(NB: I apologize. The following post could do with some editing, but I'm not going to have time for that for a while, so this is the best I can do.)No, I'm not quoting lyrics from the Clash. Ok, maybe I am. I will also quote that venerable philosopher, Homer (Simpson): "I'm not a bad guy! I work hard, and I love my kids. So why should I spend half my Sunday hearing about how I'm going to Hell?"
This post has been much more difficult for me to write than I had anticipated. I promised a post on why I remain in the Church of Christ because I thought it would be of interest to many – "many" meaning the four people that are reading this – and because I thought it would be easy to write. I mean, I’m still here, so I have to have a reason, right?
I must confess at the outset that I have done some ‘denomination shopping’ over the last several months. I have attended several Episcopal services and find comfort in the interesting mix of history, tradition, liberalism (in the classical sense), and social conscience. Plus, I like a good choir and snazzy vestments.
I always come back to the good old CoC, but I often wonder why. What draws me back? Why, though I am moved to tears by the language of the Book of Common Prayer and the beauty of a formal liturgy, do I return to the Church of Christ, with all its frustrating idiosyncrasies, fundamentalist tendencies, and pervasive gyne- and homo-phobia? I mean, there has to be a reason I return, doesn’t there?
Well, I decided to make a list of the reasons I stay. It was pretty good, I must say. I listed many of the distinctive characteristics of Churches of Christ, discussed them in light of the history of the Restoration Movement in the United States, and made the point that, if we take the best of our history and characteristics to heart, the Church of Christ is really no so bad after all, even if LGBT people aren’t yet welcome.
Bollocks. That’s not why I stay. I mean, sure, I do think the Restoration Movement is, at its core, an interesting and valuable faith tradition, one that can contribute much to the wider Christian world. And sure, I think that congregational autonomy is good, as is the ultimate goal of trying to become as much like the "pure," "unadulterated" "first-century church" as we can (even if the "first-century church" is a fiction, a creation of our denominational imagination). But the list seemed empty. The items on it are not why I stay.
I stay because the Church of Christ, simply put, is MY church, and I am her child. My church’s seal is fixed on my heart; it goes to the core of me and there is no way to distill out its presence.
I was raised in this church, I learned to speak of God, faith, and the Bible in this church, I learned to think and read and reason and argue in this church. I spent my Sundays in Bible class always understanding from where the words of the teacher came, even if I didn’t always agree with him. I spent Wednesday nights learning how to lead singing so that – if my voice ever changed – I could become a real song-leader. I passed hours at church camp memorizing Bible verses, leading devo songs, and practicing for Bible trivia. And though I rejected arguments that acapella music is the only scriptural way to sing, I secretly loved that we didn’t use instruments. The symbols and mythologies of this church make sense to me and comfort me.
I watched my Grandfather, an Elder, ascend to the podium to lead beautiful prayers. His prayers always seemed to follow that CoC rubric (you know the one), but the way he said them captured the attention of everyone in the room…his words told you that he was talking to God (thankfully, he let us sit in on the conversation). He taught me much. It was from him and my Grandmother that I learned that my church is a family. That means that you stock a little extra food, not just in the Church pantry, but in your own (you never know who might need it or when). It means that you visit people in the hospital and nursing home, even if you don’t know them that well, because they need to know that people care for them (you’d better take some food along with you, just in case). Being a family means Elders should always come to church with their pockets full of bubblegum to pass out to the kids. Oh, and being a family means and that no one should ever be made to feel unwelcome, not even that girl who is ‘in trouble’ or that guy who has fallen off the wagon, and not even that guy who can’t afford to come to church dressed as nicely as everyone else.
I gained a deep and lasting love of the Scripture from my church. I learned that truth matters, and that it is found in God and in a faithful reading of his word.
The Church of Christ is part of who I am. It always will be, even if I leave. It's not the totality of me, and it does not determine my future, but I love my church and I am thankful for its role in my life.
