Finding a church

Jack and I started looking for a regular church right after we got married.  We had a tentative list of qualities we wanted: thoughtful and scholarly sermons, a small Bible study group we could join, diversity in age and background, as well as other young married couples.

Conspicuously absent from my list was “women.”  I didn’t realize how I craved mentors.  Whenever I joined a new church, I would immediately sniff out an older, educated and often, well, unusual Christian woman and attach myself to her.

My first mentor was a missionary that I found in Russia.  She was over six feet tall, single, and fluent in Russian despite having begun studying at age 40.  I lived with her for a few months during my first year of being a Christian, and we spent many evenings at her kitchen table as she listened patiently to my stories and questions.

When I came back to the states, I began tagging along with a half Native American woman with long silver hair.  She had finished her PhD in her early 40’s, then she and her husband had two kids.  They had a sign outside their front door that said “Welcome to the home of Dr. and Mr. Bentley.”  She home-schooled her boys, teaching them Greek, Latin, and how electrical circuits work.  They practiced “attachment parenting,” which meant all four of them slept in one bed.  Even though I found that a little creepy, I loved her brazenness.  Some part of me thought, “all this, and you’re a Christian?  Then maybe I can break the mold too.”

When I got married two years later, I thought that I had lost my chance of breaking any mold.  I worried that I had married because I feared independence.  My life story was looking too similar to others: I had been a good Christian college student, then I had a good Christian wedding where we sang “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” and it would only be a matter of time before I learned to cook and had babies.  And even though I loved the song “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing” and wanted to learn how to cook, I was terrified of becoming invisible amidst all the other Christian wives who cooked and sang and went to church.

So, with all this insecurity about being newly married, Jack and I tagged along with two old Intervarsity friends to their church.  During the “meet and greet” time, I turned away from Jack to the person next to me, who smiled and introduced herself.  She was in her 40’s and wore hiking boots and no makeup.  She had been going to this church for nearly a decade.  I was stunned… a functional member of a church who didn’t have to fight to stand out?  In fact, it didn’t seem to occur to her that she wasn’t “typical.”  She was just herself, friendly and smiley and wearing hiking boots to church.  I asked what she did, and she told me she was a professor.  I nearly proposed.

Instead, I blurted out, “I really want to go back to school!  But I have to pick something to study first, and I don’t know how to do that.”  She empathized.  She used to be an engineer, after all, before getting her master’s in Communications.

After church we met the associate pastor, another single woman in her 40’s, who, I later learned, will listen and not judge even if you bitch and moan about her church for an hour.  Jack immediately liked Andrea too, but I was fascinated.  I could not comprehend how these women learned to be so comfortable in their own skin, without measuring themselves against others.

When Jack and I got home that day we talked about how much we liked the church.  The pastor referenced two outside sources in his sermon!  And did you see all the young married couples!  And we already have friends there!  I didn’t say, “I met women I actually admire!”, but I think that was why I went back, and back, and back.  As someone who is swayed by the tide of others’ expectations, I’m startled by women who live without apology.

I’m speaking at my church’s women’s retreat in a couple weeks.  My talk, ironically, is about being comfortable in your own skin and not living in the tide of others’ expectations.  I feel simultaneously very qualified and not at all qualified on this topic.  Let me know if you want to come.  You have to be a woman, but it doesn’t matter if you’re a typical one or not.

Why I haven’t invited you to church yet

One horribly awkward Thursday evening in college, I was heading out of my dorm to Intervarsity Christian Fellowship’s worship service, which we called “Large Group.”  About five of us were walking there together, including one of the Bible study leaders.  Really nice guy.  Biggest heart of almost anyone I’ve met.  This might be the only less-than-stellar memory I have of him.

As we crossed the first street, he said, “Hey, let’s invite everyone we meet on the way to Large Group!”  We all responded with varying levels of fake enthusiasm.  No one would dare admit to not liking evangelism.  Partly because we didn’t know how to express emotions (“I feel embarassed and afraid!”), and partly because we already knew the response:

“you should really pray about that.”

So we headed onto campus and our fearless leader greeted everyone with, “Hey!  Do you want to go to the most awesome worship service on campus?”  After the second response of, “Uh, no thanks,” I think even he wished we could just walk the rest of the way in silence.  But instead we all pretended we were having a great time, we just conveniently forgot to make eye contact with anyone.

