this post is not factual by any stretch of the imagination (because my memory is shot), but it is based on a true story. this is how it felt. names have been changed to protect the guilty (and the innocent).
“My wife can still fit in the jeans
she wore in high school,” he says from the stage of a movie theater
church. “Well, hallef*$#inglujah,” I wanna
say even though I don’t like that cuss word. I’m sitting next to my brand new friend, Elliot, who is hot in the best sense
of the word. We met in graduate
school. He’s from the Midwest and wants
to be a counselor. We are both
Christians who have somehow found our way to an unconventional Christian
graduate school on the West Coast. I
know almost nothing about him except that he has a good sense of humor and seems
a little heartbroken like me. We are in
a movie theater.
Upon arrival, we have made our way
to crimson crushed velvet seats, about halfway down, on the left side. Grunge music with the lights down low kicks
off an alternative church service. Well, this is interesting, but I really don’t care for grunge music. There’s a white screen with the words on it up
front, so I try to sing along but I can’t find the right notes. I like to sing in church, so this is
disappointing. This music is hard to follow. It stops soon enough. “‘Welcome to Fight the Good Fight Church,” says a
guy with cool black glasses and a scruffy five o’clock shadow. He’s
kinda cute and no ring. Single.
Other attractive guys walk down the
aisles to pass out plain white sheets with an outline printed on them. “Women as Homebuilders” I read in bold
letters across the top. Oh no. Can I leave? Would it be rude? We are about halfway down the aisle, so
it would be very obvious. I don’t think I can do it. Does
Elliot want to go? Or is this his thing? Women staying at home. I don’t know. I just know I only had to read the title of the upcoming sermon for my
skin to crawl.
And it is curious, even to me. I wonder about my visceral response. I
am traditional. I like traditional
roles. I’m happy to unload the
dishwasher if my man will take out the trash. I’ll do his laundry if he’ll maintain my car. I’ll feed our children if he will heroically
man the throw-up. I’m not into being a
career woman. I don’t really care about
making money even though I have made plenty. Everything I’m really interested in doing, I would happily do for
free. I wanna stay home with my kids if I ever get to have any. I like these things about myself. But I slump down in my seat and feel
irritated that God’s desire for my life might just be to build a home. Try to
be open. Surely I can get something out of this. It’s church.
I steal a glance at Elliot, and I
can’t tell what he’s thinking. He seems
fine, if not thrilled, to be there. Relax. You’re in a church, in a cool movie theater, with lots of young
attractive and unusual people. I
like young people. I connect well with
their optimism and energy. And I like it
when people are creative in their personal expression. Within ten feet of me are fishnet tights,
purple hair, and multiple piercings that I like to look at but would never get,
because I don’t like pain. These could be my people. They are young, edgy, interesting
Christians. I would like to get to know
them. They’re probably a lot like
me. We all came here tonight hoping for
the same thing. We all want to connect
with each other and with God. I can
stay. I don’t need to go. It could be worse. I’ve just endured much worse.
But it goes downhill from
there. Jack preaches for what seems like
hours about his marriage and his home, putting them on a pedestal for
all to see and imitate. He tells us what
his wife does and implies that’s the way to go. She’s into nutrition, so he pulls out a prop and mocks Lunchables. What
about single mothers who are doing the best they can by feeding their children
those? I feel personally shamed, and I’ve never even tried Lunchables. But I did grow up on delicious Chef Boy Ardee
frozen pizzas and TV dinners by El Charrito. Occasionally, I went downstairs and got them out of the freezer to feed my
brother, Steve, and me while my mom was at work.
He’s
an idiot. I feel bad for thinking it in the same
moment. There’s nothing wrong with eating healthy, so why does this bug me so
much? What he is saying is not evil. It might be irrelevant or even foolish, but those are things we are all
prone to. Nobody’s perfect. You preach what you know. But then I realize that it is how he is saying it, not necessarily what he is saying, that is wrong. He is shaming us, anyone in the congregation who
for whatever reason buys or eats Lunchables. And that’s why I don’t like him. I don’t like him at all.
