My church

This is the most profound spiritual truth I know: 

that even when we're most sure that love can't conquer all, it seems to anyway.

-Anne Lamott

I think it was my fault completely.  I must have drawn attention to myself after volunteering in a ministry that formed at my church just after hurricane Katrina made landfall.  I got myself noticed (in good ways and in bad ways) during that time.  I rolled up my sleeves and got my hands dirty working with fellow Christians who shared a heavy heart over the disaster, and were dedicated to helping those victims with traumatic tales who were surviving in devastating conditions.  Somehow the timing of the next vote at our church crossed with the fateful day of this hurricane, because my name got added to a list of candidates for Deacon at the church, a list that I was completely unaware of.  And you know what? I got voted in to the club.  I was ordained as a card carrying member of the diaconate at a Baptist church.  Talk about grace.  These people give it in spades.


Me, who hasn't invested years and years into organized church life. Me, who hasn't tithed for decades and only recently started tithing with regularity. Me, who has never attended a Youth for Christ rally or a Young Life event. Though I know the name, I don't know any Billy Graham campaigns. And I've never regularly attended midweek prayer service nor ever woken early to participate in sunrise services on Easter.  My life, both now and as a child, has never been defined by the church calendar.


I attended summer camp once in my life, during junior high, at the invitation of a friend whose family was quite involved in the church.  I walked down the aisle at the end of services one night and accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior and was baptized soon after we returned from camp.  The rush of feelings I had at camp quickly dissipated as I re-entered regular life, and soon it was a distant memory.


My commitment to Christ, as well as my desire to know and understand his teachings, has grown and changed since that ordination in ways I could never have imagined.  I'll save those stories for another day.  But I still only know two bible verses by heart.  One taught to me as a child by my grandmother, the other I picked up as an adult after befriending a woman at my church, who is more like my surrogate grandmother. John 3:16 and Jeremiah 29:11, if you were curious...  I don't know the difference between a hymn and a chorus, and I still do not know the books of the Bible in sequential order, or in any order at all, as a matter of fact.  I don't know the words to "Great is Thy Faithfulness" and I don't sit in the same seat in the pew each week, or every week for that matter.


There seems to be a lot of talk in my 55 year young church about change, and I know that with change - good or bad - comes loss and stress and worry.  I'm probably lumped in with the younger set, the troublemakers who are out to rip tradition to shreds and spit on anything holy.  Well, okay, not exactly.  But I am not really sure that I detest the current traditional offerings of my church, and by traditional I really mean "traditional to the 1950's".  I see value in tradition and in meaning and I see value in change and reform.  I don't presume that Those who followed Jesus the Nazarene worried if he wore a necktie when he preached, or argued about which musical instruments were used to praise God.  And this goes two ways.  He probably didn't concern himself with who published the hymnal, the hairstyles of his disciples or whether or not communion was performed by intinction.  For the record, I just learned what intinction is, and that some people take issue with it.  I think the main difference for me is that I wasn't raised in a church like this, and it might even more be the fact that I wasn't raised in a church at all. I'm like a mongrel lacking proper pedigree, an outsider unfamiliar with the tradition and the culture.  It doesn't mean it's wrong or even that it has to change, it simply means I don't understand it.


As I seek to understand the politics and traditions that are so heavily steeped in church, I tend to ask myself in the cliche "what would Jesus do?" or better "would Jesus even care?".  So many of the issues I see and hear about seem to be a matter of personal preference, not doctrinal position.  I'm not even sure that Jesus would quibble on some of the doctrinal points of the church.  He would probably not be rambling on about whether or not we have gay members or black members or non-Christian members - he would be asking if we are inclusive, if we are outwardly reaching and if we have been tending to the damned plank in our own eye.


My church has people in it who are struggling with these heavy, church-y issues.  And it honestly makes me sad, because I can see the hurt that happens when you lose something you love, something you are used to.  And sometimes, the struggles I hear about make me confused because they don't line up with the stuff of Christ and his parables.  What's with those darn parables, anyway?  I probably don't share their struggles because I don't share the deep and lengthy history that they have with this particular church building and set of practices.  


All of this got me to thinking about my own struggle with "organized religion".  So here is where I am with my church struggle...  The things I crave to know include how to build a stronger marriage with my spouse, how to raise my kids with a faith that can make it in a secular world and how to love my neighbor like I love myself.  And I want to figure out how to share my faith with the lady stuck on the street and to get some encouragement for how to be a better friend.  For me, the bulk of life and of action occur outside of church.  I mean, we're only there for two hours, tops, once a week, right?  I need those two hours I spend in the church building to catch me on fire so that I can take those teachings out into the world, as I re-enter the world of faith issues, of discovering how to serve my community, and of learning who my neighbor really is.  I am of that generation where "authenticity" and "truth" ring a loud bell, and I don't want any of that fake, pretend stuff.  I come from a line of life gone wrong, and so I don't want any of the platitudes or simple answers, either.


The one thing I know to be absolutely true is that the people that I've met in my church have shown me a thing or two.  They've invested in me and my husband.  They've hugged on my son and encouraged my stepdaughter.  They ponder my questions and they engage my doubts.  They come calling when they don't see or hear from me in a week or two.  And I love these people, even if we don't share the same love of Sunday morning organ music.  I love some of them like they are my family.  My experience of this whole church thing, the tradition or the style or the dress code has shown me that these things do not in and of themselves make church.  If I had to "do church" in the breakroom of a warehouse with standing room only, or in the living room of someone's home with their dog jumping up on my lap, I would still seek out that time each week, regardless of place, conditions, or looks because I need my church - I need my connections with my brothers who are seeking what's true, noble, right, pure, lovely and admirable.  The church, my church, is the people, the commitment we make to each other, and the ways we choose to love each other and our neighbors, the ways we seek to flesh out what matters in this life.  


Without my church, I lose the relationships in my life where people call me to task and where people encourage my faith.  I lose the ability to worship my God in community with others, to stand in awe of Jesus Christ and his sacrifice for my life and their lives.  I lose my connection with the teachers, the dreamers and the doers of the world who are committed to making a difference in the lives of others.  My church, with its snarls and snares, its love and its grace, its boldness and its fear, is where the root of my faith has grown and flourished.  Much like my life, the biggest lessons I learn are in the struggle.  I hope we do the same.