*Care Warning: This post contains talk of racism.
One Sunday morning I was sitting in church listening to the minister talk about where the collection money was going that month as he pointed to a poster on an easel at the front of the congregation. I looked at the poster with the sad black faces of children from a nation far away from my tiny rural town while the minister talked about starvation or clean water or some such thing. I probably should’ve felt sorrow for those children. But at 11 years old I felt something different. I looked at that poster of those Black children and then I turned around and looked at all the faces that belonged to the people in my childhood church. All of them white, digging around in their hand bags and wallets, helping to save those poor children. And then I thought about how my town didn’t allow Black people to live there. Although I didn’t come across the term Sundown Town until graduate school, I had heard the familiar phrase that goes along with a Sundown Town; sometimes in school or walking around town. A phrase that I won’t repeat here. That feeling that I had in church that day was hypocrisy. I didn’t know that word so I probably really thought, “What a total load of BS.” And that was the first day I started questioning organized religion. I kept my bible under my bed and continued to read a passage each night, determined to make it through the whole thing. And the only thing I remember from my pre-teen years of reading the bible is that I was probably going to hell. I’m not sure why.
My dad didn’t have much use for church, he spent his Sunday mornings doing…I actually don’t know what he did when we were at church. He would meet us at home afterwards and we’d usually pile in the car and head to the nearby college town where we’d eat at a real restaurant and shop at the mall while he hung out at the book store. Maybe on Sunday mornings he was preparing his teaching lesson plan for the next week. I met a farmer this summer who had morning coffee with my dad and told me he used to give him books to read. My dad didn’t have time for church as he was out doing the things in the community that needed doing. Acts of service. Things that filled him up. Whether he was checking in on a student in need or figuring out a new strategy to reach a student who was struggling in school. He was always connecting with people with a joke or a new way to look at a problem or just one of his side hugs. He was an imperfect person as all of us are. I remember scolding him for telling a joke that I understood was racist when I was in college. But I also remember him telling me about when he applied for his teaching job in the late 1960s, he had to submit a photo of his family. When I asked him why, he explained the racism behind it and plainly told me that the administration wanted to make sure they were hiring someone who wasn’t black. My dad may not have understood the experiences and circumstances of all of his students. He may not have agreed with their choices or their values. But the one thing he always tried to do was to help them become better. Better athletes, better public speakers, better humans.
Sure, my dad did go to church occasionally on those non-negotiable holidays like Christmas and Easter. Sometimes he even enjoyed the sermon if the minister was a particularly good story teller. He loved a good story. But I distinctly remember one Easter when he went to church with us. Someone approached him afterward and said, “Fred, it’s nice to see you here. I think the walls of the church might fall down!” And there it was. The judgement. My dad told us he was never going back to church again. Not exactly a welcoming environment to keep butts in the pews.
One of the things I liked about my childhood church was youth group. It was on Sunday afternoons and mostly focused on acts of service like raking leaves or shoveling snow for elders in the church who couldn’t do the work themselves. I loved the community aspect and thrived on the feeling I got from helping others. And I got to do it all with my friends. We were building community and forming connections. That’s the part of church that I loved. Off of the hard pews and outside of the watchful gaze of the adults who always seemed to be judging us within those brick walls.
Fast forward to a new kind of Christianity. A religious movement that judges the most vulnerable among us the harshest of all. Violence is acceptable and encouraged. Violence in the language that we use when we’re hiding behind our screens. Violence in public spaces when we believe the law is on our side because we are the righteous ones. There is a large group of people who believe that God has chosen a leader and that leader can do whatever he wants as long as our ministers promise us salvation. Salvation in return for keeping our mouths shut and for silencing others. For going along with the crowd instead of thinking for ourselves. Even for inflicting physical harm against those whom we deem unworthy. I read that bible cover to cover in junior high and I am here to tell you we have lost the plot. I am not going to hell and even if you believe I am, is it your job to beat me on the way there? I’ve been bullied and I’ve also bullied people. It’s exhausting on both sides. Aren’t we all so tired?
I am amazed at the people who have reached out to check on me in the past couple of days since the election. Aside from my mom, the messages have mostly been from my queer friends. My friends who are among the most vulnerable in this country are reaching out to check on me. “Are you okay?” “How are you feeling?” One childhood friend who is gay even told me “I love you…you need to hear that.” Wow. What an amazing group of people I have in my life. The kindness they continue to show in the face of such hate is admirable.
Sometimes I think I should go back to church. I occasionally miss the sense of community that a church can provide. I know it can be a source of comfort to some. But now I know that I’ll never go back. Not after all of this. What I will do is find some new volunteer opportunities. I’ll build connections in my acts of service. I’ll reach out to friends who need encouragement. I’ll be a landing pad for folks in need as I’ve been my whole life. Mostly importantly, I’ll do my best not to judge. Don’t be fooled, I’ve seen pictures of myself and apparently, I have resting judgement face. Rest assured I can’t help it, that’s just how my face is. But inside, my heart looks different. It’s a little beat up and needs some time to heal but it’s still beating. If your church is an important part of your life, I sincerely hope that these challenges are being discussed there. And if they are not, may you be brave enough to use your own voice to bring them up or find another space where you, your family and your community are safe.