Saturday night I
attended a dedication service for a new fellowship hall at the little country
Southern Baptist church of my childhood.
It was a great celebration of new things God is doing in that little congregation. I saw old friends (meaning childhood friends –
though we are also much older now as well).
One of them during his opening remarks as song leader, proclaimed it a
beautiful evening, with promise of great food and fun, a great cause for celebration
in this church, “And now,” George said, ”if we could just get rid of those
Democrats!” The thunderous laughter drowned
out my voice as I said to him, ”Be careful, George. You never know where you might find a
Democrat – even in this church.” I don’t
know which stirred more ire in me, his comment or the laughter which registered
majority approval of it. This was three
days before an election, in a church where a 501(c)3 status is supposed to be
protected by offering equal time for partisan statements to be balanced, and for
no one representing the congregation to tell anyone else how to vote.
I realized that my
mother, whom I love and respect very much, sitting (appropriately) to my right,
was wanting my attention. I looked and
she was shaking her head, “no,” to tell me not to say anything more. Instantly my memory played a childhood tape
of her voice telling me to “Pipe down!” She
was brought up in an era during which children spoke only when spoken to and
women didn’t have much of a voice at all.
So a girl child was likely to embarrass her parents if not tightly
controlled. No doubt this outspoken girl
child did embarrass them now and then.
One of the most
powerful means of controlling children was (and still is for many parents) through
the church. If the church could convince
a child that what God said supported what the parent said, what higher power
was there for a child to consult? Guilt
and fear provided added coercion. We
attended church every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. In addition I belonged to Girls Auxiliary which
met monthly, attended Sunday school weekly, went with my mother to monthly Women’s
Missionary Union meetings where I could overhear the adult echoes of what I also
caught from the indoctrination designed for children. In the summer we had Vacation Bible School,
and at least annually there was a week-long revival meeting with preaching
every night, and a strong emphasis on the altar call at the end of each
service. This was the chance (perhaps
your last chance, in the event you are killed in a car accident on the way home
from church) to see that your soul would be saved from eternal incendiary
torment, securing your salvation by walking up to the front of the church to
make a public profession of your faith in Jesus who bled and died specifically
for you, because you are so sinful.
There was usually much emotion involved as the guilt was released by
this relatively simple public act… simple but necessary for one’s
salvation. I still remember the relief I
felt from shedding the burden of my sin as I walked down the aisle at the age
of 9. For those who had already “been
saved” there was always the possibility of coming forward to rededicate one’s
life to the Lord… because of course
there’s always the likelihood of backsliding.
In time I wondered
about this rededication thing in light of the disparaging instruction I also
received in my Protestant training against the Catholic practice of confession. Why was walking up to the front of the church
and kneeling on the hard floor with one’s forearms on the front pew, praying
and crying, any more redeeming or acceptable to God than sitting in a
confessional with a screen separating you from the priest while you spelled out
the sin for which you needed forgiveness? In fact it seemed to me the Catholics were
onto something asking folks to be specific about their sin and assigning a
particular penance as reparation, which might encourage them to think twice
before repeating the breach. Much later I learned about the history of bitter
competition between Catholics and Protestants.
One of my best childhood friends was Catholic, making this whole thing a
very big deal to me. I loved her and
sought permission to go on loving her. I
visited her church a time or two, and thought the sanctuary with its statues
and artwork was mysterious and lovely, and knew deep down I should probably be
ashamed for admiring it. That may have been my first
inkling that often what is most mysterious and lovely to me will be labeled by
someone else as shameful.
Saturday night’s event
left me feeling voiceless, and reminded me of why it was so important to leave
the place of my upbringing and find my own place in the world where my gifts
could be set free and my voice could be heard.
In my heart I had never been able to accept some of the things I was
taught through my church, and yet my faith was strong and deep, the very center
of my being. The God I knew was
compassionate and forgiving and leaned toward grace, not harsh and condemning
like some of God’s people were. I really
got the salvation story and understood it as a story of how God throughout
history had been willing to take back the people of Israel and forgive their
unfaithfulness. God always forgave
BEFORE they changed their ways, with little evidence they ever would. It was preemptive love. (Thanks to my colleague Rev. Rob Carr for
that image.) God’s love always trumped
their sinfulness. Love led the
reconciliation and the people followed.
More times than not they failed again and went astray. And again God was waiting to receive them
back. This surely was why the mystic
Jesus of Nazareth told the story we know as the prodigal son, about a father
who forgave without requiring an apology or reparation, and went overboard (according
to his jealous brother) throwing a huge party to welcome him home. And this surely is how we are supposed to treat
one another.
I first had a sense
of calling when I was very young, about 5 years old, although I didn’t know
what to call it at the time. I was
sitting at my father’s desk as I remember, looking out the window at the way
the sunlight played on the leaves of a spirea bush, marveling at how amazing our
Creator God was to have made all this, and I thought, “God has something
special for me to do someday.” I
remember a profound sense of purpose. It
didn’t go away, and I always was kind of paying attention for what it might
be. In our little Baptist church there
were no women in ministry to model what it might be like for me to be the
pastor, so I imagined being a preacher’s wife.
They were almost always talented, playing piano or singing in church, and
supporting what their husbands did in the role of minister. By the time I was in Junior High I had
learned enough about missionaries to know that the Baptists let girls do that,
so I imagined being a missionary to the most remote corner of the earth. I became a “Junior Foreign Mission Volunteer”
with my sites on Africa.
By the time I left
home to go to college I was unable to incorporate the fearful, threatening
parts of Baptist doctrine into my belief system, and it would be years before I
could finally understand God’s beckoning to me as a “calling.” First I had to find my way to a church that
had a place for women in ministry. I
discovered my faith “home” at First Christian Church in Carrollton, MO as my marriage
was ending. It was a time for new beginings. The first Sunday my daughters
and I attended there were WOMEN serving communion right up there in front of
God and everybody! The Christian Church
(Disciples of Christ) would even ordain women!
I became a Disciple there, and joined another Disciples congregation in
Kansas City when my daughters and I made our home there. Soon I toyed with the idea of attending seminary,
but decided to focus all my energies on rearing them and providing for them as
a single mom.
Finally, years later as my 50th
birthday approached, I yielded to that voice that had been a companion to me
since childhood, saying, “I get it, God.
I won’t be fully alive, and my passions won’t be set free until I’m
doing what I’m supposed to do. I’ll be a
preacher.” In my application to
Claremont School of Theology in Claremont, CA, I wrote, “The moment that I said "yes"
to God's call to ministry five years ago, I understood it to be a call to
preaching. Very often I heard, as we all
do, about how much harm the church has caused throughout history. People are hurting because of early life
experiences with a Christianity that taught them fear and shame. I want to offer an alternative voice, with a
view of Christianity that is full of grace, hope, promise, and possibilities. We need preachers that understand the gospel
in a new way. I am called to be one of
them. “
And so here,
in this space, I raise my voice…. No doubt you will notice traces of Progressive Christianity, an openness to and excitement about the many ways we humans have of experiencing the Mystery I call God, an appreciation for Emergent Christianity, and you may find me referring to the Process Theology which I discovered at Claremont, and which provides a language for articulating the faith that has been developing in my heart, mind and spirit all my life. From time to time I may recommend a book or an author, and I will welcome your recommendations as well. I hope these accounts of one person's faith journey will
be meaningful to you, and in case they cause you to reflect on
your own, I'll welcome your comments. Blessings on the way. Lin
