Friday, July 18, 2014

Jesus, Evolving (Part V, Section C)


 
A little note: I go out of my way to be forthright in stating that what I write is from my perspective. I am extremely sensitive about writing about others, and in order to honor their identities, I often change names (and sometimes genders) of the people I write about. If I use real names, it is almost always because I have permission. I’ve been doing this all along, but thought you should know. And with that, the story begins with where I left off at the end of the last post….

I was so anxious on my drive back to Colorado that I wretched through a good portion of Utah. This baffled me because I was going back to my beloved homeland! Yet, I felt bedeviled. My last image of myself in Colorado was standing in confidence, in front of a group of people who believed in me and believed in the Jesus I followed to San Diego. In some ways, my return to the Rockies was overshadowed by what felt like chains of failure draped all over me, and I had to look all those people in the eye. The other part of my restless stomach indicated my aching need to be embraced, and feel like myself, in Disneyland*.  I was returning weary, defeated, broken, and wonderfully tan.

*This reference is from my last post. Disneyland is my endearing reference to the church I worked at in Arvada.

Upon my return to Arvada, I began work as a 30 hour/week co-pastor of a young adult ministry called EPIC. This ministry was part of the Disneyland church where I interned before going to San Diego. I supplemented my income by working as a Starbucks barista as well. I spent almost as much time at Starbucks as I did at church, demonstrated by me calling out drinks in my sleep, much to the chagrin of my roommate. Moving back to Arvada and working at my church made me think everything was going to be okay. I had been to the battlefield, and returned with wounds and scars. I was surrounded once again by my favorite people and working at a church that I believed was doing things right—it was like coming home and getting to sleep in your own bed. It was inevitable though, that the other proverbial shoe would drop. I was "home" for less than a month when I realized something still felt wrong with me: I was enduring daily self-reproach, convinced that I sucked as a person and a pastor. I felt sad most of the time, and I realized that I was angry and distrustful at God, church, and myself. 

I didn't waste time finding a counselor to help me. A Christian counselor, to be specific. Somewhere in the air I breathed all my life, I developed an implicit distrust of "secular" counselors, believing they would invalidate my faith (ironically, I now have mistrust of Christian counselors for the same reason). Fortunately, my Christian counselor actually happened to be very good at her job. The process of sitting with another trustworthy human being (if you have a good counselor) and having them help you see through to your soul, validate and normalize the dark and light, and have hope for you, can be a terrifying and powerfully healing experience. The first thing that happened is that my counselor helped me understand that I was a normal person, depressed, but normal. Up to that point in my life, I worked hard to project the image of a positive, funny, all-is-well kind of person. I had this belief, I’m not even sure of where it originated, that I would burden others if I was sad, or needed help. I was always glad to help others who were sad and needed help, but I needed to be perfect and perfectly self-sufficient. I also began to recognize my belief that I could transcend feelings and situations that most people cannot transcend, like a huge life, cultural, and spiritual transition for example. My counselor helped me to understand why my understanding of—everything—wasn’t working for me anymore, and why I was normal for needing help. I was also a person who trusted God and believed that a good Christian compelled others to want to know Jesus. I sincerely believed that I represented Jesus to others. I believed that following and trusting God, though not always easy or sane-looking, would ultimately bring blessing to others and myself. It would mean that life would better for me, and I would be better off than non-believers, otherwise why would I even hope to show others that following Jesus was the best thing to do? Since I was depressed, and felt like a failure, I believed I was not perfectly representing the fullness of Jesus, therefore failing as a Christian and a pastor, failing at being myself.

In most counseling experiences, things get worse before they get better. In order to heal, I needed to come to terms with how wounded I was. Coming to terms with those wounds, peeling back the bandages to take a look at them and understand them, that’s the moment when things got worse for me: My very identity as pastor and Christian, along with my framework for functioning in life stopped working in San Diego, and it didn’t start magically working again when I came back to Colorado. I thought Colorado would help me find North. Not only was North enigmatic, but I realized my compass disappeared too. I kept thinking I would feel free and alive in Colorado. But I didn’t feel that way at all. I felt loss. I had to grieve my loss, feel it, and experience depression because of it. The way I saw life, myself, and God was no longer working for me, so things got worse before they got better.

Things getting worse meant that I felt stuck for a little while, stuck in the darkness and hopelessness, and not sure how to get out. If you have experienced depression, there is no need for an explanation. If you have not experienced depression…you lucky bastard! Seriously though, one of the best summaries of depression I’ve heard is that it is anger turned inward. Not only that, but also some strange brain alchemy happens that makes it very difficult to “snap out of it” or think realistically. If you’ve compassionately lived with or spent time with someone who is depressed, you are an enduring angel. It was inevitable that my depression would impact all areas of my life, including my preaching. About three months after I returned to Colorado, I was preparing for a sermon. The sermon was based on some content from a book I’d been reading called Messy Spirituality. It was actually a very helpful book for me because it relieved me of the expectation that my relationship with God should be always on a straight path, angling toward better. Instead, the concept from Messy Spirituality that I prepared to preach about, stated that, “the point is not always to clean up our mess, but that God enters our mess and makes us masterpieces.” As a person experiencing depression, this content was not connecting. In theory, I loved the idea of God making me a masterpiece. Yet I felt like God had given up on me, I didn’t want or ask for the messiness, when I did ask for it to go away, it didn’t. I just wanted to feel normal and happy again. So to stand in front of my congregation and speak this message with conviction, felt like I’d be lying. My journal excerpt from that time said:

“I don’t believe this about myself. This message will be useless…if I can’t give a message—the one thing I love and am passionate about, and do well at, then what good am I? Why should I be allowed to do what I do? Feeling hopeless.”

I knew that I would not be able to preach this message with integrity; I did not believe what I was going to preach. Exasperation and frustration with myself lead to a meltdown, which lead to me deciding not to preach that week, and letting someone else do it. This was a low moment. To be unable to follow through on my job, and my identity—I was a pastor who couldn’t preach for god’s sake—was deeply troubling for me, and reinforcing my belief that I was failing as a Christian, perfectly demonstrating the struggle of my depression at the time. The person who preached in my stead was our church’s associate pastor, the creator of EPIC, and one of the greatest mentors of my life. The day I told him I couldn’t preach, I also told him, in the throes of distorted thinking, that I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to hack it on the team, and that maybe I shouldn’t be on the team. He told me, “If you’re in the same place six months or a year from now, we’re still committed to you. This past year has been a test for you, and continues to be.”

During this season of depression, I kept asking God why he would let me be this way; I kept begging him to make me better. I did not want to learn lessons and build my faith in a Job-like way; it felt cruel to me. I often thought life was pointless and that everyone would be better off without me. I would rather God take my life then live the way I was living. Eventually, I got to a place where I spent less time looking at the wound, and more time learning how to heal. One potent remedy for healing was learning to reframe my understanding of God, and myself too. I started letting go of the concept that God has a plan and reason for everything. There are a million examples of why that is a shitty way to understand God. The idea that God planned for me to be depressed, feel like a failure, and have to toil for hope seemed cruel. The fact that I was begging on a daily basis to either feel better, or die, was a sickening way to live. I trusted God, I believed in him, dedicated my life to him fully, including vocation—I was sold. I did not need the added injury of having to believe that God planned for me to wish a Mac truck would just take me out. I absolutely found meaning and gained insight from my dark days, but I stopped believing that God planned it, and had a reason for it. Instead, I began taking on an understanding that God did not plan all of the horrendous things that happened in the world, or the struggle of my life, but instead that God was with me during the pain, but was just as displeased about it. I was starting to see the world as a place with lots of humans, created with the capacity to love, that could make life better if we just chose love, and Jesus was the ultimate example of that love. As I began to take on this perspective, my purpose as a Christian and a pastor continued even more strongly as a mission to help people love each other. My counselor helped me remember to include myself in that love, to be good to myself, and let others love me too. I needed a lot of love in this season of change. I continued to have low moments over the subsequent year as I worked through depression and trying to understand myself. There were times when I brought hardship and pain to some of my friendships, as well as ambivalent leadership to EPIC. I had many healing moments too, the kind where people, who I suspected loved me very much, showed me they really did love me, even when I wasn’t always easy to love.

