Category Archives: Uncategorized
The next day at lunch, after I finished eating, someone stopped me in the halls and said that BG wanted me to come to the head table immediately. When I arrived, he was eating, so I stood there and waited patiently until he was done. He called me over and began grilling me again. Then he asked me if I’d given my heart away to anyone. This was IBLP code for “do you like a boy?”. And that sort of thing was forbidden, so… ya know. It was like being caught with your hand in the cookie jar when you were asked this dreaded question and your eyes and expression betrayed you even if your mouth tried to absolve you.
I knew better than to lie about it. I knew he’d be able to see right through me.
“Well, ok. There is someone. But we just like each other. That is all. We’ve never been alone. We’ve never even touched each other. We just like each other. And we won’t do anything about that until we’re both gone.”
“Gone? Are you planning on leaving?”
“Well, I guess I was hoping that as soon as I was done with EQUIP you’d let me go home. I don’t want to be here. I’m lonely and homesick.”
“That depends on your behavior, young lady. You were giving your mom trouble at home.”
“No I wasn’t. My mom bounced a check in my own bank account, and I got mad. As punishment, she took my whole paycheck and my debit card. That’s why we were fighting.”
“So, you think she’s going to let you come back to her? I don’t think she will. And I know she won’t if I don’t let her. She lives in one of my houses, ya know. And I don’t think you want to go live with your dad. Sounds like your options are pretty limited.”
“Who is this boy?”
“His name is Brian.” I pointed across the room to where he was.
“Isn’t he an LIT? A Leader In Training? Isn’t he here because he is in trouble?”
“I’m here because I’m in trouble.”
“He isn’t who I want for you. I won’t allow that relationship or give my blessing to it.”
“Well, we haven’t done anything, so you don’t really need to worry.”
“I need to hear from your mouth that you are done with him.”
I was silent. For the first time, I couldn’t get myself to say it. The words he wanted to hear. I was so tired. Just so tired. Tired of appeasing. Tired of pleasing. Tired of having everything I loved taken away just so I could try harder and harder to not be in trouble all the flipping time.
I had already experienced the fun of the “prayer room” – a lovely little place where kids were locked by themselves overnight or for a day or two. We were sent there for doing particularly bad things. A big hitter was the offense of liking a boy or liking a girl. I mean, we all did it, but some of us were more on BG’s radar, so we got in more trouble for it.
The prayer room was an awful place. No people. No food. No comfy sleeping space. Just an empty hotel room. And unlike all the other rooms of this thirteen story hotel, the locks on this room were on the outside of the door rather than the inside making it a prison and not a safe bedroom. The camera in the hallway aimed right at the door made certain that no one would dare venture to our part of the hotel and try to talk to us through the door.
It was tough. Those were dark moments.
Being part of IBLP was such a strange mix of good and bad. I had been a victim of the most thorough form of brainwashing, so to me, other than IBLP, there really was nothing left in the world to be wanted. Not finding success there was not finding success at all. So, in a weird way, even though I was treated like garbage, I desperately wanted to be there. Even though I didn’t. If you can understand that.
It’s very much like battered wife’s syndrome. You desperately want help and freedom and rescue. But when it shows up at your door at midnight because someone heard the fiasco and called the cops, you just send them home and stay in your misery. Because familiarity is the only good thing an abused person understands. Freedom is actually far too terrifying. Rescue is actually unwelcome when it tries to show up.
All the years that preceded my final year in the cult were just as bad. How many times was I mistreated? Berated? Called names? Had food withheld? How many times was I “sent home” and then brought back when my attitude was finally beaten into submission? How many times was I disallowed to be a normal human being? It was bad enough that I wasn’t allowed something as normal as being attracted to the opposite sex, I wasn’t even really allowed to have close friends. Once a deep bond was formed, they were taken away. Every single time. Jackie. Peggy. Cara. Stephanie. Christi. And now Brian. I knew that I wouldn’t even be allowed to be seen near him now. And honestly, he was what was getting me through the days at this point.
We would write notes to each other and tape them to the bottom of our dinner plate. Then, when no one was looking and the throng of people were in line for lunch or dinner, we would, ever so carefully, trade plates. He would end up with my note, and I would end up with his.
This is how we got to know each other.
Sometimes they were poems. Sometimes sweet love notes. Sometimes sad confessions of deep, deep depression.
We were each other’s life rafts.
