You’re Taking Them The Wrong Way…

For me, I first came to Christ, as we put it, out of fear. That’s as honest and straightforward as I can be. My mom took me and my brother to a small town Baptist church in western Kentucky. The pastor was the typical Baptist preacher of his day and spent every Sunday delivering a sermon that was designed to build in fervor and pitch until he was shouting at the congregation about the need to repent and confess Jesus as your savior or risk spending eternity burning in the fires of hell.

As a young, impressionable eight year old who was taught to respect, if not fear, authority, the message was very convincing. One day I was going to die. It could be tomorrow. And, if I failed to pray and allow Jesus into my heart, then I would surely go to hell. After all, I was a sinner. I knew God hated sin and would send sinners like me to hell if we didn’t repent. Even eight year old sinners. That’s what I believed. Whether or not I understood the message as intended, I don’t know. I am telling you my story as I experienced it.

Hell was described to me in those early days as this place where you would burn in fire, which I knew would be very, very painful. I also knew I would be in the presence of Satan, who, by the way, was the scariest monster an eight year old could ever imagine. I may not have known a whole lot at eight but I knew I didn’t want any part of that. So, despite being extremely shy and scared to death of the preacher (tall men who shouted a lot were frightening to me), I knew I had to heed the call. I had to somehow find the courage to make that long walk down the aisle. I had to accept Christ as my Lord and Savior. I really didn’t know anything about Jesus. That wasn’t the point. I knew hell was a bad place and you didn’t want to go there. Ultimately, I guess you could say (get ready for a really bad joke), I literally had the “hell” scared out of me (sorry, it was just too obvious and stupid to pass up).

I look back now on that moment and wonder how I ever squeezed by the folks in the pew to get to the aisle and then make that long walk with every eye on me (not literally true, but that’s what it felt like – you know how it is). It’s like when you get sent to the principal’s office and you know you are in big trouble. It was this long walk of shame because my very actions were an admission to everyone sitting in the church I was a bad person. Some might describe the experience in heartwarming language, but I admit I was terrified and embarrassed. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would explode. I say all this to tell you that when I finally met the preacher, I literally burst into tears. I felt relief. I felt a strong sense of joy and peace and I wanted to tell the preacher all about it. Except, he didn’t want to listen. He cut me off. He said we needed to pray together. I guess there was no time for any extra chit chat. So, in about 30 seconds it was over, which is really anticlimactic when you think about it. My mom was proud. Shortly thereafter, I was baptized and it was done. I never talked to the preacher again. I never really got to say what was on my heart. I had been saved. I had escaped hell; and apparently, that was enough.

Somewhere along the line in my experience – not sure where it fits in to the timeline exactly – my mom was able to talk dad into joining us on Sundays. Up until that point, Dad had stayed at home while mom, my brother and I went to church. You see, my dad had grown up in a family that never attended church to my knowledge; although my grandma had strong Catholic roots (To Baptists of the day, they would tell you this made perfect sense. After all, we all knew Catholics were going to hell anyways). My guess he was a little uncomfortable with the idea at first, but soon he joined the church and was baptized. It was a good day for our family.

You should know my dad was always the type of person to take his commitments seriously and church was no different. He began reading the Bible daily. I remember it being commonplace to see him sitting in the rocking chair reading the Bible to himself. Unfortunately, his days in church with us would be short-lived and one day, he just stopped coming. He just quit. It wasn’t until many years later I found out why. Apparently, there was a day when the preacher delivered a sermon in which he boldly declared if you drank alcohol, you were going to hell.   Quite a leap, I know, but it was a common Southern Baptist position at the time. My dad, a guy who had actually read the Bible, had a problem with the message. It wasn’t consistent with what he had read. After all, if Jesus had turned water into wine as John says he did (after all the original stock had been consumed, by the way), I don’t know how a preacher of the Gospel can declare drinking a sin, much less use it as a point from which to question your salvation (By the way, I found out years later from Dad the preacher actually claimed the wine Jesus made was grape juice, which I actually find even more disturbing).

And in a way, that’s where Dad’s faith and mine, essentially, went south. Despite the fact I had been saved, sermon after sermon boldly declared there were all these sins that were corrupting my life and society. There was no way my family, friends or I could live up to the expectations being placed on us by the church. The burden was too much; and I began to tune it out. Church became something to dread. Sure, it was great to see my friends, but who wants to spend time week after week hearing about how bad they are or how all kinds of people are going to spend eternity in terror and torment. Honestly, it wasn’t uplifting. It was depressing.

