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.

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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. 

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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.

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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.

Echo Chamber (Part IV in the unfolding story)

"It is vital and true and deeply required that we tell our story. We must trace the shape of it, speak of the place in our body where it still lives, weep the tears of it, allow it to be seen and known. To have someone know the story of how we came to be here, how we came to be this way."--Wayne Muller

A few weeks back, during our trek home from the Boulder Friends Meeting, Bob said to me through a chuckle, "there are A LOT of people at Meeting with lots of different ways of seeing the world." We were both laughing because Meeting that day had been peculiarly awkward, characterized by an assortment of random comments shared by several people during Meeting. If you've been following this story, you know that for the most part, our Boulder Quaker Meeting is a silent, unprogrammed Meeting, usually punctuated by a few people who stand and speak, to say something that feels inspired.

It was obvious to me, someone who is still fairly new to this Quaker thing, that something was out of whack at Meeting that day. Despite some guidelines to help us discern when it might be appropriate to speak our thoughts, too many people were standing to speak. There was too much response to what the last person had said, and not enough quiet between spoken words. It felt as if the people who spoke were speaking to share their point of view without really having listened to what the person who spoke right before them had to say. There was no contemplation or reflection, just reaction. I got to see some true colors, some of the more difficult aspects of humanity taking part in this otherwise pleasantly reflective Meeting. I felt uncomfortable, impatient, frustrated, and even slightly embarrassed for others---there were moments that I wasn't sure if I was squirming on the outside or the inside.  I avoided any kind of eye contact, and  just hoped things would simmer down, hoped people would pause long enough to decide if they needed to say what they were going to say.  It triggered some familiar discomfort, and was a reminder of the overarching reason that I migrated away from my former evangelical worldview.

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I learned a really cool, new term recently: echo chamber.  It is a term that media-types use to describe a current phenomenon in the information age. Echo chamber describes the common practice of deriving our information from sources that tell us what we want to hear. It makes it possible for us to only gather information that confirms our own point of view without ever having to interact with differing points of view, inadvertently confirming the correctness of of our own perspectives.

This term struck me because it perfectly put into words something that has been difficult for me to describe. The way I interpreted echo chamber expanded beyond use for media types and captured something that I think is common for most people, including me.  Our echo chambers are how we get our bearings in the world, how we make sense of ourselves and others. In our echo chambers we intentionally and unintentionally seek out our own perspectives about life and the world from places and spaces that reinforce our way of understanding, bouncing back to us what we are comfortable hearing. Our echo chambers also protect us from dissonance--those sounds that make our ears and souls hurt. They can prohibit us from learning what other voices sound like, blocking our ability to make space for other ways of being and seeing.

After my last post "Wear it as Long as You Can,"  I got an email from a reader, someone I don't know, for whom my blog struck and uncomfortable chord. The subject line of his email summarized it all: My son is where you are and I don't get it. Through his email, he described the pain of having a son who's beliefs have changed. He addressed how his heart is torn between loving Jesus AND loving his son, perhaps implying that it might be difficult to do both. He explained how he could only understand life through the work of Jesus dying on the cross and that for him there is no other way to understand the world. He also told me he was praying a "father like" prayer for me because of the pain I might be causing my parents. I'm guessing that my story and his son's story are causing some discordant reverberations in his echo chamber.

There was part of me that was appreciative that he read my post (it is a commitment to read my long posts!) and felt compelled enough to share his perspective and vulnerability. He reminded me of the people in my life that might feel like him when they read my story.  Through his email I got the sense that he genuinely cared for me. He also reminded me of what I fear most: that I might be causing others pain and risking rejection by being authentically me. He reminded me of myself not so long ago too, and I get why he doesn't get it. There was another part of me that was very annoyed by the email. I interpreted it as if he needed to tell me that he just doesn't get the way I, or his son, see things. Because he doesn't get it, he is going to pray for me, so that maybe I'll come around. This did not make me feel like he was really trying to understand, but instead felt condescending, as if he has the correct way of seeing things and that he will pray to God, who also shares his viewpoint, so that I might see the world the way he does. This may not have been his intention, but that was how his words impacted me.

For many years, I lived life in an echo chamber that was probably similar to the reader who emailed me. I just could not comprehend why someone would walk away from their belief in Jesus, or how it was possible to understand the world and the fate of humanity without Christ, or how I could ever have close relationships with people who believed differently than me. In fact, as I went through the long process of deconstructing my faith, Jesus was the last thing I let go of because he was the last thing that made sense to me. My relationship with Jesus was everything. Jesus was my guide for major decisions, as well as my compass for how to treat others. My community, vocation, education, and understanding of life and self, centered around my evangelical Christian Jesus.
  