Then he says something funny. I laugh. So does my good-looking friend. Jack
is funny. He’s very funny. He
could be a comedian. I wonder if he
studies comedians. Then Jack says something else that is funny, but this
time it is also mean. Why did he do that? That was an insecure comedian’s joke. That was
cheap and easy. Anyone can get a laugh
saying things like that. I am
disappointed. And because I have been surrounded
by comedic geniuses all my life (Susan, Erin, Jenny, Kelley, Leslie, Mandy, and
Steve), I feel snobby. You don’t have to
be mean to be funny. I wish I could say this to him. Well, maybe you do, but truly funny people, witty
intellectual people, don’t. I
feel superior and back in control.
He talks and talks and talks, and I
am hanging on his every word. He is
verbose, but he is not boring. He has my
full attention. I’m drawn to him like I’m
drawn to a car wreck. My senses are on
full alert. Inside my new gray
long-sleeved t-shirt, a tag scratches at my back. I shift to my thinking position - elbows on
my knees and chin on my fists. That’s better. I can’t feel the tag any more. When I get home, I need to remember to cut it
out. Soon my contact lenses blur
from staring, so I blink several times and re-focus on Jack, on stage, in the
distance. He’s quoting bible verses rapid fire. How long is this gonna go on? Is
he just getting started? It’s already
been an hour. Is it always like
this? Is he always like this?
Minutes later, Jack decides to teach
us a lesson on marital conflict. My ears
perk up. I sit up straighter in my comfy
seat. I hate conflict. It never went well in my marriage. “When my wife has a problem with me, she is so godly,” he says, his chest swelling
with pride. “When she has something she
wants to talk to me about, she waits until we are lying in bed at night then she
gently whispers her concerns to me. She
quietly and respectfully makes her issues known.” He is obviously pleased. This is exactly what God wants. If you aren’t doing this, you’re doing it wrong. You are not a good woman. You are not a good wife. He didn’t say this. It wasn’t quite that obvious, but it was
implied. You are so arrogant. I lean
back in my chair and cross my arms across my chest. You
have no idea what you are talking about.
But male and female heads around me
are subtly nodding in agreement. I want
to stand up and testify to this congregation of young people that he is dead
wrong. “I tried that method. It doesn’t always work,” I wanna say. I almost lost my soul. And I learned the hard way that it was
anything but loving for me to gently whisper to my husband when he was being
mean and unloving. It was wrong for me
to just pray about it, try not to say
too much, and wait quietly and patiently for him to change. Whispering isn’t the key to resolving conflict. Or it wasn’t for me.
And there’s the rub. Perhaps, that is exactly what Jack, a strange
and broken man, needed in the moment.
Maybe he needed to be babied or mothered or whispered to when he was in
the wrong. Maybe he needed to be coddled,
comforted, and soothed in that particular moment. If I am honest, that is exactly what I
usually want – criticism in the gentlest possible form, in private, from a
person who loves me unconditionally. We
all need that sometimes. And that is totally ok - to want gentle and sensitive love.
But the implication that this
example (modeled and embodied in his own life) was God’s only plan for
resolving conflict in marriage was irritating and theologically irresponsible. What if
all these twenty somethings believe him? God, please don’t let them. I probably
would’ve followed his instructions in my early twenties. I mean, he strongly claims to love God, to be
called to speak on God’s behalf, and to know precisely what the bible
means. He also appears to be a bold Christian
man who loves his wife and his children, which is probably what most of the
women sitting in this theater want for themselves. It’s what I want for myself.
But I’m in “Hey I’ve been to
seminary, too, Smart Boy” mode. I’m a
doctor working on a second graduate degree just for fun. I’m in the middle of getting a Masters of
Spiritual Nurture degree which is turning out to be a piece of cake compared to
optometry school. And, even more
importantly, I am in Mama Bear mode. I
don’t even know the women who are sitting beside me in the crushed velvet rows,
but I feel like I could tear his head off if he hurt a single one of them. They are my spiritual cubs simply because
they are younger women who also believe in Jesus. They are women made of light and goodness and
love. And my hunch is that they
sincerely want to follow God and are wisely looking to someone older for help
and direction. That’s why I’m so pissed
off, another word I don’t use much.