But that's not the end of the story. The church has also caused me (and many others) pain. Its anti-intellectualism and insular thinking make it a difficult place for those who would reassess our hermeneutics and promote change in our doctrine. Its fear of the Other makes it an unwelcoming place for the girl who speaks up too much or the boy who isn't very good at sports. Its pathologies run deep, and I don't know how to fix them.
It was from my Grandfather (the same one mentioned above) that I learned that you *must* be baptized if you want to get to heaven. There is no other path. It was my church that taught me to spread the word to "the denominations" that they needed to leave their heretical traditions behind and come to the true church (you know, Christ's church…the one he founded on Pentecost).
It is because of my church that my Grandmother (the one I mentioned above; the one who served tirelessly her entire life) has NEVER prayed in front of me. Not once. I haven't heard my mother pray since I was twelve, and I've never heard my sister pray. Their voices, it seems, are not as valuable as mine is (or was, until I came out…now I guess my voice is even less valuable than theirs…I don't get to pray at the dinner table any more).
It was in church that I first learned of AIDS. Apparently, it is a punishment from above. It was from church friends that I first heard the words "faggot," "queer," and "fudge packer." When I objected to my youth minster's homophobic comments, I was told that it was fine to talk to gay people. He continued: "just don't touch." Apparently, he wasn't clear on the fact that HIV isn't transmitted by mere touch.
It was in church that I first learned shame. That shame was reinforced at my CoC university, where my first research paper, which argued that perhaps the church should at least engage the gay community in a conversation, was met with disgust and a private conversation with the professor who (very kindly, I should add) asked me point blank if I was gay. It seems you can't care about the gay community unless you are one of "them." It was in a Church of Christ university that a professor indicated in class that "even her dog knows better" than to engage in same-sex intercourse, and it was this university that expelled wayward students in order to preserve the Christian environment.
At this university, the anti-intellectualism continued, in spite of the best efforts of some of the faculty and students (I won't praise them here; it wouldn't be very good for them, would it?). The university (which is better thought of as church camp for 18-23 year olds), or rather the administration of the university, don't really wanted to inspire thought. Instead, students should learn right doctrine and a few devo songs (that's what it means to be a Christian, right?).
So we've heard the good and bad. Why stay?
My family is sick, and it needs leaders. It needs help, and it needs healing. It needs a shift in focus so that we reach a point when the "Christian Affirmation" (if you haven't seen it, look it up) speaks of love, service, mercy, and justice and not communion, baptism, and instrumental music. My church needs intellectuals who can provide the foundation for preservation of its roots while helping it to shift away from its Enlightenment-influenced delusion that it maintains a firm grasp on the Truth of the Christian Faith. It needs people who will remind it of its place in a broader ecumenical conversation. It needs women who will teach their daughters and sons that gender doesn't matter anymore.
Our church will die if we don't save it. The world is leaving us behind. We weren't at the forefront of the abolition movement, the movement for universal suffrage, the civil rights movement, or the gay rights movement. We aren't speaking of things relevant to those outside our community. We aren't doing enough to alleviate suffering in the world at large and in our own backyards. We are at real danger of becoming irrelevant.
I just keep telling myself that we just have to stick it out. We just have to keep arguing that the church can be better than it is, that its hermeneutics can be broader, and that it should eradicate its fears of change and of those who are different. But this means we have to stick around, grab a shovel (to quote JTB on Chad Smith's site), and do the work.
For some it is impossible to stay. I recognize that, and I may someday join their ranks. For some, the pain is too deep, making it impossible to maintain faith if they stick around. I wish them well, but hope they will at least come back every now and again to chat and to remind us why they left (and to remind us that we should leave, too, if the church is smothering our faith).
The members of the Church of Christ are my people, and I have hope for us. I recently visited a CoC congregation that buoyed this hope. It was a place of healing, welcome, and open and genuine conversation. They aren't perfect, but they have a minister that is attempting to effect some real and lasting change. I pray he succeeds.
In sum: I stay because I can't not stay and because my church needs me. It's my family, it's a part of who I am, and it must have help. Or else.