At that time in life, I did not interact with many people outside of my echo chamber. When I did, most of my conversations were had in airports and coffee shops, where I'd strike up a conversation with a stranger and it would eventually came around to what I did for work and/or education (youth ministry; theological education), which would inevitably lead to a conversation about faith. I deeply enjoyed these conversations and felt great courage and fulfillment talking about why Jesus was the hope in my life, as well as sincerely hoped that the stranger would somehow come to Jesus someday because of the seeds I had planted. I even went on a few dates with a Buddhist, but broke it off with him because I thought we came from fundamentally incompatible perspectives. I could only understand the world through a Christian lens and I hoped everyone else would see it that way too.

There is a particular incident that has stuck with me over the years, especially as my own spiritual identity has evolved. Many years back, when I was working with youth, I had been leading a Bible study for some high school girls over a period of several months and was developing close relationships with them. One night, one of the girls showed up early to our study because she wanted to talk with me about something important. I thrived on one on one conversations with my students, and always thought it was privilege and honor when they wanted to mull something over with me. I was happy to have some extra time with this student. She arrived at my studio-apartment-like dwelling, sat on the floor against my dresser, knees to her chest, and confessed that she didn’t think she believed in Jesus anymore:

“I’ve been dating a guy who has had a lot of questions about God, and thinks its all bullshit. He makes a lot of sense to me and I don’t think I believe in Jesus anymore. I wanted to tell you that, and to tell you I won't be part of this group anymore.” 

I didn’t know what to say. How could she not believe in Jesus when he meant so much to me? Did she know she would not be in heaven with her friends and family for not believing in Jesus? Did she really not believe? These questions were stirring in my mind as I grasped for something to say. All I could muster was, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And she left. I felt so disoriented, and as if I had failed her. I wanted to say more to her, I wanted to tell her that I thought she was wrong. I anguished over this conversation and finally decided that I needed to go to her house and talk to her.  I drove to her house a few days later, knocked on the door and her mom answered, happy to see me, and freely let me in. I went up to my student's room and sat on her bed with her, nervously beginning to say my piece. She was surprisingly patient with me as I told her, to her 15 year-old face, that she was wrong for not believing in Jesus, that she was making a bad choice. She simply listened, said "okay," as if she wasn't sure what to do next, then I left. My adrenaline was pulsing though my body as I drove home, I was concerned that I may have hurt her feelings, and I felt somewhat triumphant, believing that I had done and said the right thing; I had spoken the Truth to her.

All these years later, I wish I could go back and change that moment.  I wished I could have truly tried to understand her, allowing her discordant words some space in my echo chamber. At that time in my life, I truly didn't get it, and I didn't know I didn't get it; I didn't want to get it. Through the miracles of modern technology, specifically, The Facebook, I nervously messaged this student a few months ago to ask how this conversation impacted her (and to apologize). Surprisingly, she told me she didn't remember much about the conversation, and that she didn't remember anything negative about our conversation. Then she said this: The thing that really has stuck with me all of these years was the sense of abandonment after I stopped coming to church. I went from being a person who was involved in church activities 2-3 times per week, to not showing up at all, and it seemed no one cared. Maybe people thought it would be best not to pester me about it, or maybe people weren't sure how to approach the situation- I don't really know. I just know that it solidified my decision that the Christian faith wasn't where I needed to be. 

I was one of those who seemed not to care. It wasn't because I didn't care though, it was because I didn't understand, and I didn't want to bother her, and I didn't know how to interact with her now that she no longer believed in the fundamental element that allowed our relationship to exist in the first place. Ultimately, there wasn't space in my echo chamber for this student's questions and doubts, and when she attempted to talk about them to her awesome youth leader--me--I put my hands over my ears and a megaphone to my mouth.

Ironically, like my former student, it is for a similar overarching reason that I too have migrated from my evangelical faith.  Just as my student who was questioning her belief in Jesus, many years later I began to ask questions too. Initially my questions were still within the bounds of traditional Christian belief, and I was asking them as a pastor and a seminary student (a nerve-wracking thing to do, I might add). My questions eventually lead to my resignation from the ministry, yet I still kept asking in my seminary classrooms, with friends, and with a variety of evangelical ministerial leaders.  I really wanted to talk with pastors and scholars, the people who I perceived to be the intellectuals of the faith. I was seeking intellectual honesty and humility, people who would wrestle with the questions with me and perhaps normalize my curiosity. I was not expecting answers. Back then, and now, I was pretty sure there weren't a lot of answers to the questions I had.