Working through depression included re-thinking my pastoral role and calling, the purpose of church, as well as whether or not I wanted to be in vocational ministry forever. I was regularly contemplating how I was taught to understand God, how I preached about God, and how to make sense of the role of the evangelical Christian church (I’ll refer to this as church from here on out). There was a popular book circulating among my evangelical sub-culture called, A New Kind of Christian by Brian McLaren. Those of us on our staff, and a few others in our church who were reading this, were quiet and diaspora-like in our appreciation of it. The book teetered toward heretical, and some evangelical pundits dismissed it because it was too postmodern (which is translated in Greek as of the devil). It also left too many Christians questioning without providing answers. It confused people, and it lacked theological credibility and did not use the conventional evangelical framework to understand the Bible. Theological credibility was part of my own angst too: All of the theology I had studied, that cemented my beliefs, was yelling from the sidelines of my curiosity, begging proof for my expedition’s purpose, “no need to ask if the world is round, we’ve already proven it is flat!” McLaren’s framework for understanding the Bible refreshed my own perspective. I have the book in front of me right now, with several dog-eared pages and relentless underlining on the chapter about the Bible.  As evangelicals, we give the Bible, and our interpretations of it, absolute authority. Yet as I learned in my Biblical Studies program, there have been a myriad of interpretations over time, and there continue to be. Everything evangelical is based on the authority of the Bible, so if biblical authority is removed, a house of theological cards comes a’tumblin’ down. At the time I was reading this book, I was questioning the lens through we interpreted the Bible, wondering if it was possible that our lens could be wrong. McLaren suggested that perhaps our interpretations of the Bible do not hold authority, but that God holds the authority (I would later question the authority we ascribe to God, but I won’t get ahead of myself here). Despite the general, evangelical disgruntled alarm about this book, I felt alive when I read it. When I read McLaren’s work, I cried and cheered through much of it. I vividly remember being hunkered down in the Starbucks on 64th and Ward, thinking this author had read my mail, while I expressed tears of joy, ensuring the book remained clandestine behind The Purpose Driven Life dust jacket (I’m kidding about the dust jacket. Is dust jacket even a relevant term anymore?). He was able to articulate something that I did not have words for, giving voice to feelings and observations that I, and many others, were making at the time. McLaren was able to decode my soul and I was jealous I had not written his book myself! He was an explorer who had begun to chart the uncharted. I can’t speak for him, but I was getting the sense that he did not intend for his work to provide answers. For me, it was like going on a hike where the path is unclear, and then I find a cairn, then another cairn, letting me know someone has forged this direction. I was not alone. I was not crazy.

While I was exploring alternative ways of being a Christian, working as Starbucks Barista provided the opportunity to build rich relationships with people of all stripes, outside of my church world. I worked with a former Colorado beauty queen who was also a Unitarian Universalist; an active environmentalist, the first I’d ever met and known by name; a father of two trying to make ends meet; a “liberal,” mainline Christian who introduced me to the idea that there are many valid Christian theologies; a philosophy major who discussed metaphysics with me; a spritely CU Boulder student who assisted the sun in generating light; a worship pastor at a local church; and a pregnant lesbian who was really funny and made me laugh. It was during 4am shifts and mid-day lulls, when there was time to linger and talk before the rush of Regulars came through the door, that helped me get to know others, and allow myself to be known outside of the confines of a church community. I could pose real questions that might have been taboo with my evangelical community, questions that were simply normal at my Starbucks. I could also be more real with some of my thoughts about God, life, and faith, sharing ideas and qualms among people who would not worry for me or think of me as an unfit minister. I had many a conversation along the lines of spirituality and life’s woes, providing a listening ear or encouraging words, or simple compassion; I was learning to give and receive in relationships with non-Christians without feeling the pressure of pretending that because I had Jesus, I had figured out the right answer to life. I had a chance to tell my Unitarian friend why Jesus made sense to me, and hear from her why she didn’t need him, and in that conversation really listen and try to understand, without the goal of influencing her toward my beliefs. As much as I wished I did not have to work at Starbucks, and be a full time pastor instead, I think I was more of an authentic pastor and human when I put on my green apron.

One conversation in particular will always remain with me. The conversation served as a watershed moment of empathy with others, frustration with church, and my role as a pastor. The pregnant lesbian I mentioned, Carly, stopped at the pastry case where I was loading a shelf with sugary, fatty goodness. Carly asked me, “does your church baptize babies?” I explained to her that, “we dedicate babies in my tradition and kids aren’t baptized until they are able to understand the choice of baptism” (logically, eight years old or so). She went on to ask, “would your church allow my partner and I to dedicate our new baby when she’s born?” I stood there, pumpkin bread in hand, trying to formulate a gentle way to say, hell no. What I did say was, “You know, I hate to say this (uncomfortable pause) people at my church would be kind to you and welcome you and be friends with you, but if you wanted to dedicate your baby, you would have to un-become a lesbian before they would dedicate your kid. They won’t do it.” Saying those words to Carly felt horrible. I was part of this tradition. I was part of a group that invalidated same-gender relationships, and believed we had the authority to do so. It was troublesome for me in the moment. Carly seemed unaffected by my response, like she had heard it before, but I was uneasy. In that few minutes, with the steam wand whirring in the background, and the blender buzzing up Frappuccinos, I realized that Carly’s experience of being a lesbian and wanting to be part of an evangelical community was similar to my experience of being a woman and a pastor. There were lots of people that did not believe that our identities, lady pastor or lesbian, were valid. I was standing there, exasperated that my faith tradition, and me at times, had the audacity to think we could validate or invalidate certain ways of being human. Yes, I was thankfully part of an evangelical denomination that ordained women, but like much of social progress in the US, I was legal, but there was still a lot of cultural catching up to be done. I don’t want to misrepresent either: the majority of the male pastors I worked with for most of my time in ministry had full confidence in my abilities and were advocates for my work, and partners in my work. But, female representation in positions of leadership had a lot of catching up to do. I simply did not meet very many other female pastors. I interpreted this lack of representation, along with some vocal Christians who blatantly challenged my role as a pastor, as invalidating my existence. This moment with Carly gave me pause, making me ask, “Who else? Who else do we invalidate?” I wanted to make this right, I wanted to fix it, and I knew I needed to continue exploring and questioning what it means to be the church, and my participation in the church. I needed to rethink my ecclesiology, to be exact. 

For so long, I believed the church to be the hope of the world, the conduit through which people could connect with Jesus. I began to see myself evolving as a pastor, perceiving my role to include helping the church to minister to the world by being a community that inspired love and hope (and all the other things outlined in Moulin Rouge’s bohemian society) for all of creation—people didn’t need to stop being gay, or female, or addicts, or Buddhist, or Calvinists, or liberals, or Darwinists, or humanists, or single people, or pacifists, or poor, or unmarried and living together, or themselves, to be a part of the kingdom of God. 

But what was happening is that I was part of the church, who at the moment, was getting the un-churched, churched (side note: un-churched does not equal non-Christian). I was learning that getting people churched and connecting them to Jesus were not the same thing. Getting people churched meant that we welcomed anyone into our community, but then needed to change them, so we could be more comfortable around them. Or, we were simply a better place to be than the church down the road, so we attracted people who were already churched, but wanting a different church experience. We’d introduce them to a community where they would find connection and support, and become people who would invite others to church as well, like a well-oiled machine, that existed for the sake of itself. My church in particular started transforming into a church that tried to get people saved (accept Jesus into their hearts). I was asked at one point to complete a document that tallied the number of people who accepted Jesus as their savior through EPIC. I begrudgingly guessed. I didn’t do altar calls during Sunday services, or ask people to say the sinner’s prayer over lunch.  I was more concerned about getting to know people and letting them know that their life mattered. I didn’t know who was saved or not. All I knew was that because Jesus was in my life, it was my desire to show him to others through the way I treated the people around me.

Qualifier: As always, I am cautious to paint anything in broad brushstrokes. I have, and still do, see aspects of the church acting as a community that brings hope and support—in life-changing ways—to many people. And according to a recent Pew Research poll, almost 1/3 of the American population is evangelical Christian, and many non-evangelicals, view the evangelicals that they know, in a very warm way. I am good friends with, and related to, many evangelicals who I think are some of the best human beings on the planet. 

