when I want to quit, this is why

A lot of us are worried about why people of my generation are fleeing organized religion. The topic may be tired, but I can’t avoid it because I feel the conflict within my own self. I am both a church insider puzzling over the indifference of youth and young adults, and I am also a young adult who thinks about walking away to try and live her life in her own way.

Most of my life, I have loved being a part of the church. I have disagreed and I have raged, but I have never been able to be indifferent. I have always seen so much good that my frustrations inspired me to try and make things better.

But there is another side. When I see the bad and the ugly I wonder, “Is this church thing really worth the bother?” Today I give voice to this other side and speak about what pushes me away. And though I speak of “the church,” I really mean a segment of my church experience, those things that, when I see them, send me running in the opposite direction.

(1) My ministers are not in therapy. I see pastors leveraging their ministerial authority to meet their own sexual and emotional needs. I see ministers whose arms are full and whose backs are breaking under the baggage they carry.

(2) The church’s talk about the world and humanity feels false to me. I don’t believe that our suffering is punishment for our sins. I don’t believe that praying and reading the Bible will make my problems disappear. I don’t believe that the disco is evil. I hear sermons that tell me how bad I am (simply repulsive in God’s sight), while expecting me to far “better” than I could ever be (a person without lust, anger, or doubt.) The church isn’t talking about the things that make me weep or laugh or set my teeth on edge or keep me up at night.

(3) The church restricts my behavior. Yoga is suspect; partying is definitely condemned. I don’t care if these suggestions are good or bad, I simply don’t like rules. The church isn’t teaching me to live in a way that contributes to my health, or the flourishing of my communities and my world.

(4) The church is racist. Churches are filled with people who look, think, and talk the same way. Worse yet, they don’t desire or imagine that things should be any different.

(5) The church is sexist. As a woman pursuing ordained ministry, I despair when I remember that I could enter almost any other field and encounter less resistance based on my gender.

(6) The church doesn’t see me or make use of my gifts. I am seen as volunteer power, one unit to fill a slot in a long-running program. No one asks me what I like to do, what I’m good at, or what I might dream up for our community.

(7) Fundraising, programming, and ceremony are take precedence over relationship. Church leaders don’t have time to talk to me because they are writing an email to someone more important.

(8) A lot of religious people are really annoying. I don’t know if religious people are any more annoying than the general population, but they do seem to be more self-righteous about it.

(9) Worship is boring. Nothing happens. I don’t do anything, feel anything, smell anything, learn anything.

(10) The church forgets that God is real. People don't go to church expecting that God will move, or open the Bible expecting that God will speak. The church asks God for help with its work, but doesn’t pay much attention to what God is up to.

Bad Behavior

Fifty or so parents, mostly mothers, crowded into the school cafeteria. Most of them squeezed into child-sized benches facing the front. Others, like me, sat on tables at the side or stood in the back. They held babies in their arms, sometimes nursing them, and were followed by small children who played by their feet or at the edges of the room with their friends. These were Roma: parents, siblings, or students of the school for Roma children on the edge of town. The school's Hungarian and Ukrainian teachers stood in a line along the side near the front of the room, and a few others with the director in the center.

For the next hour, those up front directed themselves to the room at large. A chief concern was the problem of school attendance. They spoke about the importance that kids come to school and on time and stay for the whole day, and that children continue to attend as they progress to the older classes.

Whatever the intentions, the results as I surveyed this scene were comically tragic. At several points the parents erupted in laughter at this or that suggestion. I felt so much loose energy in the room that I myself could not sit still by the meeting's close. These parents began by talking with neighbors, but were soon motioning to others across the room. They shifted in their places or announced an opinion to no one in particular; nearly all the men stepped out for a cigarette.

I expect that the teachers left feeling that all their negative opinions of Roma had been confirmed - irresponsible, disrespectful, uncooperative, indifferent to the wellbeing of their children, impossible to work with. And these beliefs will come out in the way teachers interact with their students. I doubt that the parents left with a flattering portrait of their children's teachers, and this will do little to mitigate the problem of low school attendance. The disappointment is that two groups of people left the room continuing to believe the worst about one another. It's not a surprise; the meeting wasn't conducted any differently than if the audience had been the children themselves.

I'm trying to imagine my way toward a different model, one in which both parties get the benefit of adult-sized furniture. The conversation might begin with questions. Why are children missing school? Because their help is needed at home? Because they worry that others will tease them about their clothes or shoes? Because they are sick? And if so, why? Because they simply don't like the humiliating treatment they get from teachers? What can we do together to work on the problems? How do the parents understand the community's challenges, and do they get any say in the way their children are educated?

Until we truly listen to another adult human being, we find no antidote for our negative stereotypes.

Images of God, Pt. 2

The child who exclaims my name every time she sees me. Surely God also takes such delight at my ongoing presence in this world.