We had an unspoken taboo against honesty.  I hope that’s changed.

I genuinely did (and do) like having conversations about God… but inviting people to church has always been about as enjoyable as throwing up.  Mostly because it is very, very hard for me to be honest and authentic.  I start by asking someone if they’d like to come to church with me and suddenly I find myself quoting C.S. Lewis, then I force a laugh for no reason, then I tell them to just let me know if they want to come via email.  Or text message.  Or restraining order, if that’s more convenient.

But this week I had been talking with my sister-in-law about Christmas.  She said that she hoped to teach her little boy that Christmas is about more than Santa and presents… she wanted him to value the sense of community and generosity, the idea of peace and love and helping others.  And I had the strangest realization… she might actually want to come to my church’s Christmas eve service.

Normally I think, “if I invite Carine to church, we’ll probably sing ‘Grace like Rain’ for 17 minutes, then she’ll hate Jesus.”  But this time I thought…what if I invited her and didn’t feel responsible for what happens there?  What if I gave both of us the freedom to enjoy or not enjoy the service, without trying to fix or explain anything?

Joris, my not-quite-two nephew, came too.  I’ve always secretly wanted to bring him to church, because he’s so darn cute and I like bragging that I’m related to him.  He didn’t disappoint.  At the end of every song, he clapped and yelled, “YAAAYYY!”, which often overlapped with the Scripture readings:

[song ends.] “YAAAAYYY!”

“For unto us a child is b–”

“YAAAYYY!”

Halfway through the service he found his blue fishy sunglasses in the diaper bag.  He put them on and head-banged for the rest of the carols with his stuffed tiger, Coco.

The service ended with the song “Silent Night,” and a reading from the book of John:

“In the beginning was the word, and the word was made flesh and dwelt among us.”

What mystery, I thought.

And then.

A young pastor stood up and said, “You may have asked yourself, ‘where is God?’, and that’s a good question.  Well, God has answered that question!”

I glanced over at Jack, who gave me this look:

Oh shit, I thought, the pastor is doing that Christmas-and-Easter thing.  His church is packed and he’s going to try to convert as many people as possible.  My sister-in-law is going to hate me.  She’s going to hate Jesus.  She’s going to think I manipulated her.

It was the ultimate test in emotional boundaries.  Mine are very poor.  I wish I could listen to that sermon and think, “I’m not sure that I like this homily, and it’s okay for me to disagree.”  Instead I thought, “Oh no!  How will I please both my sister and this pastor that I’ve never met?  Have I disappointed her by inviting her here?  Am I failing my church by being angry?  Will I be kicked out for sighing audibly?”

I felt like I was again walking with my Bible study leader from Intervarsity, watching him bravely invite strangers to an awesome worship service.  I didn’t know then how to speak honestly without abandoning him.  And I still don’t know how to sit in church without the fight-or-flight instinct.

Carine, of course, didn’t hate me for the pastor’s sermon.  She’d had a great time singing and was more than willing to wait out the 10 minute homily.  Besides, she was too busy keeping a toddler quiet to really pay attention.  Thank God.

Disneyland and the Kingdom of God

He called a little child and had him stand among them. And he said: “I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

I’m sure a lot of parents have told their kids that heaven is like Disneyland, probably in a desperate attempt to get them to love God and go to church.  Because really, I would go through any number of years of bad Sunday school for an eternity in Disneyland.  Wouldn’t you?

I spent last week in Disneyland with my parents and two nieces.  We flew in Monday, went to the park for a few hours, then went back to the hotel room to sleep.  I lay awake, my mind buzzing with excitement.  Splash Mountain!  Peter Pan!  Indiana Jones! Then, with a rush of guilt, I thought, “I forgot to pray today.”

Realizing that you forgot to pray is like realizing you forgot to take your birth control pill.  Not only do you feel stupid for not doing it, you have to get up out of your warm bed and find the damn pills.  Then you have to remind yourself of the horrible things that will happen if you keep forgetting.

I liked thinking about Disneyland more than praying.  I didn’t want to quiet my mind, to ask God to speak, or confess the long list of unaddressed sins.  I’d much prefer some form of entertainment and fun.