During my ecclesiological questioning, I think the heart of my discomfort was that the church maintained a collective, typically well-intended mindset that said: we hold the Truth, with absolute certainty. No one else does. The less depressed I became, the more I spent time around non-Christians, and the more books I read, I allowed myself to start rethinking the Truth as defined by the church. I was coming around to a new way of seeing: understanding God in new ways, understanding people in a new ways, and understanding myself in a new way. My exploration challenged the Truth as I knew it and naturally impacted my pastoral identity and my role as a leader in my church. As all this was shifting for me, things were shifting in my church as well. It had been about a year since my preaching meltdown, our associate pastor (the one who was a great mentor) left the ministry, another one of our key leaders in EPIC left as well. I became a full time pastor, and co-pastored EPIC with another colleague, Ben. I also stopped working at Starbucks. I felt ambivalent about all this. While I was questioning whether or not I wanted to remain in vocational ministry, I became more involved in the church. And while I think I was a more authentic human being at Starbucks, I hoped I could help my church understand the non-Christians out there, and share different ideas for reaching out to them. There were also some storms brewing in our church’s leadership team, and I was ever so tentatively questioning my fitness for ministry, and continuing to question the purpose of church. I had enough career ambivalence through this period that I started a Master’s in Counseling program at Denver Seminary, thinking a vocational shift may lie ahead.

As uncomfortable as it was to be seriously considering leaving life in ministry, I continued with my curiosity-led investigation of my faith and the expression of it. Like many people who begin to realize that their beliefs, buttressed by an institution and deeply rooted history, might not be the only answer to life, I felt a sense of disillusionment. Even more so, I felt a sense of unfairness: why did we choose to embrace some ways of understanding God, while rejecting others that seemed valid, and were embraced by Christians outside of evangelicalism? Why aren’t we taught all of Christian thought, and allowed to decide for ourselves what makes sense? How could we, with intellectual integrity, claim to have the only Truth? The freedom and life I was finding in expanding my beliefs and being open to alternative understandings (at the time still fell under the larger Christian umbrella, but included theological thought accepted outside of evangelical Protestantism) was not heartily welcomed in my tradition. At best it was tolerated and seen as normal questioning that would eventually taper, and perhaps make my faith stronger, as I realized the rightness of evangelical beliefs. I was having this paradoxical experience of increased compassion and love for non-Christians and decreased compassion and love for evangelical Christian exclusion and absolutism. I was embracing the gray of unknowing, the gray of non-absolutes, living and preaching from a place of questioning and curiosity. 

I describe this as an incredibly complex time for me. My worldview was changing. I was questioning my fitness for ministry and purpose of church. Meanwhile, the ministry I was running was beginning to fall apart, as was the church leadership and general morale of our staff. There were bigger things happening in Disneyland while I was working through my own questions of faith. There was a lot of turmoil within church leadership, lots of whispered conversations behind closed doors, and a palpable lack of trust among us all. My own EPIC congregation was growing disgruntled with me too. One of the young adults who was part of EPIC, Pete, came to me with a concern representing the sentiments of many EPIC attenders. We sat down in our empty fellowship hall during the middle of the week and talked in quiet voices. “Keener, I’m telling you this because you are my friend and I respect you. People are saying that when you preach, you are not black and white enough.” This was true. Gray was my favorite color at the time. “You ask too many questions and don’t give enough answers.” I stopped him and told him he was right. That I don’t give answers because I don’t have them, and I think my role is to offer various perspectives and let others work it out for themselves. Especially in light of my inner uncertainties about faith—I did not think I could preach anything with certainty. In the moment I was getting frustrated that it was only Pete who came to talk with me, wishing that the others would have felt comfortable enough to share their concerns as well. I had to guess, “How many people are worried? Do they truly have the same concerns as Pete? How am I supposed to respond to this, and who do I respond to?” I encouraged Pete to suggest that others come and talk with me, so I could hear their perspective, and so they could hear mine. Pete assured me that he cared about me, and EPIC, and wanted to let me know what he was hearing. I never got to hear from others though. 

Though Pete was right about my preaching, and I chose to preach this way, I took his feedback as a gut-punch too.  I liked to be liked and had a slight obsession with making sure others thought well of me. Pete’s feedback needled at my inner tension of needing to preach with intellectual and spiritual integrity, while also wanting people to like me and feel inspired by my teaching. It also reaffirmed my anger and frustration with evangelicalism in general. As he and I continued to talk, my growing self-doubt about my fitness to lead was being confirmed: could I stand to be myself and risk not being the person and leader that others wanted me to be? I felt frustrated that as I tried to be myself, not hiding my doubts, that my congregation and colleagues in leadership seemed unsettled by my genuine curiosity, and were suspicious of my pastoral abilities because I had questions. I didn’t want my own doubts about myself to be confirmed by others. As Philip Gulley says, “It’s really hard to stand in your own truth when everybody around you is telling you, ‘Why don’t you just keep things the way they are?’” The extra sting is that I was well aware that my congregation of 18-30 year olds represented the most un-churched age group in the US, and some were likely asking the questions I was asking, but didn’t feel safe to ask. I think this is one of the reasons this age group leaves the church in droves. My guess is that I was making them uncomfortable too, because when we as humans feel uncertain, we often look to others as anchors, we look to them for answers, for help to clarify the unclear. Preaching questions and leaving things gray was not calming for my congregants. I was an unsteady anchor. I wasn’t really an anchor at all.

As much as I wanted others to be happy with me, to feel confident in me, I was unable to stand up in front of people and pretend that I had all the answers, and the right answers about something so confounding as the idea of God. The reality was that I was working in a church, like most evangelical churches, that held core beliefs that needed to be adhered to, especially by those of us in leadership. This is not an abnormal or even a wrong thing for a church to do. Churches are institutions, and like any institution, they must uphold and maintain standards in order to maintain their identity. If they don’t, they cease to be an institution. At that time I my life, I didn’t care that an institution needed to be maintained, this was God we were talking about after all, and I couldn’t relegate God to a list of static beliefs that were created by men. How could I contain God in black and white statements, certain and unchangeable answers, and absolute assertions? I could not and would not, and my unwillingness to bend was problematic for my church, and especially problematic for me. I was being a little stinker.

Pete’s feedback was enlightening and crippling, but eventually I was thankful for his honesty and courage to tell me the truth. Sometimes I wonder if Pete’s message exposed what my life was trying to tell me anyway, but I was not quite ready to hear: You need to leave the ministry. You need to genuinely question your faith. You need to see what it’s like to be a Christian outside the church. This message was certainly coming from within, and to see that somebody from without was seeing this too was revealing a congruence that I was hesitant to accept. After a few days of mulling and anguishing over my conversation with Pete, I went to the office to talk with my partner in ministry, Ben. He was one of my best friends during this season of life and is one of the most kind, funny, gentle, and tidy people I know. I was recounting my conversation with Pete to Ben. As he patiently listened, I asked him, “Are YOU worried about me too? About how I teach and preach?” I was still looking for someone who wasn’t worried about me. His answer was that he was worried too. Knowing that he was worried was more than I could handle. I felt alone and began to cry. And, I mean cry. I am not a crier and I rarely showed sad emotions to others, but I wept like a close friend had died. I felt miserable about the uncertainty of my identity, and especially about the idea that my congregation was unhappy with me, and that I couldn’t just ask my questions and not have people worry about me. I was worried that everyone thought I was wrong and inept. I wanted people to embrace me and that my preached uncertainties would help them feel challenged, enlivened, and motivated to explore what God meant in their lives. Instead, they felt frustrated, confused, and wanted certainties that I could not give. I sensed (thought I am not certain) that the people around me—congregants and colleagues—wanted me to change, or get better, or read up on theology, then come back when I was ready to toe the line. Ben compassionately suggested that I take some time off, that I was being too hard on myself, and thought that I just needed a break. I felt relief and agreement in my entire being at his suggestion. A break seemed like just the thing I needed.

