Labeled a Heathen, O Deconstruct-ie Friend? #heathen #deconstruction #Fascism #Church

                  When you hear the term “deconstruction” in the context of spirituality, what is your gut response? Does it compel curiosity, a desire to offer understanding and support, or do you cringe or feel sadness at the thought of another soul lost to flagrant disregard of traditional canons and casual application of doctrine, if any regard to it at all? Is deconstruction’s impact upon authentic faith, in your mind, amount to how grunge impacts  rock and roll, or has the music dissolved into utter chaos?

                  I can tell you that my personal experience of deconstruction began with what some judged to be my abandonment of the faith tradition I’d been raised in (Catholicism), but it was actually but the process of addressing how that faith tradition abandoned me. Hours spent at weekly Sunday mass and Wednesday night catechism classes, although providing education about traditional sacraments and basic doctrine, included no helpful, practical application strategies for navigating the world as an adult. I was left feeling there existed a subtext which stated, “Here are your instructions as to how one may reasonably perform as ‘a good Catholic’, but resigning your unequipped self to fitting into this world’s ways is anticipated—so plan to keep all that fallout exclusively within the confines of the confessional booth and outside the church doors—just put on a good, pious face while you’re in the sanctuary.”  If the reader is currently a Catholic, I hope your experience was and is better than mine.

                  The Catholic upbringing alone did not bring me to the brink of deconstruction. In my twenties I moved to a new state and got married and had a baby. I desired a spiritual community, and friends suggested a local Episcopal church. I will spare the reader (and those impacted) the details, but I learned children were being harmed in the nursery. The NURSERY! So much wounding!  Fast forward years later to a failed six-year marriage and being a single mom to a preschooler, I landed at a non-denominational church’s Christmas service featuring so much music that I loved. Spiritually starving by that point, I decided to be brave and began regular Sunday morning attendance. The church had a very large choir and theatrical performances which I’d wanted to engage in. At the annual inaugural new member choir rehearsal, I was told I would be getting a call confirming my acceptance or rejection, but I was ghosted. Opportunities to participate in the drama performances were not openly announced as if there was a measure of exclusivity for these opportunities that didn’t include the congregation at large. I couldn’t find the door in, despite asking. However, I was permitted to teach Sunday preschool, the logic being that as a single parent working full time, I should give the married moms from intact families a break from being around their small children. I chose to dive into that, I think in part because of my prior negative experience regarding the Episcopal church nursery—at least I knew the kids would be safe with me. I also dedicated myself to regular practice of spiritual disciplines like prayer and Bible reading. I wanted to develop discernment skills, so that I could better “trust my gut” and have the confidence to act upon that faith in “things unseen”, growing in capacity to better address some dissonance (or “bad vibes”) I was picking up on. (Gaslighting was a feature of my failed marriage. I had some restoration within myself to do).

                  This church was visited by a season of “revival”, or regional spiritual rebirth. Characteristics included multiple extra services, prayer, fasting that went to the extreme for some, music, and reports of healings (we didn’t call them “testimonies” because those could be perceived as “brag-a-monies”—they were instead “reports of the Lord”). This non-denominal church had heavy Pentecostal influence, so occurrences of speaking (and shrieking) in tongues, “falling out” in the Spirit, and “holy laughter” were not uncommon.

                  “Revival” began organically and then was marketed with coffee mugs and billboards. Along the continuum of the start and finish, the choir director was dismissed or resigned due to an extramarital affair and the youth pastor was arrested for molesting the boys in the youth group. I’d been having nightmares about the youth pastor for months prior. It was surreal. Again, so much wounding. Despite this, and the growing awareness of being seen as “lesser human” to those of “intact families”, I did not leave. I felt it would be selfish and immoral to do so while folks were in such pain and brokenness.

                  Shortly after, or perhaps a bit during this revival period, the church began a building program and eventually constructed a large facility a few miles away. It lent itself to more elaborate sound and lighting production capacity. It was decided by leadership that a drama called Eternity: The Ultimate Experience which was distributed by a different church, would be performed by the chosen congregants at our new facility. I might have been interested in performing, but this opportunity was not open to me. Looking back though, my exclusion will always be something for which I will be forever grateful.

                  The Eternity play featured a Jesus character and a band of stereotypical angels, a blood-red Satan character and his dark minions dressed in black, in a format of vignettes including human characters in at various life stages and situations at the time of their death as the determination of their eternity hangs in the balance. This culminated in a “come to Jesus” moment for the audience, prodded on by the business end of a pitchfork, into stating the fire insurance prayer, “Lord Jesus, I invite you into my heart as my Lord and savior.” I understand there are some who would defend such scare tactics, stating the end justifies the means, holding strong views about that. 1John 4:18 states, “There is no fear in love; but perfect love castes out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been mad perfect in love”, so it is my belief that this method of reaching people with the gospel is, at least to some degree, madness.  

In my time there though, I must admit I’d received good instruction from the pulpit regarding the taking accountability for my own faith journey and I was even allowed to participate in the choir under a new director, but it was that accountability which informed me I would need to move on from that place. I felt that my questioning of methods, or questioning anything for that matter, was not welcome. I quietly wondered if God was the one being worshipped, or if it was the cookie-cutter lifestyle of an idealized upper middle-class family, which was clearly considered the ultimate manifestation of being blessed and approved by the Almighty. Just like the Catholic church, I would never fit in there.