One conversation that epitomizes the frustration I felt when talking with church leaders happened during a time I had just started going back to church after a two year hiatus. I really enjoyed the down-to-earth-ness of this church: they held services in a basement, their worship band was off to the side and performance was not a focal point. They were (and still are) doing very meaningful work in their community as well. I was getting to know one of the pastors and  took a risk to talk with him about one of my pressing questions of the day: what did he think about universal salvation? For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it is basically a concept that claims that everyone goes to heaven. Universal salvation is heresy in evangelical theology, but accepted in other versions of Christian faith.
We talked, and per usual,  I enjoyed most of our conversation....here comes the but...But, when we got to the point in the conversation where there wasn't an answer, or perhaps there were many answers but those answers existed outside of an evangelical theological framework,  the conversation stopped. The response of my pastor was that my question was out of bounds, that we could no longer think beyond the boundaries of evangelical theology.

This was the type of response I got in one version or another when dialoging about the foundations of evangelical faith. It was so confusing for me. At the time I thought that if God created me with this brain and these were the things I was thinking, how could an out of bounds exist? But an out of bounds did exist. When I enrolled at my evangelical seminary, I had to sign the National Association of Evangelicals' statement of faith, and when I graduated from the same institution, I had to sign the  same statement of faith again. This is strange to me, because in any other educational environment--med school, law school, college, grad school, tech school, high school--it would be considered failure if  a student graduated with the same beliefs and understandings that they began with. The boundaries confounded me. In a weird way, I also understood that the boundaries must be held. If an institution or faith system is to maintain it's identity then there are certain core beliefs that must remain, otherwise it ceases to be what it is. Who would I be beyond the boundaries?

I must say too, that despite the boundaries, I still appreciated my theological education. In the years after I finished my BA in Biblical Studies, I often explained to people that I learned how to be a critical thinker in college. What I learned how to think about was how the Bible came to be, and how to linguistically, culturally, and historically interpret Biblical texts. It wasn't until years later, when I thought and socialized beyond my evangelical echo chamber, that I realized my critical thinking skills were excellent within the boundaries. However, something I had not learned to think about was how to critically think about how the boundaries came to be, and how my critical thinking skills broke down outside the boundaries. It's like when Christian kids go to a non-Christian college and have to figure out how to make sense of their faith in a brave new world: they either have to cover their ears, or learn to integrate their faith into a pluralistic context. They often don't know how to do the latter, because their critical thinking skills only work in their Christian framework. When they meet this challenge, they often decide that they can't reconcile their faith with all the other worldviews, and painfully "lose their faith." I think it is possible to remain a Christian in college, but it takes some intellectual, emotional, and spiritual flexibility that many students don't develop because of rigid boundaries. Like those college kids, I too was trying to make sense of my faith, and the world, outside of my echo chamber. As I asked my questions I was testing out my flexibility. What I really wanted and needed was an acknowledgement that my questions were valid, and willingness to admit that perhaps evangelical Christianity was not the only way of seeing things. I just needed to hear that, and not so I could say, "gotcha!", but out of a genuine desire to honor my curiosity and to maintain intellectual integrity. Some might be reading this and thinking, "well of course there are many other ways of seeing the world, why was this so hard for you?" while others are likely thinking the opposite. It can be difficult for me to communicate that when this was the only way I knew to see the world, it took me years to begin to imagine that there are other ways of understanding, and that considering those ways did not mean I'd been conned or mislead or blind or weak in my relationship with God. To ask the questions also made me feel vulnerable, risking separation from my community. And asking the questions made me feel free and alive.

I want to be clear that I don't think echo chambers are "good" or "bad." I see them as neutral, as something that we all create. I also don't want to come across as finger-pointing at evangelicals. The evangelical subculture is where I happened to develop my identity and understanding of everything, and many people I still trust and respect identify as evangelicals. As I have branched out into a more more liberal and spiritually eclectic community, it is just as evident that there are people who "don't get" how anyone else sees the world either, and will write off evangelicals as crazy. As a friend of mine, with a similar story as mine, so aptly said to me, "I don't think either one of us really wants to exchange one truth for another." Or as I put it, one echo chamber for another. I know what my echo chamber sounds like and I don't want to pretend that I am opinion-less or to trying to agree with everyone. Instead I want to allow space for all sort of voices, and do my best to simply listen and not try to change someone, and also say what I think without fear of being dismissed. This is incredibly difficult for me, yet the thing I value most in others.