The thought of no longer being able to communicate with him or even see him was unbearable. It was so much worse than “first love” gone awry. It was like having my flotation device taken away and then being tossed into the ocean.
The day after the meeting at the head table was bad. I knew something was stirring. My friends all knew it too. They looked at me across the dining hall, not daring to come close. Whispers in the elevator on the way back to our rooms at curfew.
“Do they know?”
“Oh Heather. What is going to happen to you guys? What are they going to do to you?”
“I don’t know. I’m just scared, and I’m so tired. I can’t keep living this way.”
The next morning, I found out that Brian was put into a prayer room, and that he was going to stay there until they decided what to do with us. I was supposed to keep working. My EQUIP program was over now, and I worked on the remodeling crew. The hard manual labor was nice as it kept me distracted, but it was not nice because it made me so hungry. And because I was so terrified of being under the harsh and watchful eye of the leadership, I was regularly skipping meals in order to avoid it.
My friend Stephanie brought me a whole wheat roll that evening. I was hiding on the 9th floor “working overtime”. She hugged me and kissed my cheek before disappearing. We all knew what happened to the people who tried to help those who were in trouble. Aiding and abetting. As bad as it was to be the person in trouble, sometimes things were even worse for the people who tried to help us.
Two days passed like this. On the evening of the second day, there was a knock at my bedroom door. It was a few of the ladies who were on staff. They went through my things and took a lot of it. They took any food I had in my room. I knew they were looking for evidence of a relationship with Brian, but they didn’t find anything because I had put the letters in my bed sheets, and I was sitting on them.
When she was done, she told me that I was to stay in my room until I was called. It might be a few days. If I would just stay put, they wouldn’t put me in a prayer room. But if I was caught out of my room or being visited, they’d put me in a prayer room with 24/7 surveillance.
I stayed in my room.
No actual lock imprisoning me this time except my own fear. My own dread.
Christi snuck a slice of leftover cheesecake to me that evening when the halls were full because everyone was coming to bed by curfew. She was crying. She squeezed my hand. She handed me the plate and scurried away.
The next morning, I was summoned to BG’s office. Numb by now, I walked like a robot off the elevator and to his office. I saw Brian leaving his office at just that moment. He was crying.
“Oh no. What’s going to happen? What’s going to happen?” I wondered to myself as my heart beat fast and hard.
He asked for a confession. He asked me to repent in front of the staff of 300+ people. He wanted me to tell Brian to his face that we were done.
For once, I was frozen. My insides were too bruised to do it one more time. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t pacify. I couldn’t let myself be bullied into not loving the one person I truly loved. I couldn’t find the gumption to suck it up and do it again.
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Then you’re done here. You will leave immediately.”
“To go home?”
“Your mom won’t allow that.”
“Then where will I go? I have nowhere else to go.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“What did I do wrong? What did I do that I would deserve to be excommunicated from the only life I’ve known since I was like ten or eleven years old? I’m twenty years old, and I don’t know how to live anywhere but here. Anywhere away from here. I don’t even know how to dress away from here.”
“What is your choice? Are you going to make a confession to the staff at dinner, or are you leaving.”
“First, tell me. Tell me what I did wrong.”
“You gave your heart away without permission. Without my permission.”
It’s been twenty-two years since he said those words, and I still feel the sting of them as I write. I still feel the finality. The death. The inescapable trouble.
There was no way out.
I was simply unable to find it in me to do it one more time. To do whatever he told me to do. And I honestly had nowhere in the world to go.
A decade of isolation left me ripe for needing desperate measures if desperate times showed up. And this was a desperate time.
I walked out of his office and directly to the phone bank in the hallway. I dialed my brother collect.
“Mike, it’s Heather. Remember when you told me that if I needed you, all I needed to do was to call? I’m calling. I need you. Come now. Come as fast as you can get here.”
He assured me he was on his way immediately.
I hung up the phone and knew that I would have to survive whatever the leadership had for me for the three hours it was going to take for him to get from home to Indianapolis.
I went to the elevator. It opened.
There stood Brian.
No one in the lobby to notice.
I cautiously got on the elevator with him. I figured there wasn’t much they could do to me now. After all, I was being excommunicated. What else was worse? If they yelled at me now, at least my relief was on its way. At least the longest they could go at it was three hours.
For the first time ever, we hugged. We both cried. I told him that I was being excommunicated. He cried more.