I’m old enough to know better. They are not. I won’t take what Jack says and blindly put it on. Life has brutally and mercifully knocked some
of my naivete off. But the girl on the
aisle in the Ugg boots, the teenager beside me in the long black skirt, and the
young woman holding her boyfriend’s hand in front of me are young, trusting, and
hopeful. They are in a church where the
advice should be solid. But it’s
not. Not all of it. Some of it is fine, which is the brilliance
of evil. It’s the tiny bit of yeast that
changes all the dough (Galatians 5:9). I
sit in my seat in silence. I say
nothing. Others keep nodding along.
It’s
over, finally! It’s about time. My body relaxes. “Are you ready to go,” I ask Elliot. Without waiting for an answer, I say, “Let’s
go. I need to get home.” As he walks me to my car, I can’t help but
wonder why Jason, another guy I know, likes this church. I
just know him from school, but Jason is attractive and popular. He is masculine in a good way, an avid fly
fisherman. He is really nice. He always smiles and says hi to me in the
halls. I would like to date him if he
wasn't shorter than me.
He’s
a guy. Maybe that’s it. That’s all I can come up with. At
least today, Jack didn’t shame any guys. Not directly, unless you count criticizing their wives. He was focused on women and their particular
failings. He was focused on what women
must do to love their guys or accommodate them. Fit in your high school jeans when you are
thirty, shop at the thrift store so you don’t spend too much of a man’s hard-earned
money, and for God’s sake never, ever, ever feed your kids Lunchables.
The memory of Jack waving Lunchables wildly in the air and mocking them is forever cemented in my mind. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so sad. At that time, I was newly discovering verses in the bible encouraging me to "do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly." I was trying to wrap my head around a verse in James that claims pure religion is looking after widows and orphans. But Jack seemed certain that pure religion meant not feeding your family the wrong stuff. It just didn't resonate or seem to add up. I left feeling drained, irritated, and disappointed about all of it. For days, I worried about all the young people I saw at that church. I prayed they wouldn't go back. And I didn't.
That was in 2001, I think. I am
terrible with dates, even years. Today
is August 10, 2012. That church does not
meet in the theater anymore. Before you
breathe a sigh of relief, I have to tell you that failure is not the reason. Jack outgrew the theater and/or changed
strategies. His church now has multiple
campuses. One is a big warehouse
building with very few windows. Another
is a black-walled building in a neighborhood with a lot of young
professionals. It’s a former strip
club. I’ve been there, too, because I
didn’t want a friend to go alone, and it was even worse. Don’t get me started.
His success astounds me. If someone even mentions the name of his
church, I get wound up. I’m often met
with surprise (which amazes me) until I list my grievances and share similar
experiences I have heard from others. One friend told me that he pointed at two young girls seated near the
front of his church and told them they were dressed like prostitutes in front
of the whole congregation. A friend said
he bragged during a sermon about liking his wife in clear heels (I wonder how
she felt about the whole congregation knowing that). And when I went to the former strip club, he
bragged about covering an infant’s ears in her father’s arms when the father
told Jack that he respectfully disagreed with his position on abortion. I have pretty conservative views on abortion,
but what he did was disrespectful in the moment and horribly demeaning when he bragged about it, from the pulpit, to all the father's fellow congregants. I could go on and on. I usually
do.
The strip club worship service was
so offensive that I wrote Jack a personal letter. The response came from the secretary of the
church, and it was given to her by Jack’s assistant who read it. I should join a small group in their church
where I could discuss my problems, I was told (after clearly stating in the
letter that I was a member of another local church and just visiting). Or she said that he said they would be happy
to connect me with a woman with a seminary degree to clear up my confusion. “I
have a seminary degree,” I politely responded. “I am already involved in a good church. That was in the letter,” I reminded her. She said she had to work on her
issues with Jack, too, when she first came to the church. I wrote back and encouraged her to not jump
too quickly to the conclusion that she was the one with the problems. Then I worried about her, too.