The echo chamber concept has been the umbrella issue for me as I detached from evangelicalism--it is the pervasive element that helps me make sense of how I got to where I am. Beneath this umbrella there are a variety of topics that emerged over a long period of time, that I attempted to bring into the evangelical echo chamber: gender, sexuality, church history, salvation, Biblical interpretation, Biblical infallibility, homiletics, socio-historical contexts, theology, morality, mythology, social justice, and nationalism intertwined with evangelical Christianity. As I brought each of these issues into my evangelical echo chamber, I was unable to find the space that could hold different ways of understanding these concepts, and I was unable to reconcile what I was learning outside the boundaries with the absolutes within the boundaries. My story of how I got to where I am contains anger, bitterness, sadness, joy, relief, humor, forgiveness, acceptance, and as they sing in Moulin Rouge, "freedom, beauty, truth, and looooove!"  As I continue to tell this story, hopefully you will recognize me through it all, and maybe even see yourself somewhere in there too.

And the Quaker Meeting that went awry a few weeks back, righted itself. Though it was an off week, the general pattern is that there is space for questions, for differing opinions, for all sorts of ways of being. During the awkward week, that space seemed threatened by lots of megaphones and too many closed ears when typically it is the other way around. Through the Quaker community I have been able to understand what I was looking for in all those past conversations: space for dissonance. My dissonance, or the dissonance of another. A space where I can be where I am in my process and I can hold the process of another, without cross examination and invalidation, but with honest discussion and a genuine intent to understand.



*Note: If this is my first post you have read, this story is the fourth in a series of posts starting with Coming Out Quaker...maybe. If you are having trouble accessing Parts I-III, please let me know.

Wear It As Long As You Can (Part III)

I've been hesitant to  tell my spiritual story through my Quaker experience; partly because so much of my path away from my evangelical worldview and identity has only been intertwined with Quakerism for nine months. And, partly because I am annoyed that in my quest to dis-identify from a religion, I have found a religion. I am also averse to use the word spiritual because it might communicate to non-theists that they can't identify with my story, even though most non-theists I know find meaning and purpose in life (which is how I understand spirituality). I also feel tentative about spiritual because it sounds overused and generic to me at times.  I think if there was a word that encompassed identity and spirituality, I would feel more comfortable, something like…identuality. There it is: Identuality. My spirituality has long been intertwined with my identity as a pastor and a Christian. Gradually letting go of my pastor-ness and evangelical Christian-ness has yielded a process of redefining and reaffirming my whole self. So much of this metamorphosis has happened over many years, inside and outside of religion, and only recently has it included Quaker thought.

Uncomfortable as I am telling my identuality (I wonder if my new word will get added to the dictionary) story through Quakerism, my experience with the Religious Society of Friends has unexpectedly and profoundly provided the context for me to continue to work this all out for myself. Not just to work it out, but to continue living with intentionality and awareness when it comes to moving forward through life.

Last week I was perusing the books in the Boulder Friends’ library. The library is a small room, but one of the centerpieces of the Meeting House, a wonderful fact considering I am a book nerd. There are a variety of books lining the east, south, and west walls, with a floor to ceiling glass wall on the north side. The library is naturally lit, with sunshine aimed directly at a table in the center of the room.  It also serves as the waiting room of shame, for those of us who arrive past 10am and have to wait until 10:15 to enter the Meeting room.

Over the months, a few Friends have helped Bob and me find books that would help us learn more about Quakerism, which has allowed us gluttonous amounts of time in the library. I found a children’s book a couple of weeks ago called What is God? I loved the question proposed in the title. All of my experience/education has taught me to ask, Who is God? In more recent years I have been leaning more toward What is God (and, Is God)? As I looked around last week, paying more attention to the titles on the shelves, I continued to realize why I am finding a home in The Religious Society of Friends. [I should pause here and say that I've been learning that the Boulder Friends Meeting is not representative of American Quakerism in general. Most Quaker Meetings in the U.S. are programmed and/or evangelical in nature. The Meeting we attend is unprogrammed-liberal-universalist in nature, and includes both theists and non-theists. And yes, I know the words liberal and universalist might be loaded words for some readers, but more on that some other time. Mostly, I did not want to misrepresent the majority of Quakers out there].

On the east wall of the the library, I found books on eating local, emotional well-being, cultures of peace, economics, and an entire shelf dedicated to Boulder Friends authors! As I moved toward the south wall, there were numerous books on Quaker history, Quaker practices, and the biographies of Quakers and other peace activists. There were also sections of books on world religions, universalism, spirituality books written by Quakers, personality theory, social commentaries, indigenous peoples, art & literature, aging, death & dying, living simply, peace & war, peaceful careers, religion & philosophy, and children’s books as well. I was enamored by the variety, by so much of life that was included in this collection--and not just from a Quaker point of view.