“How will I find you? I don’t even know your parent’s names. I don’t know where you live. How will I find you?”
“My parents are Ron and Theresa. I live in Marietta, Georgia. And I will find you. Even if it takes me years, I will find you.”
The elevator dinged. We dropped our hug. The doors opened. I walked out and turned around for one last look. It was eighteen months before I looked into the cool blue of his eyes again. Eighteen months till I heard his voice again.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
“I love you too,” I mouthed back.
The doors slid shut and a part of me died instantly.
My brother came. He put my things in boxes and used as many swear words as he could think of when the leadership ladies came to try to stop him. My friends, suddenly emboldened by the realization that I was being excommunicated and that they would probably never see me again, came for their good byes.
It was a thing most of us had experienced at least once before. Watching someone get excommunicated.
But it’s always different when it’s you.
We cried till we shook. We hugged till we hurt. We held hands and gently sang “Friends are Friends Forever”, the sad ritual carried out when these forced separations happened.
Mike practically carried me to his car.
I laid down in the back seat to keep from fainting. To keep from vomiting.
Why is it so hard to leave abuse? I really don’t know. Even to this day I don’t know. But it is. And to anyone who has been forced to leave it, you can know how terrified I was that day. Driving away from everything I knew. Everyone I knew. Utterly unready for life. Utterly unable to do anything. I didn’t know how to buy pants or get a job. I didn’t even really know how to speak in the real world away from the pseudo safety of the cult.
I sat up as we drove away. I looked one last time. He was standing in his bedroom window on the 6th floor. Both hands pressed against the glass.
Then the car turned.
That was the last glimpse for so long.
The car drove and carried me home. I stayed with my dad just a few days until I left to go be with my cousins in South Dakota. But then the depression caught up to me there, and I needed to move again just to keep my pain from overtaking me. I moved to Colorado to be with my friend from the cult. But then she was in a terrible accident, so I could not stay. I came back home but in between accusations of apostacy because I was now wearing jeans and heathenism because I had cut my long flowing curls off in favor of a short blond bob, I needed to leave again.
As many times as I have replayed the events of my excommunication in the twenty two years since it took place, I have still never been able to answer some questions.
Why so harsh? All I did was like a boy?
Why no help? No follow up? No one called to be sure I didn’t hang myself in the bathroom that night. No one checked in on me in the weeks that followed to be sure that I didn’t swallow everything in the medicine cabinet just to make the loud screams of pain in my heart a little quieter.
Why, why, why?
So many why’s and no answers.
And the answers that did come only came after more years of pain.
The biggest answer came to me in 2005 when I was 29 years old and in another hard spot. The God I had known since age nine was suddenly losing his false identity. All the errors of the cult that were cast over Him were now being made known. All these many years later, He was coming for me. God. My Heavenly Father. He was coming to finally tell me who he was. Who He is.
And when the mystery of grace finally crashed onto me as I poured over the pages of The Ragamuffin Gospel, when ten million stored up tears finally made their way out when I first heard the words of His ferocious love for me, suddenly I knew. I knew that all the sadness of those last days, all the loss and all the depression and all the agony was for the purpose of setting me free. Getting me out.
I’d seen so many people come and then go. Most of them had a wonderful time. They considered their time “at headquarters” to be some of the best days of their life. But when they left, they never had to ask the hard questions. They never had to poke all the holes and shake the teachings out of their brain. They never had to sift and sift and sift.
And so, they have carried on, completely unaware that so much of what they believe is lies. So much of their foundation is faulty. So much of their doctrine is “off”.
Year after year, one by one by one, I’ve watched so many fall away. I’ve watched them reach points of such utter disillusionment that they were no longer able to stand. I’ve watched them be pulled under.
In their mind, they were pulled up out of the water. Rescued, in fact. Enlightened.
They threw the Most Important Baby Ever straight out with that filthy bathwater.
They lost their way because the way that they were told was the wrong way. It was a lie. All of it.
But for some reason, He had pity on me. Maybe it was the times I cried in the shower. Maybe it was the times in the prayer room when my belly twisted in pain from hunger. Maybe it was all the prayerful words trapped inside of me that I simply did not know how to release. Maybe he saw those words and knew them even before I did. And maybe that was what caused such deep pity for me.
Maybe that was why He let them crucify me. So I could get out. So I could dust the dirty doctrine off. And stand up. And live.