Which is why I’ve spent much of the last year on facebook, or watching movies, or reading magazines.  Frenzied distraction has replaced joy and contentment.  I feel like Pinocchio arriving at Pleasure Island.  The candy and games—they’re still fun.  I don’t want to go back to the father yet.

On Wednesday we ate breakfast at Goofy’s Kitchen, which was flooded with Disney characters.  It was chaos, with little necks craning and little fingers pointing and little voices… oh the little voices… shrieking and laughing.

And that’s where I saw it, why Jesus probably loves Disneyland too.  Goofy was as excited to see my nieces as they were to see him.  Winnie the Pooh acted as though we were his long-lost daughters.  The princesses knelt down and listened to rambling stories, as if the kids too were beautiful, worthwhile, and had hearts of pure gold.  Everywhere in Disneyland, kids (and adults) were welcomed, celebrated, loved, and nurtured.

I’m guessing that when Jesus told people to become like little children, he was picturing the way kids react to Disneyland.  They love it.  In the words of my 5-year-old niece, “I wish I could live here!”

I’m not sure how much the guy in the Goofy suit likes his job, but I would say he spends his days loving his neighbor.  And you know, being hugged by Winnie the Pooh is probably the closest I’ve ever gotten to being hugged by Jesus.  Sorry, Jack.

Associations

Here is a sentence that I have now memorized, thanks to our 10-day visit to Jack’s Nana and Grandpa:

“Bless us O Lord, for these thy gifts which we were about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

For 55 years, all the Canty kids (and later, grandkids) waited for Grandpa to give this blessing before dinner.  And every time we visit Nana and Grandpa, Jack wonders how his life would have been different if he had grown up sitting at that table and saying that prayer.

The short back story: Jack was born in Manchester, MA, and lived there for the first few months of his life.  His parents divorced when he was still a baby.  His mom raised him, and Jack met his dad (and grandparents) at age 23.

Jack imagines he would have ended up like the guys who came to his non-Christian Bible Study in college.  The ones who were raised Catholic seemed to have neutral (or bad) associations with church and religion.  Like our  10-year-old cousin who, when asked if he wanted to go to church, responded, “Will there be donuts?”  Donuts make an okay god until about age 12.

Not that I expect a 10-year-old to ask, “Will the burden of failure and shame be taken from me?  Will the vague emptiness in me somehow be filled?  Will I be known and accepted?”  Especially not a 10-year-old who tells Helen Keller jokes without knowing who Helen Keller is.

Once I came across a blog written by a Catholic dad.  He had two young kids (under age 4), and he wrote that he makes a point of holding and cuddling his kids during mass.  He said that he wants them to grow up associating church (and, I assume, God), with warmth, love, and safety.

When I read that I thought about the Canty family, thanking God for his blessings every night for 55 years; and all that the Canty kids associate with that prayer: anticipation of Nana’s cooking, a sense of shared activity, parents and grandparents being proud (as they all were when 4-year-old Jillian crossed herself correctly), and mostly, family stability.  No matter what fights went on that day, you could count on sitting with your family and saying that prayer in the evening.

If you care to comment, what do you remember about your religious upbringing say, before age 5 (before you learned the Bible stories and started to evaluate what was true and what wasn’t)?  What feelings do remember having about church and God?  In what ways did that shape you as an adult?  Do you think any of those associations are still with you?

I started going to church around age 5, after a wedding.  The minister called for prayer and when everyone bowed their heads I said, “MOM, WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR?”  Mom decided it was time to start my religious education.  I’m curious, though, what did I miss before then?

Plunging the Depths

I reduced my hours at Peet’s by about 50%, which means I’m about 50% less angry.  If such a thing can be measured.

When I met with my pastor she told me to “plunge the depths” of my anger.  Which is not the concrete practical advice I like to hear.  I’d prefer something like “make an appointment with a counselor,” or “slam raw eggs into the wall of your shower” (believe me, the cleanup is *not* as easy as you might think.  I had to bust out the ajax to get the yolk off, and the shards of shell are still behind the toilet).

Earlier this week, when Marin asked me how I’ve been lately, I told her, “I’ve been angry.”  I thought “plunge the depths” might mean, “admit it.”  And when I said those words I tried to remember if I’d ever said them before.  Saying “I’m angry” feels a little naughty, like carving your first bad word under the dining room table.  Or writing “Denver” on the living room wall (If you ever think you will get through parenthood without screaming, “WHO WROTE ‘DENVER’ ON THE NEW PAINT?“, talk to my mom).