Books tell me a lot about someone. Aside from my observation that this library reflected Quaker values of "peace, simplicity, equality, community, and integrity," I also noticed that it included  authors, stories, and biographies by and about women, and other historically oppressed groups and people. Quaker history has included women from the start; women were not and have never been a problem. They were preachers, leaders, and worked with men in the early Quaker movement. Their stories are on the shelves, not just chapters in a book. In Quaker tradition, women and men are functionally and spiritually equal; women were and are leaders, and don't need a book to explain why that is okay.

The books that are not included in a collection also tell me a lot about someone. I was starkly aware of one particular set of books that did not exist in this library: Books on apologetics. There are no books that painstakingly attempt to prove that the Quaker way is the right way. No books that defend the faith. No books that, point by point and proof text by proof text, trumpet the fallibility of all other religions. Though there are Bibles (and other sacred religious texts), there is not one book on Biblical inerrancy or infallibility.There is no Biblical authority.

When I write the words, there is no Biblical authority, I hear a clamor of voices and see a myriad of faces, I am haunted by a caucaphony of conversations, imagined and real, I've had as I have s...l...o...w...l...y "come out" over the years. Trying to explain why I think the Bible is not the perfect word of God and that Christianity isn't the mono-explanation to everything, has been one of the hardest things I have ever done (sans childbirth, working as a youth pastor in San Diego, depression, and finding a seat on the westbound BV bus after the Broomfield park and ride).  This idea of no authority dismantles everything about evangelical Christianity, and perhaps dismantles my good reputation and trustworthy faith in the eyes of others. These are not conversations I have sought out, and I've spent quite a bit of energy avoiding them altogether. Inevitably, the question comes up about where I'm going to church*, and it has gotten increasingly difficult to hem and haw and come up with some disingenuous response and try to divert the conversation to another topic.

*the fact that I don't go to church inevitably leads to questions of why

As I've worked to become an integrated person, living without shame and confident in who I am, being covert about my identuality is no longer an option. I have not yet found the most ideal way to have these conversations, and I often find that when they are had, they come up at awkward times, and I bumble through an explanation that makes me feel like I'm speaking Melmackian. For instance, during my parents' 40th wedding anniversary party, a good family friend and I got into this discussion 10 minutes before I was supposed to emcee for a group of 100 my parents' friends. When my friend asked me about church, and with good intention reassured me that Jesus is not afraid of liberals, stating that it is not about religion, that it's about a relationship with Jesus, I wanted to walk away and avoid revealing my true self. I stopped myself mid-escape-stride and told my friend that I would have this conversation if she was really willing to listen and not bash me. What I wished I said instead of bash, was that I wanted her to listen to me. Really listen. And not listen for holes, and points where she could use the Christian theological framework to attempt to disintegrate my point of view. This kind of conversation often ends up being about the other person's fear and need for self-reassurance than it is about understanding another perspective. She did her best and was more respectful than I expected, and I did my best to explain that I don't think Jesus is the only answer. I don't think she understood, and I think I could have explained it better. Her lack of understanding had nothing to do with intellectual capacity, and everything to do with belief. Most of the time, I don't think there's anything anyone can say to make us see or think differently when our identualities are intertwined with our belief. After talking with my friend, I felt unexpectedly thankful. Thankful  that my assumption was wrong about her and that she really seemed to want to understand, and thankful that I didn't walk away from the conversation.

Though I am pining to be more articulate in these conversations, my aim is not to wrangle others out of their own belief system and convince them of mine. In fact, I don't want to. I was at that party, celebrating my parents' marriage, celebrating two people who would, without a doubt tell you that they are who they are because of Jesus in their lives. My parents are amazing people and I would never want to talk Jesus out of their lives, because he is part of their identuality.What I want in these conversations are acceptance and openness, and at the very least, to be able to accept myself when others are uncomfortable with me.

Surprisingly, the dismantling of my core, defining, foundational personal beliefs, has not bred a crisis. You know, that crisis of faith that so many fret about? The one where the woman who loses her religion goes on a drunken, sex-laden, Christian/Church-hating, loose-morals binge? That crisis where no one recognizes the faithless one anymore, and wonders if she ever really knew Jesus? I never had that kind of crisis. Yes, I have been angry and bitter, and needed to go through those seasons in order to heal and move forward.  For me, the real crisis has been around letting people know the whole me. The crisis has been in the "coming out," in the telling the truth about myself. The crisis has been in lacking a "defense."I spent years mentoring and being in community with others based on my Christianity.  The majority of my undergraduate and graduate education, as well as my first career, were about learning and teaching why my way of living and believing were the best way, learning all the language and apologetic tactics in order to have influential conversations with non-believers, hoping that my life would be example enough to help them change. All of those tactics made sense within my evangelical worldview, and at the time they came from what I perceived as a a genuine and loving place.