I was one of the lucky ones. It took so many years to see it that way. To recognize that he dragged me from that burning hotel to save me.
The ones left behind were the ones less fortunate. The myriad who went down with that ship were the ones less favored.
A thousand children lost for every one who survived.
A thousand souls left in permanent trauma for every one that found their way out.
And a thousand millstones prepared for the neck of a lonely man named Bill Gothard who ekes out his existence in LaGrange, Illinois.
Heaven help you for what you did to us.
The day of my divorce came and went.
Life moved on at an annoyingly quick speed. It seemed fair that everything would come to a halt at least for a few weeks or days. That we should be allowed to lay in our beds all day to process or cry. That we should be allowed to skip work and school.
While my kids sank deeper into their sadness, for the first time in almost two years, I started feeling the first bits of relief. I had already worked through so much of the loss of my marriage before it actually happened. I had been stretched so thin in that last year. I had forgiven so many nights with other women. So many major infractions of marital vows. So much abandonment. So many insanities such as homelessness and desperation, all while he looked on and did nothing to help. And now, I had done what I needed to do so that I could survive. So that I could parent as a well person and not someone who was constantly puking up her dinner because I was so heartsick that I could not hold it down.
And in many ways, I knew that this is what Brian needed as well. Brian needed to deal with the absolute and final loss of me. He needed to know that unless he hit bottom and reached up for help, that none of his messes would be magically cleaned up by someone else. That his next DUI’s would be his to deal with, not mine. That his next girlfriends would not injure me, they would only injure him. That the full weight of his actions would fall one hundred percent on him, not on me. I would no longer be his savior. And if saving is what he decided that he wanted, this time, it was him who would have to cry out for it. It was him who would have to turn himself inside out to find it.
I find that this is something you can’t fake, ya know. You can’t pretend that you’re really at that point and that you’re finally going to stop being codependent and that you’re going to stop rescuing them. It’s too strong of an impulse. Well, it’s an addiction really. And until the pain of creating a new life is less than the pain of staying where you are, no amount of willpower will help you stop doing the things that perpetuate your pain.
But when you do get there, you’re really there. The train starts rolling and hell can’t stop it.
Back when I was seeing Keith for our weekly counseling sessions, he told me this would happen eventually. When I was unwilling to make some major change or consider some big task, he would say, “Well, I guess you’re not in enough pain yet. Don’t worry. It will come.”
It made me upset, but deep down, I knew he was right.
“One day, Heather, you will wake up and realize that you’ve had enough. I can’t get you there any quicker. It’s totally up to you. So until you are in enough pain, you’re going to stay right where you are, and you’re going to keep giving chances. But one day, yes, you will say ‘enough’s enough’, and you’ll do what you need to do to create a new life.”
I reached “enough’s enough” that day when we were admitting him to rehab and he kept Melissa’s number as an emergency contact. After that, I no longer had to fake it. When I said, “I’m not doing this anymore”, that’s exactly what I meant.
People had their own ideas. Their own narratives. Their own version of how things went down and how they wanted it to go down. They didn’t like my timeline, and they didn’t like my decision. But I was in enough pain to say, “You know what, I’m the one living this hellish nightmare. So unless you’re going to step in and live it for me, it will be me making the decisions, not you or you or you.”
There were times when I would simply put my head down and charge through. No matter what obstacle I was facing, no matter what sort of rejection or harshness, I would just press through it. It was almost as though I had to shove my fingers into my ears.
I knew what I had to do and no tears, no anger, no rejection, no opinions… nothing was going to stop me.
Living in that little Section 8 house in the bad part of St. Cloud was the first time in my life that I truly owned my life. I was broke as heck and living on food stamps and welfare, but I was not afraid. I was happy. And I cried when I needed to cry. No one’s actions dictated my life but my own. No one was out there drinking away entire paychecks and making it impossible to pay the mortgage. My electricity and phone service would not be randomly shut off because of non-payment. I was not dealing with monthly traffic/DUI court for the first time in seven years. I was not afraid of Brian killing himself behind the wheel on a daily basis.
I believe that when you are in the process of moving from a terribly toxic life to one that is healthy, there is a void that you must pass in the middle. You are not yet who you are going to be, and the old you hasn’t yet completely passed away. It’s like leaving one room and entering a long hallway that will lead you to the next. And in the hallway, you might make some of the errors that you used to make, but thankfully, the hallway is long enough that by the time you make it to the other end, a beautiful metamorphosis will have taken place.