Ben and I met with Pastor Jim and proposed the idea that I take a mini-sabbatical. We sat in Jim’s office, he in his rolling desk chair, and Ben and I sharing a couch. A coffee table separated us from Jim. I recounted the conversation with Pete and the general sense of doubt and inquisitiveness that I was experiencing. Pastor Jim was anxiously curious to know more about the kinds of questions I was asking and wanted some specifics on my theological doubts. “How do I pare this down?” I thought. I immediately felt defensive and bumbled out “Well, I don’t believe in our version of absolute truth. This idea is only 100 years old—saying that one version of one religion is right about absolute truth doesn’t make sense to me.” The suggestion that I might not believe in the absolute truth of our faith was confounding to Jim. I’m pretty sure I sounded like a crazy, relativistic, post-modernist, who was dancing on a slippery slope, and heretical alarm bells were going off in Jim’s brain (she’s a witch!). I think the Biblical commentaries on the shelf behind his head began to quake. He leaned forward looking concerned, and agreed that I might need a break. “While you are on your break, I’d like you to write a Statement of Faith …” I perked up, that actually sounded fun! “…answer these questions: Who is God? What is Truth? What is the Church? What is Salvation? What is Sin?”

I was nerdily thrilled! I loved writing, thinking, learning, and sharing knowledge. I had thoughts on all the topics Jim presented. These thoughts had been informed not only by several years of formal Biblical and theological education, but also by self-education, my own spiritual journey, and attention to life in general. I had never had the opportunity to organize it and write it all down—at someone else’s request, so writing this Statement of Faith was a welcome challenge. I knew what the right answers were supposed to be too. I had a bachelor’s degree in Biblical Studies, and was in the midst of getting my Master’s degree at an evangelical seminary. Both of my educational institutions were bastions of evangelical thought and practice, and both required my commitment to the National Association of Evangelicals Statement of Faith in order to be admitted to the institutions (I had to sign in blood). I figured out pretty quickly though, that my assignment to write a Statement of Faith was not intended for my pleasure, but rather a litmus to determine how far off the deep end I had gone. Pastor Jim and five church Council members would ultimately read my Statement, a test I knew I would not pass because I was not going to deliver the right answers. I was going to tell the truth about my life and thoughts on faith.

On a cold November day toward the end of my sabbatical, I walked into the Atrium Café at Faith Bible Chapel. I was nervous, and resolute. “You’re screwed,” was running through my head. There was a knot in my stomach as I walked into this mega-church complex to meet the proverbial nail in my coffin. I’d driven past this church a million times, but had never gone inside. It is expansive, literally. The church straddles Ward Road in Arvada, with a bridge that connects one part of the complex to the other. The Atrium Café is part of this network; a coffee shop with 40 foot ceilings that is part of a larger, mall-like “foyer,” the meet and greet hub for Sunday morning worship with thousands. There were many high top tables, a few overstuffed chairs and a couch, ficus trees and other plants placed about to try and give it a smaller feel, and a coffee kiosk of course. All the tables were full of people as I searched for Pastor Jim, and one of our church council members, Stacy. I quickly found them both, seated at a table near the overstuffed chairs. As I approached them, I noticed that they both had a copy of my Statement of Faith, both copies marked with illegible writing. The knot in my stomach got tighter, and I felt brave and scared. I was at the Atrium Café because this was where Jim and Stacy wanted to discuss what I had written. With my marked-up Statement of Faith in front of them, I sat down and three of us delved into my 10-page magnum opus. 

Pastor Jim told me that he and five members of the church council held a “Keener Bible Study” where they all read through what I had written. I, of course, wanted to know their response, and I half expected the ghost of Martin Luther to walk by at this moment.  Stacy was genuinely amiable and she gently stated her concerns about my penned beliefs, but also affirmed and normalized my curiosity, “Keener, all of us have had questions like this at one point or another,” as if to help me feel like it was all going to be okay. Her comment was only slightly relieving, being that I didn’t know her very well and wasn’t sure of her intentions. I had this nagging feeling that there was a nice-ness about this conversation that was masking an undeveloped ability to be forthright, leaving me on edge. Jim joined in and brought forth his key concerns, “Your statement made you sound confused and like you lacked knowledge. You don’t seem sure about what happens to us when we die. Do you believe that we go to heaven? (pause) If I asked you today where you are going when you die, how sure are you that you would go to heaven?” He questioned me as if I were ignorant of evangelical theology and had never received a degree in Biblical Studies, or had skipped all of my Seminary classes, or even attended Vacation Bible School for that matter. And, of course, I knew the right answer would be to tell Jim that I was certain I was going to heaven because I had accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was eight years old and I have been following Him ever since, including regular church attendance, Awanas, mission trips, and dedicating my life to ministry. Instead I said, “I’m 99% sure that I will go to heaven, but how can I possibly say with integrity that I am certain of something that is so full of mystery and uncertainty? And I think you are asking the wrong question anyway, and I get frustrated when faith is oversimplified and hinges upon whether a not a person goes to heaven or hell.” If there were an audience at the Atrium Cafe, they would have let out a collective, head-hanging sigh of resignation and disappointment in my stubborn response. I’m not sure he or Stacy knew what to do next. I surely did not know what to do next either. I was fairly certain I was going to get fired right there in the mega church. They didn’t fire me though. Instead, they followed through with a predetermined plan to have me talk with one more council member, who I assumed would also be evaluating my heretical levels (logically, if she weighs the same as a duck, she’s made of wood, and therefore—a witch!). I walked out to my car knowing that this was the beginning of the end, saying out loud to myself, “I can’t believe this is happening. What am I doing?!” 

A few days later, I met with the other council member at a Starbucks (the same one where I read McLaren’s book), across the street from the mega church. She, like Stacy, wasn’t too concerned about my questions and disclosed that she had her misgivings that I had to go through this process at all. She informed me that there was other turmoil happening in the leadership and that I was unfortunately (and unknowingly) swept into the process. She also told me that Jim wasn’t expecting me to write a 10-page, well thought out Statement of Faith, but instead wanted a bullet pointed document exemplifying the brevity and certainty of the National Association of Evangelicals Statement of Faith. My document took him off guard. In fact, later that week, he emailed the National Association of Evangelicals Statement of Faith to me: “Read this and let me know if you agree.” I read it, and sort of agreed, only because my beliefs were changing and I had no new, definitive statements to declare. I replied to his email, saying I agreed, and annoyingly included my reservations, point by point, regarding each stated dogma. I’m sure that Jim felt exasperated by me. I truly believe that Jim respected me and wanted the best for me, but was also in a quandary because I, one of his key leaders, was toying with heresy, and not backing down. 

So much of me wanted to back down, to surrender, to roll over and ask for a belly scratch to show that I was no threat. Part of me wanted to enthusiastically declare that I had no doubts and I was ready to lead again. I desperately needed my colleagues in ministry to trust me again, to think well of me, to respect me. These people were my community and support—my family. I felt very alone, as if I were repelling my support system. So much of me needed to be honest about who I was, what I was thinking, and I was willing to risk a great loss to do so. My theological and institutional rebellion included feeling alienated by those closest to me. I don’t think I was an easy person to be around during that time either. I often felt indignant and angry, laced with fear and sadness. During the season of writing and sharing my Statement of Faith, I was also pointing out other ethical faults that were occurring within our leadership at the time. I suppose I was a whistle-blower, and in order for everyone else to survive, from my perspective, they had to distance themselves from me. At the time, this was painful and difficult for me to understand, and was all muddled within my own doubts about evangelical Christianity. At the risk of sounding like a conspiracy theorist, I can’t give a full account of everything that was happening in my church because so much of it was kept secret, even between colleagues. In the past 10 years, since all this happened, a handful of people who were leaders during all of this went out of their way to apologize to me, telling me that me and my Statement of Faith got caught in something bigger that was going on. I still don’t know exactly what that bigger thing was.
All I did know was that EPIC didn’t seem to be fitting into the vision of where the entire church was going. It didn’t help that I was reluctant to continue leading as well. Ben was also questioning the momentum of EPIC as well as my fitness to continuing leading. He and I had several talks about the idea of disbanding EPIC because the church as a whole was considering functioning as one multi-generational unit and it didn’t make sense for us to nurture EPIC—a congregation of 18-30 year-olds—apart from the rest of the church. In the midst of what felt like a toxic environment to me, and as I was losing faith that the church was the hope of the world, I was losing faith in my faith: could I continue representing a church, theology, and way of life that was no longer making sense to me? It did not help that my community of support seemed to feel cautious and uneasy about the questions I was asking. 