I was invited to an open and affirming church a few years ago and am still a member there. We recently sought to create an updated mission statement. Given the times we’re in with the rise of Christian Nationalism and its contempt for the concept of compassion, and out of my frustration over the support of cruel legislation, I was tempted to submit as an option, “it’s your WITNESS, dumb-ass!”. The increasingly common horrible misuse of scripture to defend bigotry and pretzel twisting of basic moral concepts had me feeling jaded. I’d seen members and leadership the non-denominal church I’d used to attend, along with their local affiliated fellowship churches with their inbred boards and elder groups, condemn wearing medical masks during the recent global pandemic. I had heard pleas from the pulpit that members attend IN PERSON lest they hamper the capacity of the Holy Spirit to “move” among them. (To them I would say, “Trust me, TRUST ME –the Holy Spirit got your memo then promptly ripped it to shreds as, under no circumstances, and under no thumb or confines of any particular doctrine, will the Holy Spirit bend or bow to any church leaderships’ attempt at micro-management—because THAT. IS. FASCISM.) I can see why they’d make such pleas though, because some of the church members may not donate to the church unless they can be seen dropping something in the offering plate. I have heard of elders’ whispers mocking the BLM movement, claiming their church as a “Republican”, anti-“woke” church. I have seen one church pastor invite a popular conservative podcaster who embraces white supremacy talking points to come and speak at an event at their campus. They then posted a YouTube video explaining how they had to cancel due to threats of violence and destruction by “antifa” and BLM groups. Accusations of some dramatic “hide your wives and children” and “they’re going burn down the city” kind of stuff were lodged. Curiously, when I had requested the law enforcement information regarding these “threats”, what I had received included emails stating that threats occurred, and blurred social media screenshots that were apparently evidence of those threats, but they were not legible per the blurring and pixelation. (I would love to include a link to the YouTube video, but apparently it’s been scrubbed.) I have heard a sermon preached about annual drownings at a local lake which were ascribed to a Native American curse placed upon it due to hundreds year old tradition of child sacrifice in those waters. But, glory be, he and his congregants prayed over that lake and they broke the “curse”. The only issue with that report is that the lake is a manmade one constructed in the 1920s.

It's your witness…

Now, this is not to claim that my personal faith walk is flawless and pristine—far from it—logs in my own eye acknowledged 100%--I’ve got some. I do my best to be mindful of the fruit of the spirit mentioned in Galatians 5:22-23 “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control; against such things there is no law”. So, I am grieved as I experience many in our nation judging “compassion” as a dirty word and the seeking to defund and legislate to oblivion our established manifestations of compassion in action; a nation where half of its citizens choose to shoe their feet in neck-crushing jackboots rather than the Gospel of Peace; choose to build their salvation and “firm foundation” upon the fallacy of being “more worthy” than the vile “other”, rather than upon the grace and goodness of the God they claim to serve. That heavy yoke of hate does not fit me, and I know I am judged as unworthy of heaven due to my ignorance of who to devalue and abandon to the margins of society by those who casually show contempt toward “the least of these”. I will not condemn those who do that, but I will not participate. I know the pain of that abandonment.

Fast forward (again) to last Sunday. I’ve arrived at my current church for pre-service choir practice. Pastor was on the other side of the country for a conference, and our lead administrator was out of the country due to a family emergency. We were prepared to cover all bases for the service, but as I approached, the volunteer in charge of opening the facility stated that the keypad to open the sanctuary was malfunctioning—that we could not get in; the code was entered, but the keypad did not respond, it’s screen display having gone blank. Somewhere in the back of my mind I began running some mental troubleshooting and damage control cerebral “software”, not panicking. More choir members arrived, and then I saw a particular choir member who is also a stellar volunteer (I’ll call him “Gabe”) arrive. Now, I don’t know the specifics of Gabe’s history, but it appears he has endured a traumatic brain injury that has impacted his vision and other neurological functions. He has also experienced some strokes but is being treated for the conditions that prompted them, bouncing back better than ever. His countenance and the way he carries himself has become more confident and at ease. Watching him cross the sunlit courtyard, I knew he would be able to unlock and open the door. I had no doubt. Not a shred. I looked at him and said, “Hey Gabe! The keypad is malfunctioning, and we can’t get in the sanctuary.” He replied, “I know the code”. And I said, “I thought you did! But the keypad display is being weird and we need you to save the day and let us in. Follow me. Let’s do this thing!” He followed me into the multipurpose room (which opened with a regular key), then he passed me up, getting to the keypad for the sanctuary ahead of me. By the time I’d caught up with him, he’d already entered the code on the keypad, its screen still blank, turned the handle, then opened the sanctuary.

Now, I tell this story not to lay claim to some huge miracle—there exist many natural explanations as to why the lock opened for Gabe. What floored me was the inexplicable sense of certainty in my spirit, and the opportunity for a humble and dedicated servant like Gabe to “save the day.” This brings me joy. This is the kind of moment that I sense God’s presence and communication and am reassure that, no matter where I seek Him, that nothing and no one can keep me from the love of God or His presence, not even the judgement of those in congregations I had outgrown, where I was not accepted. I tell this story to encourage those who are on a similar path, breaking free of conventions that truly earn one no gold stars in heaven by adhering to them; that as much as others may wish it for any of us, the Lord will not leave you or forsake you. I encourage fellow seekers to be confident in that.