I find it amazing how vividly I remember all this, especially from such an early age. Looking back, I think the primary driver behind the lasting memories was the pain our experiences with church caused my mom. It was through this pain I began to see the church as a gathering of the angry, arrogant and judgmental.  I realize my views aren’t entirely fair, but I don’t believe their too far off the mark either. You see, my mom worked hard in our home. She never rested and was always doing something to support the family. She was humble and modest (still is, by the way); the type of person who is by their nature is peaceful and kind.   And yet, even she found herself the recipient of a biting remark one Sunday as we were heading to the parking lot after Bible Study (it was always called “Sunday School”).

I should take a moment and explain that in the typical Southern Baptist church you would have small group gatherings for a Bible study in the first hour and then after a 15 minute break you would head to the sanctuary for worship services with singing and preaching in the second hour. I am pretty sure my mom had decided she really didn’t want to listen to the preacher any more since he had been the one who was partly responsible, at least, for driving my dad away. After all, when dad stopped showing up to church, the preacher never checked up on him, which I honestly find strange. After all, it seems to me if you are the guy who personally baptized a grown man into the faith; you think you would at least take a personal interest in that person. But, I digress…

So on that day, my mom, my brother and I were heading out the door of the church after the Sunday School hour, which meant we were essentially skipping worship and heading home. On our way out the door, some woman actually had the nerve to tell my mom, “You’re taking them (my brother and I) the wrong way”. Mom was devastated. She was hurt. The tone of the remark cut her deep. To this day, telling the story draws up the strongest emotions from deep within me and I get this desire to find the woman and just slap her. Not very gracious of me, I know, but I’m just trying to be honest. I recognize my response is over the top. However, those six words became the embodiment of the self-righteous, mean spirited and arrogant attitude, which for many came to define the church.

Shortly after, my family left our first church home and quickly joined another Baptist church in a nearby town.   It was an improvement, but for me, the damage had been done.   In my youth, I never connected with Christianity. At the time, there was nothing compelling about it. Besides, I had it burned into my brain I would always run into judgment and condemnation if I ever decided to attend a Bible study or a worship service. Later, when I was in my 20’s, there were times I felt like I should return, but I was always afraid. Whether I realized it or not, church had become a place defined by what it was against; and I was never quite sure if I would be accepted for who I was.

In the end, though, I did find my way back to church. It provides a bit of vindication for my mom, I think – not that she really needed any.    Now that I’m back in church and have had the opportunity to discover what following Jesus is really about, I look back on this story of mine with a much different perspective. The truth is churches can be impediments to those seeking the Gospel. The Bible makes it clear this will be the case. Churches will struggle. Heck, most of the New Testament would never have been written if churches didn’t have problems. In the Book of Revelation (which is a letter filled with advice, warnings and hope), Christ opens with a short message to each of seven particular churches in Asia Minor. And, in those messages, only 2 of the seven are given words of encouragement. The other 5 are issued rebukes. Christ even goes so far to say to those 5 churches that if they don’t heed his words, he will “remove their lampstand”, which is to say they will lose their source of existence and eventually cease to be.

The message is clear.

Not every church will be following Christ. Some will have lost their way. Not every church will be the life-giving embodiment of Jesus. Not every church will be a reflection of his grace. Some churches are on the path of having their “lampstand”, their source of life removed and they may not know it. That doesn’t mean the church, in general, is bad; nor does it mean we should give up on the idea of seeking the community God intended for the world through Christ. What all this means, I think, is sometimes, the only way to find Jesus is to walk away from the church you are in because, simply put, he isn’t there. He’s actually somewhere else. Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is get away from those life draining messages of judgment and condemnation, which expects a level of piousness that simply won’t exist in that type of environment.

After all these years, when I get the chance to look back on this story, I can’t help but think to myself: Maybe, my mom didn’t take my brother and me the wrong way after all as we left the church that day. Maybe, she was leaving the church because, in reality, Jesus was really nowhere to be found in that place. Maybe, as it turned out, it was simply an essential first step of many that allowed me to eventually find my way back again.   Thanks Mom.