My own questions, and weariness in conjuring motivation to revive a ministry on life support, made it fairly easy for me to agree to Ben’s suggestion: what if we closed down EPIC? I remember sitting in his office that day, among the order and neatness that was Ben’s lair, organizing our exit strategy, who we would talk to, how to keep praying, and how to move forward as church leaders and individuals. Less than three months after this conversation, EPIC closed its doors and I was writing my letter of resignation. During this uncomfortable transition, our associate pastor (he started after the former associate pastor, my mentor, left) invited me to his office for an unexpected heart to heart. He apologized to me, through tears, “Keener, I feel like this experience has taken you off the battle field of ministry. We are losing you too soon. I’m so sorry for how you’ve been treated, I feel sorry that this happened. I wish there was more I could have done for you. I don’t want you to give up on the church.” I was shocked that I had an advocate, and felt some healing knowing that he had been standing up for me without me knowing. I too, was crying. I left his office, feeling a mix of bitter sadness and much needed validation, and some hint of closure as I walked forward into the unknown. My plans of being a pastor and being an evangelical Christian were fading as I walked away from a life of ministry. When I left, I thought I just needed a break and a new ministerial context that allowed more freedom of thought and liberalism in theology. But in my soul, I knew I would not return—to church or to my evangelical faith tradition.

I felt that questions as to the meaning of life, and the possibility of the constructive improvement of life for individuals, would probably always interest me, but I could not work in a field where I would be required to believe in some specified religious doctrine. My beliefs had already changed tremendously, and might continue to change. It seemed to me it would be a horrible thing to have to profess a set of beliefs, in order to remain in one’s profession. I wanted to find a field in which I could be sure my freedom of thought would not be limited. –Carl Rogers



APPENDIX:
National Association of Evangelicals Statement of Faith: http://www.nae.net/about-us/statement-of-faith
Influential works during this time period:
A New Kind of Christian. Brian D. McLaren; The Present Future: Six Tough Questions for the Church. Reggie McNeal; Blue Like Jazz. Donald Miller; Sexual Shame: An Urgent Call to Healing. Karen A. McClintock; Adventures in Missing the Point: How the Culture-Controlled Church Neutered the Gospel. Brian D. McLaren and Tony Campolo; Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy. David Burns; Faith and Feminism: A Holy Alliance. Helen LaKelly Hunt                                                                                                                                       

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Jesus, Evolving: Part V, Section A

Jesus, Evolving (Part V, Section A, in a continuing story....it's tax season so Parts and Sections are relevant, right? Part V, Section B will be the next blog post)

A defining of terms, before reading: I use the terms God and Jesus interchangeably in this post. I also use the pronoun, he, to refer to God. The terms God, Jesus, and he all reflect how I referred to God during the time of life of which I write in this post.
________________________________________________________


Though Christmas day has come and gone, my thoughts and feelings about the meaning of Christmas have been at the forefront of my musings since the holiday's approach. Having an almost three-year-old has made this season seem even more magical and full of wonder for me. She's at an age where she is beginning to recognize that it is a special time of year: she's singing songs about reindeer and jingle bells, noticing colorful lights on neighbors' houses,  reading books and watching shows about Christmas, learning about Hanukkah and Kwanzaa at school, playing with tree ornaments and subsequently breaking said ornaments, repetitively watching the Nutcracker or Pentatonix Drummer Boy on YouTube, Mom and Dad are a bit more giddy than usual, and unbeknownst to her, she will be wearing angel wings at a simple kid's Christmas program at our Quaker Meeting. Seeing this season through Claire's eyes has given me nostalgic reminders of Christmases past. 

Each year, and this year especially, I've been asking myself what Christmas means to me, especially as my spiritual identity has been morphing. Along with Claire's awe, I feel my own deep sense of meaning, a fullness that I can only describe as palpable hope, and joy of life. I feel deeply connected to a bigger meaning or purpose that has been magnified this holiday season. It includes a harkening to days gone by as a pastor and devoted Jesus-follower, as well as something new in me that is still connected to the story of Jesus, but not in the same way it used to be. A curious thing kept happening in the synapses of my brain and the conduits of my soul during the weeks leading up to Christmas. The words of the song O Holy Night were on Repeat in my head  almost every day for several weeks. Kind of like when the Cylons, who didn't know they were Cylons, couldn't get that haunting Jimmy Hendrix song out of their heads. The words to O Holy Night were eliciting those powerful emotions of hope and joy of life for me.

 Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Truly he taught us to love one another
His law is love and his gospel peace
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother
And in his name all oppression shall cease

I remember the first time I really paid attention to those words. They had a profound impact on how I thought about Jesus as a savior and the meaning of salvation for myself and humanity. I was somewhere in my mid twenties, visiting home and the church I grew up in over a Christmas break. It was a time when when my understanding of Jesus and his salvation was expanding to include all of creation and not just individuals, that perhaps Jesus died not just to save us from our personal sin, but to literally obliterate the concepts of oppression, war, and the destruction of creation. When I sang the words and processed them, there in the sanctuary of the church of my youth, my understanding of Jesus' death and resurrection expanded far beyond me to include so much more. After all, in the Christian tradition, that is what the holiday season is about: the birth of the Savior of world. 

The words to O Holy Night and their message of Jesus as Savior, carry a different meaning for me now than they used to, but the words are no less meaningful. One morning a few weeks before Christmas, as I walked over the pedestrian bridge crossing US 36 to get to my Broomfield bus stop, the song was going through my head, again (maybe I am a Cylon). Bundled up to my eyes in my coat and hat, surviving the sub-zero morning, I was thinking about Jesus.  The Jesus I believed in most of my life, and how the words to O Holy Night are all about Jesus and his salvation of the world. I was wondering why in the world this song was so moving to me when Jesus as savior wasn't something I believed in anymore. What did these involuntary, unconstrained emotions of hope and joy mean? Was my connection to this song and season evidence that my spiritual metamorphosis had all been in vain--that maybe my former beliefs are the Truth: we need a savior and that savior is Jesus? Years of Christian teaching and apologetics did a whack-a-mole dance in my mind, while all of the reasons why I DIDN'T think Jesus was the only answer served as my mallet. You could say that I was doubting my doubts, all while crossing a 200 yard bridge suspended over morning rush hour traffic, wondering if I really was a Cylon. Then I thought of that Oliver Wendell Holmes quote, one that my husband stuck to our fridge several years ago:

"The mind, once expanded to the dimensions of larger ideas, never returns to its original size."

I put down my whack-a-mole mallet, allowing my thinking to become more gentle. Still bundled to my eyes, now standing in line waiting for the bus, I began to mentally unfold how my understanding of Jesus and my relationship with him had changed, and why his story is still meaningful to me. I knew that my evolution of belief exemplified one of the many aspects of my great adventure to articulate how a dedicated Christ-follower/believer like myself, could become one who no longer believed that he was savior. 

________________________

I accepted Jesus into my heart somewhere around eight years old. For those unfamiliar with the term "accepted Jesus into my heart," it means that I was saved from my sin and hell, would live with Jesus in heaven when I died, and convert to a Christian way of life. When I was eight, my neighbors were hosting what was called a Five Day Club. This was an event where neighborhood kids came to the neighbors' house every day, for five days, to hear about how much Jesus loves us. Our neighbors were some of the most wonderful people in my family’s life, and prayed for my parents and our family to become Christians. They had kids around the ages of my two sisters and me. We all spent a lot of time together as children. The son was my buddy: we took art classes together, went to Awana together (we pretty much dominated at Dodgeball), and had tree-climbing as a common interest. One time, the whole lot of us kids created a play, “The Year 2000,” and performed it in their garage in front of our proud and entertained parents. I was a robot, wearing a box half-covered in foil because we didn't have enough foil to engulf the box (you can see why our parents were proud). Our neighbors were the kind of people who brought us cookies on holidays, let us eat their natural and organic snacks (before people knew what natural and organic were), shared their low-sugar Kool Aid after playing in the Florida heat, and always shared their caring spirit with us. Sometimes I thought they were weird because the kids weren’t allowed to listen to pop music, and one time I got in trouble for bringing a book of ghost stories to their house. But, who am I to call anyone weird? They were dedicated and committed Christians and wonderful neighbors, and it was in their home, at the Five Day Club, that I accepted Jesus into my heart.

