I remember when she said it. Sitting across from her at the lunch table in tenth grade, she was constantly challenging my faith as I believed I was witnessing to her.
"I like your Jesus, I don't like your Christians."
It didn't make sense to me. I knew there were some bad Christians out there, fakes I would call them. But for the majority, the people I knew loved Jesus and loved people. Her statement was far beyond my capacity to understand. And now, all these years later, I find myself uttering the same words.
I heard those words again from another friend, years later. And I started to imagine what it would be like to take him to Church with me. My long-haired guy friend. I could see it. I would bring him into Church and someone who looks him up and down and walk right past him. I think this is when it began. I am grateful for him. He pointed out some blatant flaws that I had missed before. He made me realize that my answers for his questions were like a kid using Elmer's glue. The questions had grown, no longer little pieces of paper to glue together, but boulders, huge and menacing, that my Sunday school answers no longer measured up to.
I started to say those words. I started saying them when I watched a Christian institution walk right over my friend who was suffering from a diagnosable mental health condition and ask her if she had sin in her life that was causing this. I started saying these words when I heard Christians talk about mental health as a faith issue, rather than a real medical concern. The doubt grew like cancer throughout my body and heart as the people who claimed to be Christ followers looked less and less like Christ and more and more like a country club.
I haven't wanted to write this blog. I haven't wanted to admit to myself that I had questions. That my faith is on shaky ground. I haven't wanted to admit it to you, my readers. Because I know what some of you will think. I know some of you will be concerned, I know there will be talk. But I can no longer pretend that it all makes sense to me. I can no longer say that I know what is right and what is wrong. I can no longer say the Bible gives clear answers on homosexuality or the age of the earth or politics. I can no longer say I agree with the Church of my origin that women cannot be in ministry, that salvation is predetermined, that missions look a certain way, that we should send away the immigrants and build a wall, that speaking in tongues is dead and healing can no longer be miraculous and instantaneous. I can't live that way anymore. And please, if you have concerns, I beg of you to reach out to me. If you are concerned about me, I want you to tell me. I want to have these conversations with you, rather than feeling alone under the weight of these questions. If you have questions, tell them to me. I want to know that I am not the only one who feels the quakes of the earth and looks around to see if anyone else is feeling them too.
This does not mean I am doubting Jesus. He is still my everything. I am doubting the institution that I know is the Church. I am doubting the rules and rituals we have created. I am doubting the 'safety' of American Christianity.
Today in Church we sang "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom."
He is here. I can still feel him. I can still cling tightly to the truth of his goodness, his resurrection power, his hope. I know he goes with me to this valley of questions. I have found freedom here, but I have also found fear. It is a fear of loneliness, a fear of being misunderstood. So if you're reading this, I want to hear your thoughts. I ask you to reach out to me and share your thoughts about this, whether positive or negative. Let us not be in the dark with these questions.