You might drag boxes and furniture from the old place into the first few yards of the hallway as you desperately try to hang onto what you held so dear. But soon, you discard the heavy things and only keep the knick-knacks of that life.
The further you travel, you start to notice other things lying on the floor. No longer is it the baggage of your old life, but it is the first glimpses of your new life. It’s not the spillage from the Old Room but the spillage from the New Room. It is the outcroppings of a new and healthy life. And when something catches your eye and you lean down to pick it up, you realize that you must set down the things you are still entangled with from the old place in order to free your hand to hold something new.
A lot of the time in your in-between is spent sitting. Contemplating. Releasing. Letting go. Setting down. It’s not something that happens in a moment. In fact, it takes years.
Relationships that you clung to from the old place might make it into the hallway, but most of them won’t make it to the new place. They were formed and forged in the old place. The way those relationships work and exist is now something that is passing away. It was a part of you that is being done away with – being made new and being reborn.
Behaviors that were commonplace to you in the old place suddenly feel ill fitting. They don’t serve you, and suddenly, you are aware of it, for perhaps the first time. You might notice a new and shiny behavior lying on the floor of that hallway that is right outside your new place and want to try it on for size. But in order to do that, you must release your grasp on the behaviors of before.
And so, it is a process of a thousand, nay a million, replacements. This friend for that friend. This behavior for that behavior. A “no” where a “yes” was the only thing allowed to exist. A boundary where a free pass used to be. A moment of bravery where only cowardice used to exist.
Pretty soon, you’ve made it all the way through the middle. In your rearview, a life’s worth of decisions and friends and trinkets lie strewn on the pathway. Ahead, the floor is cleaner. Brighter. Safer.
The old is becoming new. It is being washed away like dirty tar stuck on your heart.
The new place is hard work too. Nothing is familiar. Constant adaptation is necessary. You might even run out of the new room a few times and sit by your old crap in the in-between. You might toy around with the old things lying around and might even nurse a secret nostalgia for What Was, but it only takes a few memories to bring you back inside What Is Now.
There is no pass on the hallway either. No warp speed or fast forward. Everyone who truly transforms must walk it. Many start the journey and change their mind halfway through because it is simply too hard.
The middle – the in-between – is painful. In a way, it is like a fire. It burns off the things that did not serve you in your life before. In that way, it prevents you from bringing those things into your new life. And if you can endure the burn long enough, it will eventually cease because the work is done. The bad stuff will be thoroughly burned off. But truthfully, there aren’t many that can’t endure it. And so, they wring their hands and run back to the dark place and continue to live there forever. Not knowing that their metamorphosis is incomplete. Not knowing that they are now doomed to repeat their sad story lines because the lessons were not learned.
One of the best indicators that you’ve made it to the new place is that huge parts of your old life will begin to fall away. Like a worn-out garment, they will fall off. Sometimes, in a moment of relapse, you’ll grab them and try to hang on, but you are no longer fitted for those things. And so they refuse to stick. They fall to the floor.
And when that day comes, you’ll be so far into the new room that you can barely believe you ever lived anywhere but here. You’ll be so healthy that you’ll be in awe over the fact that you were ever lame. Disabled. Broken. You’ll remember the process that was necessary to get you from there to here, but you will remember it with a certain sort of fondness, knowing that, without the mercy of that pain, you would still live in the old place with all of its machinations of sadness and despondency.
The hallway – the pain – is your friend. It is your teacher. It is the Great Place of Unlearning.
Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, it is the struggle that gives you life. Cutting it short brings certain death, for all the strength you will build there will be necessary to hold you up in your new atmosphere. As if some cosmic weight is added in the new place, you will require the muscles grown in the hallway.
So don’t run from it. Don’t hide from it. Don’t wring your hands and run away.
Sit still in your pain. In your metamorphosis. Turn the pieces of your old life around in your hands until you’ve studied them enough that you no longer need them. Then set them down with gusto and intention.
Become a master at releasing. Anger, bitterness, fear. Self-loathing, fear of what others think of you, control over anyone’s life but your own.
Say new words and try on new behaviors.
Get new friends. A few of the old ones will stick, but not many, and it’s fair for you to know that. In fact, some of those closest to you will be the ones to slide their sharpest daggers into your back for they will simply not be able to abide with so much newness abounding in you.