The funny thing was, when I went to the Five Day Club, I accepted Jesus into my heart in order to avoid being one-upped by my younger sister, Amanda. And because the idea of living in mansions in heaven was a no-brainer compared to the bowels of hell.  The Club leaders used a home-made construction paper book to tell us all about Jesus. They stood at the front of the living room, turning the pages of the book, telling how Jesus came to earth because he loved us and he died for our sins so we would not have to be punished for them. If we believed in him we would live forever in mansions and on streets of gold in Heaven. One of the last pages in the book had a picture of Jesus standing at a door and knocking; this was the door to our hearts.

We were invited to close our eyes and raise our hands if we wanted to accept Jesus into our hearts. All the kids who raised their hands were instructed to go and pray with a leader. I saw Amanda praying with someone and thought, “Oh crap, if she’s doing this then I should be doing this.” But, instead of embarrassing myself by raising my hand after the fact, I remained seated on the floor and silently prayed to ask Jesus in: “Dear Jesus please come into my heart.” The lights flashed, the floors shook, and a voice from heaven boomed into the living room! Not really, but that’s how I sometimes imagined it was for some people when Jesus saved them. On the day that I became a Christian, nothing changed, except for a feeling of assurance that I would not be living with the Devil. 

For many years after the Five Day Club, I wasn’t sure if I was really a Christian because no one saw me receive Jesus, and because sometimes I was bad. I could be quite the pain in the ass back then. Remember the amazing neighbors I was telling you about? My way of returning kindness to the mom was heckling her while she hung laundry on the clothes line. I’d hide around the corner of my mint-green house (hunter green trim), with the neighbor's backyard in plain sight, hidden enough so the neighbor mom couldn’t see me, or so I thought, but I could see her. I’d peek my head out and yell, “Heyyyyy!” then hide again. She would stop and look around; I’d shake with silent giggles. I repeated this shenanigan several times until the hilarity wore off and I started feeling guilty, then I’d run off to play or pick on my little sister. That was just the tip of my mischievous and occasionally mean iceberg. During the times I felt especially guilty, I'd ask Jesus into my heart again. This was how I thought about Jesus  for many years: Jesus was in my heart (and sometimes needed to be invited in again), so that meant I was a Christian and I was saved for heaven and from hell,  and my relationship with Jesus began at a fixed point in time. A popular question for my generation and the generation before mine was: when did you become a Christian? The answer almost always consisted of a specific date, time, and location. Like birth. Though no one has ever asked me how much I weighed when I became a Christian.

In my late teens my understanding of a relationship with Jesus shifted to something more like conversion: my stated belief in Christ and his acceptance into my heart were followed by a genuine desire to actually live my life like a Christian and make a difference in the world. Just before college, during the summer after my senior year of high school, I had an almost-committed-just about there-but not quite-conversion experience. I was on a mission trip with my youth group in Guatemala. For two weeks we lived in a little village on the shore of Lake Atitlan and helped the village build a church. My friends and I were exposed to life in a developing country and got closer to God because we saw how happy and faithful these people were, even though they had nothing (I think getting closer to God because I realized people could be happy without 30 different versions of peanut butter and 600 TV channels, is a uniquely North American spiritual experience). I also recognized that helping people build something that was meaningful for their community connected me with something bigger than myself, that something being God. At the end of my trip to Guatemala I was motivated and inspired to return home and live differently because of what God had done in my life. At the trip's end, we flew out of Guatemala City to Miami, then drove from Miami to St. Pete. When we pulled into the church parking lot one of my long-time boy buddies was waiting in the parking lot to greet our group. Before I left the church that day he asked me out on a date.
 
I was at the budding stages of living my life for Jesus, coming down from a mission trip high, and at the same time beginning to fall in love with a boy. While I was spending more and more time with this boy, I was also attempting to do the work of God. My leaders and mentors encouraged me to volunteer as a middle school youth leader, facilitating a Bible study for middle school girls as well as creating our monthly youth newsletter (think computer-less clip art and a copy machine + my undeniable hilariousness). Every week I’d meet with this funny, quirky, lively group of middle school girls and talk about faith, and morals, and middle school life. Just about every evening, and all other spare moments, were spent with my boyfriend. The further we got into our almost two year relationship, the more I felt pervasive anxiety, worried that I was short-changing my relationship with God, and overdoing my time with my boyfriend.  This wasn’t a phase in life when I had an abundance of self-awareness or useful tools for being able to have a mature conversation with my boyfriend about our relationship, or how our faith played into our relationship. We didn’t talk about “us,” instead we just lived our lives together (not in the same house, of course, that would be an out-of-wedlock sinfest). 

Over time we began to slowly un-get to know each other, and week by week things started unraveling for us. I was dealing with an intense inner struggle with guilt and integrity—the Rachel I hoped I was showing to my evangelical world was strong in faith and morals, on the right path with God. The Rachel I kept inside was persevarating over the fact that my priorities were tilting, unbalanced, toward my boyfriend and away from God. Our relationship continued on a downward spiral and I knew I needed to break up with him, but I just couldn’t muster the courage to do it. I was afraid of hurting his feelings, afraid of ending a longtime friendship, afraid of being alone. Lucky for me, he was the brave one and broached the breakup conversation. It was what they call a "mutual breakup,"  occurring in the front seat of his car, parked next to a big, crescent-shaped lake in St. Pete. Though it was mutual, it was still difficult, and at the same time, exactly what I needed.

Relief was the most powerful thing that I felt as I walked back to my car and drove away from my now ex-boyfriend. I headed straight to North Shore Park next to Tampa Bay to pray and think. I paced in the stiff, Augustine grass with The Pier in the distance. I was throwing my hands up toward the sky in resolution, pledging my life to God with tears streaming down my face. “I’ll do whatever you want God. I want my life to be Yours. I’m sorry for ignoring You.” After almost two years of sitting on the proverbial fence, teetering back and forth between a life dedicated to God and a life dedicated to a boy, I couldn’t have it both ways, and I didn’t have to have it both ways anymore. I wanted to surrender to Jesus, to live a pure life, walk the talk, live out my faith so that others knew without a doubt that I was a Christian. I wanted all in. So I shouted out my pledge to God that day, looking like someone who had just lost her mind, pacing by the Bay, but feeling like someone who had just found herself. I considered this experience the real start of my relationship with Jesus.

After my true conversion by the Bay, I stopped asking Jesus into my heart and worrying if he was really there. I threw myself into evangelical Christian study, especially around topics of prayer and relationships. I read books on praying, and began to regularly write my prayers in a journal. Prayer was my way to maintain an ongoing relationship with God. I also began reading about what right Christian relationships look like, gravitating toward Elisabeth Eliot’s Passion and Purity (this book makes I Kissed Dating Goodbye look like porn) and other books that helped me learn to reign in my sexual desire and repress any tendencies to take initiative of any kind in a relationship. I rededicated my future relationships to letting the man take the lead and abstaining from physical contact, as well as commissioned my friend’s father, a jeweler, to craft a purity ring for me (purity ring=I will not have sex with you until you are my husband). All of which lead to no serious relationships for the next seven years. I engaged in more spiritual conversations with adults at my church, started sitting in the front row during sermons and taking notes, revitalized my leadership with middle school students, and I also applied to Colorado Christian University (CCU) in hopes of transferring there after getting my AA.  At my community college I took a class on religious writings, and even dared go on a date with a boy who was a late-night DJ for a local Catholic radio station. This ended quickly though, as I reminded myself that Catholics weren’t really Christians and I would be unequally yoked in a relationship with him. I was genuinely changed, inside and out, by my renewed relationship with God, and I was beginning to strengthen my commitment to evangelical values. My morphing relationship with Jesus was about giving my whole life over to him and letting what was true on the inside show on the outside, coupled with appropriate evangelical social behavior. This was a season when, if you were to ask me, "Are you saved?" I would be able to confidently answer yes. This was also a season when evangelicalism, Christianity, and salvation were all the same thing to me; my life felt congruent and I felt alive.


