Children's Church, Mom and Dad in front. Fabulous memories of Aunt Eunice and Uncle Bill (not family, but they were family!)
I am from nightly devotions, of Noah and his big boat and of Zaccheus “the wee little man”,
From Jesus in my living room, white skin, downcast glance,
From Jesus knocking at my door,
And I opened it at age 5.
I know I was unsure what it all meant, but I knew it was something that should happen.
I am from tears, from a sense that if God really knew “what a worm was I”
That perhaps I might miss hearing the trumpet from heaven and
“Wish We’d All Been Ready.”
I am from parents giving me over to God,
From prayer jars,
From “Stop and Let Me Tell You What the Lord has Done for Me,”
And “When We All Get To Heaven” with shouts and “hallelujahs,”
From Homer screaming salvation prayers over someone at the altar,
And who can forget the “Just As I Am” calls where some believers again and again
Found their way down that long aisle to the “blood of Christ”
And the mediation of the Holy Spirit.
I am from gospel tents, hot in the sand, paper fans moving the air,
I am from revival nights, after a long day at school,
Only to have Dr. K, the evangelist, scream about Jesus, making us little kids jump,
I am from six straight weeks of Bible School in people’s hot Florida summer backyards,
So often, my sister and I repeated the lessons word-for-word “for fun” afterwards.
From weeks of Vacation Bible Schools, day camps, and campouts.
From Caravan badges and perfect memorization of scriptures.
Miss a word in 25 verses and Mrs. S would make you do it all over again.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Are you going to keep Him out?
Slide. Slide. Slide. Are you really thinking bad thoughts? If so, “Just As I Am.”
Don’t forget He is coming. (Surprise! You won’t know when)
Don’t be that woman whose husband flew into the sky and “wish we’d all been ready.”
Are you sure you are ready?
6-6-6. You aren’t ready. Are you? Make sure.
Beg God each night just in case.
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake . . .”
If I die—-wait, are you ready? Make sure.
I am from making gallons and gallons of orange drink, vacuuming carpets,
Cleaning urinals, unlocking church doors,
Turning classroom lights on in the dark tunnels of hallways by myself.
I am from picking up bulletins left in pew pockets,
From paper cuts folding and stuffing the bulletins,
From setting up nursery toys, chairs, rooms, and tables.
I am from Gaithers, Speers (“a chip off the old Brock”), and Cathedrals.
Who knew of Journey, Fleetwood Mac, or Bread?
Played backwards, and Satan Himself will steal your soul.
Amy Grant is as far as you can go.
From dresses, pantyhose, and heels—Sundays or Wednesdays or any other day,
From no movies (unless on vacation, and even then, Herbie or Don Knotts are the limit),
From no dancing, no drinking, no swearing (even Jiminy Cricket, because, you know--JC),
From no running in God’s House, from no thought of ever missing a holy day or a service,
From “thou shalt nots” running through my head.
And P.S. “others are watching you, so make sure you are always a good example.”
And “You don’t want others to miss Heaven because of your behavior.”
And “Go to a movie, and you may tempt others.”
And “Take a drink, and you may become an alcoholic or tempt others.”
After all, “My Body is a Temple of the Holy Spirit”--
And because of that, no thoughts of intimacy before marriage,
That holy sacrament and institution that always works if you pray hard enough
And hold your husband up and allow him to be the moral leader of the house.
I am from all of this—and yet more.
I am from after-church potlucks,
From caring for people without your shared DNA as if they are your own family,
From flying kites together, making smores over the fire, lighting sparklers on the 4th,
From vacations taken together with “family”--to the mountains, to the beach, to Epcot,
From shared birthdays and weddings,
From helping each other out, whether it meant wallpapering or painting, moving, re-shingling, cooking, or just being there.
From hugs and offers of prayer,
From people who helped you celebrate and stood beside caskets,
From people who loved me
And still do.
I am from stories of Zaccheus “the wee little man” who was called down from his hiding place, forgiven and accepted by Christ,
From David who was called God’s own despite adultery and premeditated murder,
And from Jonah who disobeyed God and yet was still saved by God’s whale-taxi.
I am from stories of Christ’s amazing grace,
And Christ’s acceptance of all those whose lives were messy.
HOWEVER . . . . . . this same origin story,
The same “I am from” that developed so much of my childhood story—and the one that determined so many of my values and principles—the one that provided me love and support and a sense of security—
Often reveal themselves as “whited sepulchres,”
the source of thrown stones of accusation and exclusion and cliques.
This “I am from” that loved me with open arms is also
the source of closed doors and turned backs for so many I know,
the source of silence for many when life got messy.
This same Christ who loved
The prostitute,
The bleeding, unclean woman,
The lepers,
The crippled man—-
The same Christ who saw the crowd and felt his heart go out in pain for others
Is supposedly (according to my “I am from” crowd) also the same one who doesn’t fully love gay people, Democrats,
Women whose husbands filed for divorce, mothers pregnant outside of wedlock,
Or ministers who happen to be female.
According to them, He is the same One who upholds the institution of marriage
Over the welfare of women and children in abusive households,
The same one whose will is to make young girls pregnant from their incestuous families (and the same one who will not help her find a way out of this situation).
To them, He is the same One who shames people for mental issues
Because “Let Go and Let God.”
The same “I am from” background
Has allowed the world to seep into their beliefs,
Pushing them to intertwine politics into their religious beliefs,
Thus closing the doors on anyone who doesn’t believe like they do.
Some of their ministers (who I know) openly ridicule political leaders who don’t carry an R.
Their leaders post cruel posts about those D people,
Those LGBTQIA+ gay people,
And suggest God’s special touch on some,
While those gays at the Pulse club were punished by God, suggesting God loves some more than others.
AS A RESULT, I am from confusion,
From a perplexed and lost mind.
From former every-day churchgoer, from licensed minister, from pastor,
to the one wandering in the wilderness,
Hearing the Voice,
Hearing the Heart,
Seeking the Truth,
But only hearing it and finding it—for now— outside of four walls.
The place that provided me those glorious potlucks where all ate and were welcomed now appears to be the place where the tables are shrinking, the seats are reserved, and some are asked to leave.
In my search in the wilderness,
I have found so many searching with me,
So many wanting to sit, talk, and be heard.
So, I am setting up a huge picnic blanket, and I have brought along snacks and drinks.
Who knows?
Maybe a stranger will come meet us out there in the wilderness and multiply some fishes and bread.
I am not sure where I am going,
But I am not alone.
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