Do not fear the in-between. You will get past it one day. But there is no getting There without a time Here.
Stop fighting it.
You are being remade.
Last week, one of my kids started feeling sick. Actually, the symptoms didn’t line up with “sickness”, so I assumed something else was going on. By the time we passed the one week mark, I realized it was probably time to see a doc. We were going to go on Friday, but with finals and such, it just didn’t happen.
Then, on Saturday, she had to compete for her sport at the last invitational meet of the season, so I knew that I couldn’t just pull her.
When we arrived, I found her crying and shaking. She was in so much pain. She grit her teeth and pushed through, but as I watched from the stands, it was physically painful to see her have to do something so intense when I knew her pain level was high. I think it’s the only time I’ve seen her perform that I sincerely couldn’t make myself smile. It was just so hard to realize she was hurting and forcing herself through it.
As I sat in the bleachers, I did what so many unfortunate mothers have done. I turned to Dr. Google. And oh what a mistake that was. By the time the meet was over, my head was swirling. I knew we needed to get to Urgent Care before the night was over. And yes, yes, I know. I should have remembered that all the other times I’ve self-diagnosed with the internet, a great majority of those times, I’ve come to the wrong conclusion. But with her level of pain and some of what the internet said *could* be happening, I didn’t want to take chances.
Thankfully, I have a doctor friend who graciously helped me via text. We decided to wait it out and see what happened since her symptoms had actually not yet met the criteria for what I was imagining. By the next day, her symptoms began to wane and by Monday, she was pretty much over it. But, in my defense, by then, it was day ten. And that seemed a long time to have this particular symptom.
Anyway, during those few hours of fearing the worst, it occurred to me that if bad news was to be learned, how immediately would I LONG to have another trial. Another struggle.
I’ve talked about a situation very vaguely that’s been going on in our lives for the past couple of years. It’s nothing tragic or even terrible, but it has been unremitting. It has been unrelenting. And, steadily, it has worsened even despite our efforts to fix it or at least put a tourniquet on it. At the worst of it, the toll of it had become so great that I do think it was part of the mini-breakdown I had in late September. And honestly, it’s not that the situation itself was so grave that it merited that response. It’s that I let the anxiety it was causing run away with my brain. It beat the heck out of me for a while until I worked really hard and got it back under control.
As I laid in bed last night thinking about this situation, my girl and her close call with medical disaster – haha, not really – came to my mind. I realized that if the internet had been right and suddenly something new was on my horizon this week – something as scary as health gone wrong – oh how desperately I would wish to return to the difficulty of this other unremitting situation. Oh how badly I would yearn to go back to just dealing with this thing that feels like a thorn continually digging into my side.
It’s all about perspective, ya know. We can have a situation going on in our lives that is causing unbearable stress and fatigue and subconsciously think it might be the most unfair predicament ever. But all we need is for something harder, something nearer and dearer to strike our heart for us to quickly withdraw our clenched fists and instead change our tune from desperation to gratitude.
All this time that this situation has been brewing and stealing my sanity, I’ve done nothing but stare deep and long and hard at it. I have only taken brief breaks from my intensity to notice all that is going on around me that is good and right and fair and beautiful.
Sure, I might pay lip service to my children’s health and my beautiful marriage, but apparently I don’t sincerely feel very grateful for those things because all too quickly, my attention is diverted again and I’m back obsessing and desperately trying to fix this other situation.
Life is filled with troubles. About the time one resolves, another has been making its way down the pipeline to meet you. If this isn’t the case with you, shut up and go away. I don’t even want to know. Lol. Because it IS that way for me. One thing after another after another after another. And I already know that when the clock has run out on this situation of great unremitting stress, another one – all shiny and new – will be there waiting for me.
“Into every life a little rain must fall.”
And so, it’s best to spend great mental efforts looking AWAY from the things that are going wrong and great fortitude looking TOWARD the things that are going right.
Something as fantastically simple and wonderful as a sickness averted is a beautiful thing. It was a “could have been” that wasn’t. We all get to go back to our normal schedule and normal life. We aren’t facing real medical trouble. Real crisis. As quickly as the fear came, it passed. But it did leave behind the profound gratitude for my children’s health. All four of them. There have been physical and emotional and even psychological scares in recent years, and yet, here they are, all doing so well.
This other situation actually does have a clock. It will officially end in June of 2020. I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful that even though there are sixteen more months of stupidity and misery to be inflicted – and I’m sure it will – there is a defined end.
