So, yesterday's post about Sundays seemed to spark some great thoughts and discussions. I have heard from many of you. You agree with some of my ideas, but I'm not foolish enough to think that all who read it found it easy to swallow. Here's what I know - any time we bring up the word CHURCH we are diving into a personal and sacred space. For many, this is a holy sanctuary of hope and light. For others, just the mere mention of the word floods your mind with guilt and judgement and fear. Yes, I find my heart filled in the context of the communal faith experience. But I also feel very convicted that in inviting all to join me in this journey, I am digging up memories of pain and loss.
Because I pride myself on transparency and truth, I cannot write one post on valuing Sundays and leave it all as glory. The Church, and all that it brings, is not all sunshine. For rest of this week, my blog is going to focus on the ups and downs in my church going experience. We don't get to the place where we pour our heart and soul into a mission without a good story. Sure, my happy children's choir days are mighty special, but so are the very hard lessons that I have learned from working and serving and giving my life to a community that I feel as passionately about as I do the Church. As we begin, you must know that when I say 'Church' with a capital 'C,' I am referring to the universal gathering of the followers of Jesus. Statements made with this broad stroke are ones that apply to all of us - protestant, catholic, evangelical, conservative and progressive alike.
While you may only read one or two of the posts this week, please know that this is a collective set. Don't think that my Pollyanna-ish view of ministry in today's post is what you will see as you read on Wednesday or Friday. Because the truth is, people are involved in the Church. And with people comes brokenness. And with brokenness comes opportunities for growth (that's my super positive spin on painfully hard, gut wrenching seasons of hell).
As you read yesterday, I fell hard for Church life at a young age. I liked the ritual and the classes and people and the cool robes. I thought the mystery of the texture of the communion wafers was fascinating. I thought that sneaking in to climb in the rafters of the sanctuary (mom... we didn't get hurt or break anything...that we know of) was so cool. The majority of my childhood memories involve some aspect of churchy-ness. And I loved every minute of it.
My first taste of grown up church life came when I was the youth representative to the Church Council. In my mind, this meant I was official. AND I got to go to meetings. I thought I had arrived. The way I saw it, if these grown-ups could see how great I was, I would be in charge in no time! I found my place at church. I didn't fit into the model of normal teenage life. I really wasn't interested in being rebellious. I didn't skip school or drink or smoke. I loved Church because I didn't like high school and if I did the right things and studied the right books and listened to the right music I was 'popular' at Church.
This was formational territory I my understanding of what contributed to a life of following Jesus. In my moralistic mind, you were either a good or a bad Christian. I didn't want anything to do with the bad, so I latched on to checking ALL the good boxes. I must stop for just a moment and express a word of apology to anyone who knew me in those days. I feel certain, no matter your reason to encounter me, that you were judged on my Jesus-loving scale. Life was so very black and white to me. For the thoughts and words and scowls that knowingly and unknowingly came from my judgey-jugerson self, I am so, so very sorry. Here's the good news, keep reading in the days to come because I learned the hard way how much I was a broken, flawed, desperate child of God.
Despite this limited thinking, came a very real and genuine desire to honor God. As I prepared to go off to Baylor, I had done all that I could think of to serve my local church. I was a youth group leader. I was a youth choir member. I served the larger United Methodist Church on committees and boards. I spoke on Youth Sunday. I even served on the retreat team at my high school, thinking that maybe my wisdom for God would rub off on some of the wild girls. Did I mention that I was judgmental?
One of the last trips before I left for college was a large youth gathering on the University of Arkansas campus. We heard speakers and worshiped and learned. As camp was coming to a close, in true youth camp fashion, they had the service. This is the end of week service where they invite you to dedicate your life to God in a new way. I was a veteran, and I knew what to expect. As I sat through the muffled hormonal sobs of intense adolescent feelings, I watched and genuinely prayed for many that were open to seeking God for the first time. I assumed that they would be ushered to the waiting adults and the rest of us would be left to close the final night with a dance, we were Methodists, mind you.
But then the speaker offered another invitation. I don't really remember exactly what the words were, but the message was something to the effect of, 'if you can't get away from this tugging that God has a big plan for you to serve the Church with all that you are, come on up here.'
I had no intention to move from my seat that night. And before I could realize what was happening, I was on that auditorium stage with other teenagers and they were praying over our lives and ministries and callings. I had no idea what that meant. Many days, I still don't understand it, but I can tell you that my life was never the same. I knew from that moment forward that whatever road I traveled, I was supposed to do it in a way that God was the center of my journey. And then I picked up 5 weeks later and went to college. And, well, college taught me a few new lessons.
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