As I have been interpreting the world through multiple lenses, seeing things from others' perspectives, and trusting my own vision, the evangelical framework doesn't fit for me anymore, and all of the arguments to prove my that faith is best no longer make sense with an expanded worldview. The crisis for me is knowing that I might be dismissed with descriptors like: relativist, postmodernist, secular humanist, being summarily discredited with tidy labels that help others forget who I am. The crisis is risking that others will think negatively of me, or think I need prayer, or that I am lost, or that the liberals got a hold of me, or that it's Boulder's fault, or perhaps the Debil (read: Devil, as pronounced by Bobby Boucher's mama) did it, or simply have pity or feel bad for me when the reality is I feel more myself than ever.

"I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me. " Hermann Hesse

The nature of the Religious Society of friends is not about proving anything: the existence of God, the rightness of Quaker belief, the wrongness of everyone else’s beliefs, or anything along the lines of "we have the answer, the best theology/exegesis/hermeneutics, and the rest of you are misinformed and lost." I continue to learn that Friends are staunch respecters of my process, my perspective, my intellect, and my experience.

I just read a story about a conversation that happened between the Quaker founder, George Fox, and a Quaker convert, William Penn (the William Pennsylvania Penn). Early Quakers were rabble rousers and quite divergent from traditional Christian practice in their day. In fact, they were much more "in your face" than modern Quakers--they would tell you you're wrong, and their way is the right way, then slam a volleyball into your face (see last post).  Their aggressive proselytizing is an embarrassing piece of history for today's Quakers because it is so different than the way they have lived for most of their history. In Fox's time, Quakers were spreading the word around London that every person could know the Divine and define it for themselves. This greatly disturbed the powerful Church, it was the 1600s after all, and Quakers were routinely arrested because of their views.

William Penn  was seriously considering joining the Quakers, but did not want to stop wearing his sword. Remember, it was the 1600s; wearing a sword was like carrying a cell phone. Quakers were non-violent and swords were incongruent with their way of life. Penn's sword had saved his life at one point and he was struggling to let it go. He shared this concern with George Fox, who responded: “Wear it as long as you can.” Not long afterward, when they met again, Penn did not have his sword, and Fox asked him where it was. Penn replied, “I wore it as long as I could.”

Quoting directly from Being a Quaker:

 ‘Wear it as long as you can’ is advice still offered by Quakers. Old ways are hard to give up, but if we accept the difficulty and live with it, we discover—sometimes after many years—an ability to move on. We incorporate the change by finding it increasingly impossible to live in any other way…By wearing much loved religious practices as long as we can, we give it the respect it needs before discovering little by little, the capacity to let it go.

That quote, and the library, in a nutshell are why I keep returning to Quaker thought as I let go and move forward. I don’t have to hate or demean my past identity. And, I did indeed, "wear it as long as I could." It has taken many years to shed my evangelical wardrobe. In the letting go, I have learned that I am still me at the core. Evangelical belief fit me well for a long time; it suited me. In many ways it made me who I am today. Who I am today continues to grow and change. The Quaker Way has allowed me to continue to become myself without having to consent to a correct set of values, worldview, or theology. For me, this is a big deal. It is the story I continue to write.

Must Thee Speak? (Part II)

"Seeker: Anyone whose spiritual journey is alive and continuing."

After two weeks of absence, everything in me felt at rest as we joined the Quaker Meeting this morning. We still don't know very many people, we are still learning what it means to be a Friend, but there was something about being present in that oval-shaped room full of people, being still together, that has captured my soul's attention.

Before we started going to Meeting, my first interactions with Quakerism were completely misinformed, or surface-level at best. Like most cereal-eating Americans, I've had my share of mornings staring down the dude on the oatmeal canister (or box) and thought that breakfast food was what Quakers were all about...

 ...and/or staring down the TV screen, watching Wilford Brimley telling me to eat my Quaker oats.

During my childhood, I attended a church camp where Mennonites in bonnets, long skirts, or suspenders played volleyball. I thought they were Amish, and when as I heard the word Quaker over the years, I thought of the Mennonites.  When I read Uncle Tom's Cabin, I learned that Quakers helped guide slaves to freedom, imagining all the while, bonnet and buckle-clad people hammering down a volleyball in the face of their ankle-length, skirt-wearing opponents. And surprisingly, there wasn't much teaching about the Religious Society of Friends in my undergraduate or graduate level theological education; they weren't even mentioned as a cult or sect, which is likely how they would be defined in those contexts.