_____________________________________ 

I was accepted to Colorado Christian University (or, CCU--go Cougars!), packed everything I owned into my 1989 Nissan Sentra, and embarked on the pilgrimage of a lifetime to Arvada, Colorado. This was a huge leap of faith for me to leave life as I knew it, and trust God as he led me to the wild west. During my first four yeas of living in Colorado, I dedicated my life to becoming a youth pastor. I was majoring in Biblical Studies at CCU, deciding not to major in Youth Ministry, because in my humble 21-year-old opinion, it didn't focus enough on Biblical scholarship, and I was working as a youth pastor intern at one of the best youth ministries in the country. My Biblical Studies classes were fascinating and I was falling in love with the Bible, in particular the socio-historical contexts within which it was written. Engaging in scholarly study of the Bible deepened my attachment to my relationship with Jesus and evangelical Christianity. Along with my studies, I'd had a powerful, mystical experience with God that lead me to accept his call to go into youth ministry. 

I had been consulting with friends and anguished for months in prayer, begging God to give me the go ahead to be a youth pastor. Despite strong trust in God, my passion for working with students (I was taking a full course load and working two jobs, but always made sure I could be at church volunteering on Sundays and Wednesdays), and my obsession with learning about the Bible, God was not revealing his will to me; I was expecting him to show me in some blatant and concrete way (think Balaam’s Ass) that I was supposed to be a youth pastor. I pleaded in journals for God to show me what to do, and asked that my will would not get in the way. I feared that my will was being selfish for wanting to do what seemed to come naturally to me—it couldn’t be God’s will if I enjoyed it so much. I believed that something that was of God’s will ought to require suffering and sacrifice; youth ministry was fulfilling and fun! I sat up one night with my roommate and best friend, asking her opinion. She was a youth intern at the time, the only female in youth ministry that I had ever met. One of my reservations about entering this field was that I was a female. Women in leadership were rare in my tradition; it was truly hard to be what I could not see. But, here, my best friend was a successful youth intern and well on her way to leading her own youth group someday. Some people grow up in churches where the youth pastor was an unpaid, glorified Sunday School teacher. My denomination placed a high value on youth ministers, providing a salary and benefits, and viewed them as important players on the church staff who were part of the leadership of the church. This is what I was aiming for: youth ministry as a profession, as an identity, not as something I did on the side. As I disclosed all my doubts to my friend about why I shouldn’t be a youth pastor: was I good enough, would I be a good preacher, could I be as creative and influential as other youth pastors, could I hack it as one of few females? She simply said, “Okay, still why not? I think you know the answer is Yes, but you are the only one saying No.” As if to say, you’re reasons are not good enough, and you know what you should do. She encouraged me to consider that I could grow into the role, and I would learn along the way. I think I expected myself to be the best youth pastor ever before I decided to be a youth pastor. Though my friend was inspiring, I still needed God to affirm what I already knew about myself—and I would not accept it until God himself said Yes.

And God obliged.

In February of 1999, my soul was more restless and stormier than usual. My patience for God’s answer was wearing thin. I needed to know if I, Rachel Keener, was called to be a youth pastor. Tired of wallowing, praying, begging, and consulting, I decided to hop in my car and go for a drive to work this all out with Jesus and be done with it. I left my house at 10pm and my destination was not a physical one: I was on a quest to know God’s will. As I headed north toward Broomfield, I brashly told God that I wasn’t going home until he gave me a clear answer as to whether or not I should be a youth pastor. The beginning of this conversation was unrequited, so I kept driving. I turned south and drove 45 minutes to Lakewood, toward CCU. Nothing but silence, dripping with frustration filled my little red Sentra. “Why aren’t you saying anything, giving me any signs God?!” When I got close to CCU, I started thinking about a check I had sitting on the front seat of my car. I was getting after myself for not having deposited my check and thinking how foolish it was for me to not put this money in my account so I could actually use it. For some reason, this line of thinking about my un-deposited check made me think about my trust in God about his will. I saw it as a metaphor for how I was relating with him, he was saying to me, “Rachel, I’ve given you what you need, all you have to do is use it—deposit yourself to me, and I will use you.” I felt as if God was breaking the silence and I quickly pulled over into a WalMart parking lot. It was past midnight now and I thought I could wander around WalMart and keep talking to God. This particular Walmart disappointingly closed at 10, so I sat in my car, listening for more of God. I still wanted more proof that this was really God talking and that he was telling me what to do. I pulled out my journal and flipped back to some of my writing and prayers. The page I happened to open to said SURRENDER in all caps in the middle of the page. I saw this as another sign to simply let go and trust God. I also started getting the feeling that God was really right there with me, a powerful and supernatural feeling. I grabbed my Bible, and performed the most non-scholarly approach to reading it: opened it to a random page and started reading, hoping God would speak directly to me. I opened to the book of Job—oh great, the most depressing book in the Bible. My eyes landed on Job 22:21, “Submit to God and be at peace with him; in this way prosperity will be with you.” Holy shit, this was getting weird! I couldn’t believe what was happening, from the check metaphor, to the journal entry, and now words straight from the Bible. God seemed to be doing what I asked, giving me a very blatant and direct sign. “God, I think I get what You’re are saying, surrender and trust You that I can be a youth pastor.” I was now ready to say Yes because God was saying Yes to me. In order to be official (and holy), I slid my seat back, got down on my knees, in my tiny car in the WalMart parking lot, and dedicated my life to being a youth pastor, emphasizing my trust in God, knowing that he would guide the way. Another moment when I am certain I looked crazy, but felt alive.
 

My calling, along with my Biblical studies, were anchors for my relationship with Jesus. I could not understand how others went through life without him. I wasn’t ashamed to let people in on this spiritual aspect of my life either. If Facebook was around back then I would have been posting Bible verses, praise and worship lyrics, and nuggets of truth I was learning from scholarly articles and exegetically-based sermons. Some probably would have found me pretty annoying as a FB friend, and others would have “Liked” the hell out of all my postings because I was so bold and educated in my faith. I was open about my belief and practice, wore my purity ring on my hand, read my Bible in public, engaged in conversations with strangers about Jesus, didn’t swear (unless I was joking around), and tried to live my life so that everyone would see Jesus in me. One of my part-time jobs was baking bread for an amazing little company, Great Harvest, whose values included having fun. Truthfully, I didn’t get to bake anything. I was a humble dough-kneader who got the bread ready for the oven. I really enjoyed my quirky band of coworkers, the only non-Christians I spent time with: Gary the owner, who would ride his bike to work from the foothills, Ted my immediate supervisor who was a committed runner and bread enthusiast, Pam my colleague who always made me laugh with her southern accent and a hankering for triathlons, Sherry  who was quietly kind and kept to herself as she endured an abusive relationship, and Dan, my favorite, my mountain climbing, bike riding, hill running friend. Dan and I spent hours talking and he always showed a genuine interest in my life. He even asked about my purity ring, “Are you married?” “No, it’s a purity ring, to not have sex before I am married.” “Wow, oh, okay.” And he didn’t make fun of me or act like I was a weirdo. My ministry colleagues would often stop in to Great Harvest to say hello while I was working, and of course, anyone who stops in to Great Harvest gets a free, thick slice of fresh baked bread (my friends came a lot). Dan got to know some of my friends because of their frequent stop-ins. On one particular day, Dan and I were loading a cart with scones and cookies. As I squatted down to place a treat on the bottom shelf, Dan asked me a striking question: “I’ve noticed how nice your friends are from your church. You all treat each other so well and seem to have really good relationships. What makes you all like that?” This is the question most evangelicals only wish they could hear! An open door to witness, to share our faith. I walked right into that door and told Dan what it was all about. “Well, I don’t want to sound corny and religious, but honestly, the thing that makes us the way we are is our relationships with Jesus. Jesus makes the difference in our lives.” As he did when responding to my purity ring, he simply smiled and said okay. I was quaking on the inside because I was bold enough to speak up about Jesus and the difference he made in my life. And then I lead Dan through the sinner's prayer and he said he owed me his life. Okay, not really. Dan simply continued to be my friend and showed no interest in getting to know Jesus, but I felt satisfied knowing that at least he knew what I was about.