I am worried about complaining too much.  I’m scared that I’ll lose my friends, or insult my church family, or that someone will call me to say that my blog is “too whiny” (hi, Mom!).  But please forgive me, I’m just starting to learn what to do with anger.  Plunging the depths is bound to be messy.

Babies, anger, and being invisible

Jack and I have a deal:  if we accidentally get pregnant during grad school, I get a kitty.

Jack would love to have five kids right this minute.  I would love to not be asked about babies for four more years.  Not surprisingly, this is a source of some tension between us.

There are two conversations Jack and I tend to have about kids.  One is the “If, When, and How Many,” which always ends with me saying “Honey, I really have no idea.  Let’s talk about something else… like my graduate school!”  The second is the “Rising Panic” conversation, where we discuss who is more misunderstood for a couple hours, then we debate who started the conversation in the first place, then one of us who shall remain nameless tries to re-instate the “no fighting after 8pm” rule.  But that person can’t fall asleep anyway because HE OR SHE did not sufficiently get HIS OR HER point across about being misunderstood.  Often that person is extra noisy getting ready for work the next morning at 5am.  Good times.

See, unlike Jack, I learned the ex-hippie both-parents-are-teachers model of life.  Education is an end to itself, they told me, and there is no rush to do anything.

So after decades of believing that I would start a family in my 30’s, I sauntered into my marriage at the scandalously young age of 24 (thank you Jacob for paving that road for me), and Jack started talking babies.  And I reacted out of emotional whiplash.  Babies?  Are you kidding me?!  I figured I would make coffee for another decade first.

This topic of babies is on my brain again because of what happened at church.  We were chatting after the service with a group of peers.  One of my (married but childless) girlfriends was talking about how she loves her two new cats.  And one of the men said, lightheartedly and not at all maliciously, “baby replacements!”

Later I felt angry, really angry, at that comment.  Is that how people at church see me?  Is grad school just my “baby replacement?”  Does my whole church, or even my husband, think I’m an incomplete version of myself until I have kids?

Clearly I’m a little touchy about the baby thing.  Lately, going to church has been an exercise in ignoring my rage.  I don’t ignore it well.

I talked to my pastor last week.  I told her that the music at church is so irritating that I spend half of the worship set in the bathroom.  And that the sermons fuel a rage that I carry with me all week.  I told her that of all the places I feel any sense of God’s presence, church is at the very bottom of the list.  Once I started talking about it, I found a seemingly bottomless pit of anger.

I complained about church literally for an hour.  To my pastor.  That’s like having coffee with, I don’t know, Danielle Steele, and telling her that all her novels suck, using quotes from her novels to illustrate your point.

And here’s why my pastor is one of my favorite people on the planet:  She gave me permission to interrupt any of her sermons if I need to.  That’s right, a free pass to make idiots of both her and me, just so I could be seen and heard.

And that’s what all this anger–at the sermons, the music, and the babies– is all about.  I feel invisible.  Because at some point, despite my best efforts, I absorbed the message that if the pastor says it, I should think it too.  And if the song is played (you know, the one about pouring out the richness of the fullness of the glory of the flood of the spirit’s healing waters), I should sing it and be grateful. And if I go to church, I need to clean up and fit a certain mold.

So when I don’t agree with the sermon, or when I hate the song, I’m not sure who I can tell.  I’m scared that the real Christine will be ignored, or rationalized, or corrected—not seen and heard.  And I’m afraid that no one will believe me if I say I just don’t know if I want kids.

One of the last things my pastor said during our meeting was, “You’re not invisible, Christine.  I see you.”

Which was of course what I needed to hear.  And as I biked home, you know what I realized?  A lot of people are invisible.  I make sure of that.  I look around my church and I see “all those Christians.”  I look at the new parents and think “eh, moms.”  I hear the pastor and get angry that “everyone else” agrees.

I haven’t listened, though I so want to be heard.  I haven’t tried to know others, though I want to be known.

Tomorrow is Sunday.  I hope at church I get to hear someone’s story.  Maybe they can become visible too.

That’s how I feel too…

From ASBOjesus