 About three and a half years ago, while visiting my sister-in-law in Nantucket, I picked up a book by Nathaniel Philbrick, called In the Heart of the Sea. This book gave an historical account of the US whaling industry, which was based in Nantucket and driven mostly by Quakers (yes, these peace-loving folks were part of one of the most violent professions in history). This was my first interaction with the social life of Quakers, giving me miniscule glimpse of what they were like over 300 years ago.

Over the years, I have deeply connected with the work of Parker Palmer and Philip Gulley, Quaker authors who write on spirituality, both of whom sparked my interest in learning more about Quaker practice. Neither are evangelists for Quakerism (evangelism and Quakerism are like oil and water), but their philosophies on life and faith have resonated with my path. I recently learned that Gregg Levoy, a superstar in the career counseling world, is also a Quaker, and has written a seminal work called Callings:Finding & Following an Authentic Life, a book I have recently started reading. Palmer and Gulley were the impetus behind Bob and I attending a Quaker Meeting. I'm glad that I've slowly begun to learn what real, modern-day Quakers are like through reading, and now through attending the Boulder Friends Meeting.

Aside from attending a weekly Meeting, I've learned a lot more about the Quakers in the past seven months, having the chance to be a Friend at the Door for a month, attending a potluck, and reading a newcomers guide to Quakerism. I think I'm beginning to get a sense of what this is all about.

 I found that being a Friend at the Door was not the way best way to get to know the Boulder Friends, or Quakerism on a deeper level, but did provide a way get to know faces, and those faces start to get to know mine. Bob, Claire, and I typically don't stick around too long after Meeting is over because the nap schedule of our two year old tends to win out over socializing. But when we do get to linger, I think people are a bit more comfortable approaching us because they've seen me greeting them every week. I've been hoping, that when we can stick around longer, I can actually have some conversations with Friends to hear about why they are Quakers and what their experience has been like.

Another activity that Bob, Claire and I took part in was a good, old fashioned potluck. Something I have learned through a lifetime of church involvement is that food is central, and potlucks are one of the most common mediums of eating food with others. The first time I heard the term potluck outside of a church setting, I thought people were making fun of Christian practices. I simply did not think other groups of people partook of this socio-culinary secret and were lightheartedly mocking it. To my surprise, over the years I have learned that many groups of people have discovered and utilized this simple way of being together.

Now that I knew that potlucks were commonplace, the Quaker potluck opportunity was no surprise and provided an easy way for us to get to know people in a more intimate setting. I made sure to sign us up for potluck that included Sam, Claire, & Lydia (our friends who invited us to our first Meeting) because we knew they them, and provided a social safety net for us. After Meeting one Sunday, we headed up the winding streets of the Lover's Hill neighborhood, catching expansive views of the Flatirons to the west. We were going to Richard the archaeologist's house, near the top of the neighborhood. Arriving a little early, we decided to keep driving around to avoid awkwardness until our friends got there. There were a variety of houses, all fronting their own unique charm. Some were large and modern, others retro and cottage-like. Bob and I guessed how much property was worth in this area and how we would probably never afford living here.

We looped back around to Richard's, relieved to see that our friends had arrived. Hauling ourselves and food to the front door, we removed our shoes and stepped inside. Richard's cozy home was of the retro, cottage-like style, and was strikingly similar to my childhood home in Florida. I immediately noticed a feature that I have never seen in any home but mine: an in the wall phone shelf. All of the doorways were framed like my Florida home, and there was a similar, homey feel about the place. Richard was very hospitable and got us drinks right away.

Other guests arrived: a non-profit worker, a teacher, a county employee,  and biotech guy. I was immediately introducing myself to people because I have a hard time with strangers standing around, not introducing themselves. After 30 minutes of small-talk, and Bob and I taking turns ensuring Claire didn't destroy this lovely home, it was time to eat. I particularly enjoyed some kale enchiladas and chatted with Cindy (the county employee) about how she got involved in the Quaker community. I was really getting in to what she had to say when Richard paused the conversation to tell us it was time for The Query. Bob and I looked at each other, using our eyes to say: The Query? What the? Here is where the other shoe drops, and we are about to find out that these people are weirdos. Do we grab Claire and find an excuse to hustle out the door?