Most genuine trials in life don’t go that way. They don’t have a date that you can put on the calendar and know that real resolution will be there by then.
Most genuine trials pick away at us for years, mercilessly stealing our peace, making us fight 24/7 for head above water. Most genuine difficulty is not so kind as to have a time and place that it will most certainly end.
For the six days since it got released, this new little album has barely left my eardrums. It’s just exactly the medicine I’ve been needing. Probably the only time that a piece of music has blessed me so so much. It’s like every single track was written to speak directly to some part of what is my current reality.
This one was on repeat yesterday. What a lovely reminder that we really are gonna be alright. Even with the rain pouring, there is hope. For every crisis. For every unremitting stress that presses hard against us.
Last night, we laid in bed and prayed before sleep as we always do. Talking to God about the things we are thankful for. The things we are stressed about. Asking for relief. For peace. For perseverance. And even in those moments of intercession, it occurred to me that my life is pretty dang beautiful.
In the world’s most comfy bed, lying next to the one I love most. Warmth, peace, strength, quietness, solidarity. Even the blessing of sharing the same beliefs and convictions.
A little rain falls into every life, but we’re gonna be alright. For the little downpours that are just a pain because of their unremitting nature, I’m choosing to look away. To drive past it without rubbernecking constantly. Sure, I’ll face it when I need to and take action when I need to. But my hearty gaze will be on what’s going right.
The family who loves me.
Our collected health.
Provision and protection.
A friend group that serves as a protecting belt from the otherwise overwhelming distresses of life.
A warm bed.
A Father who hears.
The sun that shines warmly on cold days.
It’s okay to fear
It’s okay when you feel small
And you’re okay right here
It’s okay when you feel nothing at all
And it’s okay to find out
What you thought you had ain’t what you got
And it’s okay to doubt
To learn what you think ain’t what you thought
Oh, it’s okay to grieve
It’s okay to learn to fall
And it’s okay to believe
To admit that you’re human after all
And it’s okay to heal
All of the scars that are buried deep inside
And it’s okay to feel
To say all the things you’ve been trying to hide
We’re gonna be alright, we’re gonna be alright
I’ve seen the look in your eye
We’re gonna be alright
I said we’re gonna be alright, we’re gonna be alright
Just take a look at the sky
Because someone asked and the answer got so long that I felt weird putting it in a Facebook comment…
Escalade driving pastors. Church hopping pastors who are willing to leave their flock behind in search of better opportunities, bigger congregations, and bigger salaries… as if the shepherding the Bride of Christ is akin to moving up a corporate ladder. Pastors who have affairs. And then kick out their whistleblowers. Pastors who sexually abuse. And pastors who are friends with the aforementioned kind and do their best to hide their sin. Who sweep it under the rug and forget the victim. Who say, “One small mistake shouldn’t cost him his whole career.” And they forget to mention the name of the teenage girl whose innocence got snatched away. As though she is the collateral damage and not the very beating heart of God.
Building projects. Expansions. Fund-raising campaigns for a new campus. Million dollar (sometimes multi million) dollar buildings. Granite counter tops and flat screen tv’s. State of the art sound systems and an actual staff to operate them. Excess. Incorrect management of the tithe. Dealing with the needs of the naked and hungry, the widow and fatherless (or single mom and her kids) according to that budget line rather than seeing the full tithe as the Lord’s. It’s not salary money, ya know. We aren’t Levites, and even if we were, they didn’t live in 5000 sq. ft. homes and have trouble keeping their butts home from Maui and Mexico.
Choreographed sermons. Hollow sermons. Sermons that take the Roaring Lion of the Old Testament and turn him into Santa Claus. That have the audacity to make him palatable enough that today’s issues and today’s demographics won’t find him offensive. That remove his claws and trim his mane. Fruity tooty sermons. Feel good sermons. “Milky” sermons. Sermons with no accountability. No hole poking. Aren’t we supposed to be like the Berean’s after all? Do I set a meeting for that? And how is that done in a zero dialogue setting where one man preaches and the rest bob their heads. Without reading, without digging, without exegeting. Woe to us all for listening to one man who might (and often does) have it all wrong.