Aside from the social indicators of my evangelicalism and faith in Jesus, I was in step theologically as well. I knew full well that Jesus was the only way to God, not one option, but the only way. The way to get to Jesus was to accept him into my heart by admitting that I was a sinner and asking him to take away my sins. Jesus being born unto a virgin was something I wholly accepted without question, and to think otherwise was like believing the sun revolved around the earth (Galileo and Copernicus might have something to say here). I also knew that God existed in the form of the Holy Trinity—Father, Son (Jesus), and Holy Spirit. As much as that was hard to fathom, and for the intensity level that I studied this idea in school, it never made sense, but I accepted it on faith. To me, Catholics and Mainliners were not really Christians, and they needed Jesus too, and people like Mother Theresa and Ghandi would not be going to heaven without professing Jesus as their Savior. My professors were experts at explaining how and why our theology was logical and irrefutable, which made me even more devoted to God and knowing Jesus. Outside of my coursework I was reading books about Jesus on my own as well. Books like, The Case for Christ; The Jesus I Never Knew; and The Return of the Prodigal Son helped to deepen my love for Jesus and enrich my relationship with him. I added in a little Catcher in the Rye to keep it real too. I also read books on Christian disciplines to help me become a better practice-er of the faith. Through it all, I wrote regularly in my journal, often talking to God through my pen, as well as praying for others around me.  It was very normal to find me at a coffee shop or Denny's, holed away in a corner, scratching away in my Moleskin. Having Jesus in my heart was not just a ticket to heaven, but the the center of a lifelong, life-changing relationship that guided every aspect of my life.

As much as I loved the Bible and was confident in Jesus, I wasn't a Bible-thumper, nor did I go out of my way to impose my beliefs onto others. If people asked, like Dan, I was excited to share my faith, but I wasn't about to stand on a street corner or come to your house to convert you. Over time, a few of my classes helped me challenge some of the conventional social indicators of evangelicalism that were comfortable for me (things previously mentioned: drinking, purity ring, cussing, etc.) and I was also part of what I considered an unconventional evangelical church denomination. I prided myself on being part of a denomination whose unofficial motto when it came to theological or behavioral differences was, "show me where it's written." As in, show me where it is written in the Bible. As in, show me where it is written that baptism by immersion is the only true baptism, for example. I think they, and I, would add to that, "show me how you responsibly interpret it." The church where I was doing my youth ministry internship modeled this unconventional approach as well. We sold beer at Broncos games for fundraisers, hosted edgy teaching series on things like sex, and understanding other religions. Our rock and roll, professionally produced, youth ministry program held semi-celebrity status in the Denver suburbs as the place to go on Sunday mornings. Our senior pastor was a refreshingly genuine person who made Christianity appealing--and he advocated for women in ministry. If you have not grown up in, or experienced the evangelical sub-cultural, our church and denomination were considered less conservative. At the same time, we absolutely adhered to the theological Statement of Faith of the National Association of Evangelicals (http://www.nae.net/about-us/statement-of-faith). At that time in my life, I could not separate my relationship with Jesus from my theological  context--I came to know Jesus in this context, and my relationship with him grew there as well. To have a relationship with Jesus meant I also believed in evangelical theology. Though my church and denomination aligned with evangelical theology, their unconventional behaviors, compared to more traditional denominations, allowed me to begin distinguish between Jesus and a system of beliefs: selling beer at my church was okay, while selling beer at another church was ungodly. How could it be that one place said I was ungodly while another did not? These kinds of observations, intertwined with other observations,  inspired me to gingerly open the door for more questions from my little Keener head.

Other observations came through one of my most mind-blowing classes on the topic of the  history of evangelicalism. In this class, we were reading a book called The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind. This book challenged that fact the evangelicals were not investing in a serious intellectual life or participating in and contributing to academic communities. This book and this class inspired me to use my brain to ask questions about other evangelical assertions that I took at face value. These questions were a mix of theological and social expressions of evangelicals. Two core issues for me were salvation--or more specifically, the way in which people began a relationship with Jesus, and gender.

The idea that accepting Jesus into our hearts, via the sinner's prayer, as a marker for our salvation, was becoming bothersome to me. I learned that the sinner's prayer was less than a century old, and that indicators of being a true Christian changed all the time throughout history.

Pop Quiz
You know you are a Christian if you are:
a. Catholic b. Protestant c. Orthodox d. Morman e. Jehovah's Witness f. Coptic g. attend Mass f. attend church g. baptized by immersion h. take Communion via intinction i. a person who says Eucharist instead of Communion j. a Republican k. a Democrat l. a nuclear family n.a Calvinist o. a Broncos fan

I realize I'm being cheeky here, but seriously, I was genuinely bothered by what defined us as Christians. The perspective I was taking on was that it is most important to have relationship with Jesus, no matter how that relationship began, no matter what theological system someone most resonated with, and no matter if your church sold beer at Broncos games. My youth pastor colleagues and I were noticing that the formulaic approach to becoming a Christian in our evangelical subculture, was transitioning into something different. My generation's formula looked like this:

accept Jesus as Savior + discipleship* + integration into church community + walking your talk= mature Christian

The formula was slowly evolving to look like this:

integration into church community + discipleship + walking your talk= relationship with Jesus
(notice that accepting Jesus as Savior is missing from this formula)

( *discipleship: the intentional practice of growing in relationship with Jesus individually and with a community of believers)

Not as many students could name a date, time, or place when they became a Christian; it was simply who they became. There was no need for a moment of salvation when they asked Jesus into their hearts. This rearranged formula resonated with me because it seemed to be a more natural way of coming to faith. I felt like a more genuine youth minister when I had conversations with students without the pressure of determining if they were "saved." I felt more authentic in my preaching when I didn't feel the need to end my sermons with an altar call. The ministry I was working for had similar values, allowing me to thrive on mentoring relationships and preaching that were about letting Jesus impact how we live in the here and now. The fact that my understanding of salvation was shifting and changing added to my healthy inquiry about other evangelical practices.

Along with a renewed understanding of salvation, I was doggedly persistent in understanding gender as it related to ministerial leadership. As a female developing my career as a youth pastor, and a person who held a deep respect for the infallibility of the Bible, I had to come to terms with what the Bible said about women. I took classes, read books, wrote an inordinate amount of research papers, and had discussions with scholars on the topic of women's social and ministerial roles. How could I have such a strong calling to a vocation that the Bible, and most of Christendom, seemed to reserve for men? There are exhaustive amounts of research that support every viewpoint on the spectrum. My conclusion was the different denominations interpreted the Bible differently, and that the interpretations I was drawn toward supported women in ministry.  This process of dissecting the Bible and reading the extant myriad of scholarly perspectives, along with experiencing reactions ranging from hostility to full support of my calling, forged in me a latent skeptic who would eventually cast all other absolute assertions under a dubious shadow.

Throughout my college and early ministry years, I noticed that other behaviors and beliefs in the Christian sub-culture were bothersome to me, which lead to my steady inquiry of these behaviors, and a more measured percolation of what I really believed. I was realizing that much of the questioning that I dealt with on a conscious level tended to be more about skepticism in regards to correct evangelical behavior being equated with correct belief, and correct belief being equal to the most correct expression of Christianity. Did drinking a beer mean I was not following Jesus? Did having sexual desires mean that I was not listening to God? Did listening to KLOVE and Jars of Clay make me a more committed Christ-follower (and reveal a horrible taste in music)? I needed to parse what my religion said was true from what I knew, and from what I was learning from non-evangelical scholars, about what was true about Jesus. I was not yet asking questions about the infallibility of the Bible or whether Jesus was God. I had my blinders up to the inconsistencies in theology, church history, Biblical scholarship, and really, blinders up around my entire worldview, because my beliefs were ordinary to me, part of how the majority of the people in my life saw the world. There was not an inkling in my mind that Jesus was not God, not a doubt, as the words in O Holy Night profess, that Jesus is the savior of the world. Those questions came much later. At this point, I was simply noticing that within evangelicalism, different people said different things about what it means to act like a Christian, but we all agreed that having Jesus--God and Savior, in our hearts and demonstrated in our lives, was a non-negotiable.

It wasn't until several years after I left my ministry career, that I would allow myself to ponder who Jesus really was to me. As you might have guessed, Part V, Section B on your W-2, will continue to unveil this evolution.