It doesn’t feel strong enough to
say that I am disheartened by Jack and his religious institution, but I am. When I think about it too much, I feel
nauseous. I think it’s because being in his church
and hearing him speak felt a lot like being with my ex-husband when he was emotionally
abusive. I am sensitive to abuse. And I don’t believe, for a minute, that
either of them meant to or means to abuse. Because if they do, that would make them evil, in my book. I don’t think Jack is evil. I do think he is mean and broken and very foolish. I believe that he has admitted a history of being abused by his father. And it is a sad fact of life that
those who are abused often unknowingly replicate their abuse. I wonder if that is what is, unwittingly,
going on here. If so, I hope Jack gets
some help. Soon. Good counseling saved my life when I was drowning in the wake of abuse.
In 2010, I walked the two blocks
home from the strip club church in my tall black boots. I’m
never going back there again. I hope
Anna didn’t like it. God, please keep
her from going back. Please remind me to
invite her to my church. I pray she’ll
go anywhere but there and that she won’t give up on church. I might if I were her, if that were my only
experience of God and church. I take
a nice long hot bath and get under the white cotton sheet and our plush down
comforter. Exhausted, I cuddle up with
my husband and fall asleep quickly. Dreams
of violence (a first) that I can’t describe on a blog flood my mind. They are vivid and awful. I wake up relieved that they aren't real and it's over.
Jack wasn’t even there at the church, this
time. On a big screen, we watched a
recorded sermon from earlier that morning. As the service ended, I felt so relieved as I remembered he was not physically
in the room with us. I seriously thought about trying to say something to the women around me who were nodding with the sermon, but I didn't. I walked out with my young friend and was glad to hear that she didn't like it. "Are all churches like that now?" she asked with concern. "No," I said, "they aren't."
And I pray fairly often for Jack,
because though we are strangers he is very difficult for me to love. But if my faith is to have any substance the substance must be love. Otherwise, I
have no right to call myself a Christian. And, for me, being a Christian also means I am not supposed to remain silent
when I see, hear, or experience harm or injustice. And my very good friend, Lara, has been personally hurt
by Jack and also, sadly, by his wife. I often fail to
speak up when I see foolishness or evil, but as I get older I am less able to
do that in good conscience. As grace
would have it, occasionally, my heart just won’t allow it. When I think I shouldn’t rock the boat or when
I am tempted to ignore harm and move on, I hear haunting words in my heart.
All
that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good (wo)men do nothing.
If you are neutral in situations of injustice,
you have chosen the side of the oppressor.
There’s
a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.
I want more than what I have experienced
in our very broken world. We all make
mistakes, and we are all, every one of us, made for repentance. When I see it in the world, it’s so much easier for
me and maybe for everyone to believe in God’s existence. So Jack, for God’s sake, for your own, for
your followers, your wife, and your children, please open your heart and mind
to me. Just this once, I ask you to
carefully listen.
When you are kind to your
congregation and to those different than you, I find you compelling. And you are attractive when I can see past
your cool gelled hair and zipped up skull and crossbones hoodie to catch a
glimpse of the uniquely crafted image of the living God that resides within
you. I think it’s there, because I saw a
flicker of love in your eyes tonight and heard brief but true tenderness in
your voice as you talked about your wife and children. I am praying for whatever it takes, and I do mean whatever, to bring about your
repentance (going in a better direction, returning to the party of God) and
redemption (personal healing and restored
relationships). I am praying that your
cruel humor and your misuse of power will stop leading people away from
believing in Jesus. Because, like me,
you are a precious child of a God whose powerful love is unswerving and
relentless, exceedingly merciful, and wholly unconditional. And, as an optimist and a Christian, I can’t
help but believe that deep down in our souls, in the part of us that is both glorious
and needs healing from damage, we both want something - something that is infinitely
better.