Our curiosity was stronger than our discomfort, so we stayed to learn about The Query. We, and the rest of the group, moved into the living room and found our seats, chairs in a circle. Just as in Meeting, we were all facing each other. Nate (the biotech guy, and Cindy's partner) explained The Query. With his brawny stature and heart thumping bass of a voice (if Quakers were Amish, then this dude would have completed a barn-raising single handed), he began the description: "This is a time when our Quaker community meets in smaller groups and tries to get a pulse on how attenders and members are experiencing the Meeting. We do this by asking a question, and give everyone a chance to answer. This is an opportunity for each person to share their experience." He then used a metaphor to explain what he meant. "Imagine that we are all sitting around a pond, each of us with a pebble in our hand. Your pebble is your voice. When you speak, it is like throwing your pebble in the water, allowing the ripples to go where they may. Your pebble is not for anyone to take out of the water. When someone throws their pebble, simply notice how it lands, and take it as you will." Basically, it was the Quaker way of saying: Share your honest thoughts, not in aim at any person. And, when you hear a thought, don't react or respond in a way that feels like you are snatching someone's pebble, simply notice. The question we were each to answer:

How have you seen love, received love, and given love, at the Friends Meeting?

Okay, so this wasn't so weird after all! In fact, I felt joy and relief to know that this community cared to ask this question, and cared to hear my response. Listening to each person share their experience, symbolically throwing their pebble in the water, broadened my perspective on the variety of ways that love is present and proactive in this small community. As I write this, this whole things sounds really touchy-feely, in some ways it was. But, it was really more an honest accounting, a sharing of things-noticed, in a way that everyone could speak, and be heard--without having to justify or defend their perspective. I didn't get to hear from everyone though because two-year-olds have needs that can't abide a Query. I shared my piece and was out the door, trading places with Bob, to run around the yard with Claire.

Attending the potluck showed me that this group wasn't strange, and if they were strange it was because they were intentional about having conversations that examined the spiritual health of the community. The potluck took me one step closer to an understanding of Friends, but I honestly still felt pretty clueless as we drove away from Lover's Hill.

My turning point for understanding the Quaker way of life has come from reading a little book called the Kama Sutra. Ha! Just kidding, wanted to see if you were still paying attention. Seriously though, I've been reading a book called Being a Quaker: A Guide for Newcomers. A pervasive statement I've noticed in most literature about Quakerism is this: It's hard to describe Quakerism. So along with my reading, I'm continuing simply experience the community for what it is. Let me pause here and clarify something: I am not looking for a new religion. What I am doing is looking for intention. I am looking for a safe place and safe people to walk this path of unknowing with me. I've dismantled my former belief system without a clue or plan for next steps. As I continue move forward, I need to be around people who aren't concerned about right belief or theology, but instead are simply paying attention. I think this is why this Quaker community has been magnetic for me. I haven't been able to pinpoint it, but reading this book has helped me understand their existence and why it is a haven for someone like me.

Through reading, I've learned that the silent meeting I attend is most like the British version of Quakerism. Many Quaker Meetings in the US have pastors, and some type of hierarchy and have taken on an evangelical flavor. The purpose of the British-style silent meeting is described as a community stillness, with the hope that the Meeting will be "gathered," meaning that attenders will have a collective sense of the Light. That, in the stillness, we are able to experience something deep within, or outside of ourselves that is meaningful or urges us to live out and see the Light in all. Okay, so the Light. That's another Friends term that is loosely defined. Some use the word God, others The Divine, or the Universe, or the thing that all humans have in common. When the word God is mentioned, it could mean a thousand things, and there isn't an assumption that people are talking about the Judeo-Christian God. Even non-theists find a home here, because the thing we all have in common doesn't have to be something outside of us or supernatural. I am at rest here, because I can say with full and hearty certainty that I don't know what/who/if God is, but I do think that there is something that connects us all, something powerful and mundane. The wild and crazy Quakers don't care how I define it. They do care that I don't impose my understandings onto others. Squirrely, huh?


There is a lot more I could say here, but I am starting to bore myself. Well, actually it isn't boring to me, but I am feeling like could easily stray away from my personal experience of the process and start writing a book report. There are some other intriguing facts I'm reading about that I want to see in action: No hierarchy (I have seen this in some ways)--decisions are not made democratically, nor by consensus. Yeah-that is interesting and I can't wait to attend a Meeting for business and see how that works. And, I haven't even gotten to share how someone actually determines whether or not that will speak during a Meeting. I included a picture below that hangs right outside the Meeting room that is a decision tree as to whether or not one should speak in a Meeting: fascinating.

I still feel like I am at the tip of the iceberg in all of this. There is much more to ponder and write about. What has been most striking as I've been writing, is that these last two Quaker posts are just the tip of the iceberg for me too. The part under water is the part I've been writing about for months, the whole story of how I got to where I am today, how my identity is shifting. I'm just now feeling brave enough to peek out and invite others to my underwater world of magic and angst. So my friends, and Friends, there is more to come. More that I hope resonates or brings something to light in your own path as I figure out how to bring mine to light. Or Light. Take it as you will.

So, I couldn't figure out how to flip this. It is worth it to flip your laptop or crane your neck.