A certain wise, young woman with whom I would love to knit for hours on end, discussing theology and the shape of our lives. Because God is also a safe place in which my deepest knowings find their way into expression.

A young man who is learning to let his heart break. Maybe God once also wavered before choosing the heartbreaking risk of love.

A mentor who winks from the corner right before my voice begins to waver: Yes, this is right, keep going. God also supports my cause, both a cheerleader and a dread warrior.

Another young girl who runs alongside my bike, smiling, after we say good-bye; God also goes with me on my journey.

When I forget that it is not customary for men and women to shake hands, God is a man who steps in and shakes my hand after I offer it to one who doesn't take it or doesn't see. Even the day's small dyings do not go unnoticed, and my God will not let me be put to shame.

An old woman who makes sure I have food for each day, and plenty of it. In her God feeds me, and cares for my needs with steadfast dailiness.

A woman who smiles at me from the pulpit when I enter church a minute late. God always invites me in, however frantic my arrival.

To whom do we bear the image of God but to one another? How would I know what God looks like apart from my sisters and my brothers? We are not God, none of us but one. And yet somehow we are God, from body to breath to spirit, just as surely as we are also dust and carbon and animal.

Take care, you are the presence of God on earth. Far from perfect, I know, but an imperfect witness to something of the mystery of God, a piece to which you bear witness more perfectly than anyone else. If you do not believe me, ask, and I will tell you what I see of God in you.

Images of God

A cross on a hill right outside town.

You are a good meal shared with friends;

a hot cup of tea first thing in the morning.

You are a tall tree,

and the itch to pick up my pen.

You are the fire in my belly

and the salty tears on my cheeks.

You are the dance - the moment of self-forgetfulness.

You are a full-bellied laugh

and that instant when eyes catch.

You are the swing and the hammock and a lover's arms.

When I stood with a friend on the beach of Lake Erie,

you were the sky curved around us, dazzling and protective.

You are the children who gather around my bicycle in a dusty nowhere;

you are the Hungarian grandmother who prays for me.

You are the smell of clean hands,

not the stars so much as the remembering of how big is this universe.

You are my longing and my never-fully-satisfied.

Wednesday's Mail

On Wednesday morning I found a thick packet from my denomination's office on the counter in the church kitchen. I knew what to expect as I opened the manilla envelope: a short stack of missionary updates from folks serving around the globe, and the fall edition of a denominational magazine. My reactions to these contents were mixed. On the one hand, the envelope was a friendly greeting from a world that is familiar and understandable. I was inspired to see the many places where God has called others to serve. I read about "turn around" churches, new initiatives, successful partnerships, and unexpected ways that missionaries and churches have found to meet the needs of their communities.

But. All of this seems so far away from my experience. Granted I'm not a full-fledged missionary or ordained minister, just a seminary graduate and year-long volunteer. It's possible that the seasoned professionals know something that I have yet to figure out. But let me say: my life so far as a volunteer does not feel like the stuff of the clean, glossy pages I pulled out of that envelope. Most of the time I just feel confused. Even my hard-won linguistic gains are lost in most conversations when PANIC! inevitably sets in and my brain seemingly shuts down. As many days as not, I wonder if me/God/someone made a mistake in my getting here. I have felt joy and purpose, but I have also played host to loneliness, apathy, despair, and anger.

I will soon be writing (something) to share with folks back home who love, pray for, and support me. I could also write it that voice of secure optimism. But if my words turned up in the hands of some other young volunteer, would she be able to recognize this account as her own? Would it convey something of what it actually feels like to be seeking to follow God in a foreign land?

This is a question for those of us involved in ministries of all sorts. From brochures, newsletters, blogs, and snappy introductions, how do we talk about the work that we are trying to do? Can I write home trying to demonstrate that my work is important while I'm still in the process of figuring out what it is? Is there space in the pages of our publications for programs that flop, initiatives that prove misguided, or churches that close? Aren't these also part of the story, or is it only the success stories that point to the good news of what God is doing in our midst?

It's time to inject our prose with a little more honesty. Let's talk about our work in a way that reads a little less like an annual report and a little more like the book of Acts. The stories of Acts give me plenty to aspire to. But in them I also meet something of my own experience - the same struggle and well-intentioned bungling. Its (human) characters are hardly heroes, but their stories have proved to have a bit of staying power.

In response to an email I wrote on a particularly rough day a friend of mine replied, "It is such an encouragement to me to hear about someone else's struggles. (Sorry about that!) To hear about someone else's humanness and desires and search for God in the midst of life." My thoughts exactly. It's easy to assume that our audiences want to hear cheerful tidings of goals exceeded. But maybe some would like to hear that they aren't the only ones having a hard time seeing what God is doing in their lives. With this admission begins hope in one who is able to do more than we expect or imagine.