent is a season that focuses on forgiveness. It is a time when we seek to forgive and learn what it means to be forgiven. During last night's sermon, the pastor (who is the youth pastor) told the story of a youth camping trip in which one young boy fell behind during the canoe portage as he struggled under the weight of the pack he was carrying. The pastor went back to find him and offered help. The stubborn young man gritted his teeth and stated "I can do it." As he slowly walked with the boy, the pastor asked "What will it take for you to let me help you? What do you have to prove?" He said that at that point he realized that this wasn't just about the pack. It was about all the struggles in this boy's life. It was about being the smallest, being bullied, being overlooked, etc. It was about all the burdens that he carried from the difficulties in his life. The pastor used this as a springboard to exhort the congregation to consider what burdens they are refusing to let go of, even when they are too much to bear.

It really made me think. As with anyone who has been hurt by the church, there are definitely areas in which I struggle to forgive. It's been beneficial to focus on those this Lenten season. (It's one reason I don't give anything up for Lent. I know that I would use the act of giving up sugar or TV to feel as though I was observing the season while I was actually avoiding the difficult act of forgiving those who've hurt me.) But as I started to think about what the larger burdens I carry from my painful exodus from Evangelicalism, I realized that there was one I haven't been acknowledging.

The Problem of Healing

*Forgive my delay in posting. I've been otherwise occupied with a slew of freelance work and home improvement projects. Although I missed Tuesday, this post uses a terrible t-shirt to illustrate its point. I hope that this hits home with some of you, because it was/is a very defining part of my exodus from Evangelicalism and I can only assume that of many others.*

From C28 Christian Stores

One of the most common sources of emotional pain I hear from people who left American Evangelical Culture centers around failed healings. If you were raised Catholic, Lutheran, or in some other liturgical tradition, you've probably never had someone from your church attempt to heal you. Certainly, illness or injury would have been the focus of prayers, but in many Evangebapticostal arenas, it takes on a much more hands on approach. In those circles it is not uncommon for people to not merely pray for you to be healed, but to attempt to be the instrument through which God divinely delivers such healing.

This is a very popular activity in Pentecostal circles. Since God is sovereign over an injury or illness, they simply lay hands on the afflicted and pray to cast such a problem out. So far, so good, right? But what if this doesn't result in healing? Once the intended effects aren't realized, everyone has to scramble to explain why it didn't work and that's where the real problem begins. Too many people, when there are healings are not realized, are told they must not have had enough faith or that perhaps they haven't properly repented of some sin. In doing so, those who initially sought to heal them have now inflicted emotional/spiritual wounds in addition to the physical/mental ones they were already experiencing.