Choreographed music. “I Surrender All” played during offering so as to incite the best outcome. Special songs picked carefully and skillfully to bring about the right emotional response to the reading of God’s word. As if the Holy Spirit had lost its power to move a person’s heart. As if strings of emotion even ought to be pulled during a time when solitude and silence would best enable the listener to hear from God. From God… not their emotions.
Budget announcements and fund raising drives.
Inappropriate and unholy delivery of the Eucharist.
Vacant-headed listeners who raise their hands without scratching their heads.
No critical thinking and no asking questions, they open their mouths and swallow it hook, line, and sinker.
And yes. Bad behavior.
It’s interesting to me how Christians, especially leaders, want a pass on this. Have you missed the parts of Scripture that talk about millstones around necks? About greater accountability and damnation? Those who name themselves leaders in the church do not get a pass. In fact, their accountability card is more stringent, more rigid, than anyone else’s.
I expect the congregation to gossip. I expect them to not diligently study but to take the word of the man at the pulpit. I expect all the silly nonsense from them that is rampant. But from the leaders, I expect more.
Also, it’s true. Christians are jerks. Not all of them and not all the time. But as people who are supposed to have a new nature and the old should have been stripped away like a garment, the amount of inconsistency and lack of new birth is actually quite staggering. When people are leaving the church – and worse, the faith – in droves, it’s time to stop saying “Well Christians aren’t perfect. We’re human too.” No. Stop it.
Last, here is my tip to you. Never tell someone who has been badly damaged by the church that you hope they give it another chance. That would be like telling an abused child that they hope they are able to give their abuser another chance. Also don’t prescribe involvement to them as a cure for what they must have done wrong. You wouldn’t know this, but I have never been a member of a church where I have not also been a very active participant and volunteer. I’ve taught Sunday School and AWANAS. I’ve been a youth coach at so many churches and ministries that I’ve lost track. I’ve served in the nursery and “Kid Zone”. I’ve been the usher/greeter and the person up front who is waiting to pray with you if you need someone. Activity and involvement is not enough to blind open eyes.
When someone tells you that they’ve been wounded, listen. Ask questions. For Pete’s sake, people who don’t even know God know how to do this. Example: My Crossfit affiliate recently began losing members. We are all a tight, close-knit family. Rather than posting ridiculous things like “Crossfitters are leaving our gym because they don’t have what it takes to do our WODS” or some silly nonsensical reason that takes the blame from the affiliate and places it upon those who left, they looked inward. They sought those people out. They listened without judgement and refrained from assigning reasons that were more palatable. And when they saw their error, they changed. They didn’t accuse their ex-members of being unrealistic in order to absolve themselves. They hunkered down and found out what their real problem was.
Every time you post a meme or a quote or something that assigns motives to those of us who have left the little “c” church, you effectively tell us that we don’t matter. That you don’t want to hear about our damage. And that you sure as heck don’t want to need to be convicted. To need to repent. To need to change. To need to recognize that you’ve built a corporation where the bleeding body of Jesus used to be and that it might be time to forsake that. That it might be time to return to the example in the Upper Room.
Just a small group of local believers. Some songs of praise and moments of confession before the God of heaven and earth. His word read aloud. Earnest examination. A shared understanding rather than taking the word of one man. Fellowship. Breaking of bread. A proper observation of the Eucharist.
Gather. Pray. Exhort. Teach. Learn. Live in community with one another. Caring for each other and each other’s needs as Christ did his bride.
No mortgages. No salaries. No programming. Stop it already. Let go of your excess. Repent of your greed and mismanagement of God’s tithe. Review Malachi. If God’s feelings for those who withhold their tithe from him are as severe as he blatantly says, what do you think he feels about those who receive it and misuse it. Images of Eli’s fat belly with a dagger in it come to mind. Send your pastors who want salaries and big houses into the corporate world. Let them minister wherever they might go.
It’s time the church stops pretending that the people who leave are leaving because there is some silly little blemish going on. A pimple or some bad breath. No, the little “c” church has cancer, and it has pus seeping out its pores.
If you happen to belong to a church that somehow fits zero qualifications that I mentioned, fantastic. Consider yourself rare. I’ve been part of many church bodies and the things mentioned are things I have all personally experienced. They aren’t hypothetical. Nor are they excusable under the “we’re just people” clause.
I’m not a church hater. If fact, I love the Church. But the Church I love is not a building or a gathering place. It’s a body of people. And they don’t need a building or a program or a pastor or all of that.
Time to just be salt and light. Stop the wounding and the blame shifting.