The Dark Shadows of Christianity

The dim light from the moon filters into my room as I stare up at the ceiling. Another long night. I roll my head to the side and glance at the bright blue numbers beside my bed. 4:37am. It's been like this all week. I know what's bothering me, more particularly, exactly who's bothering me, but I don't want to think about it. I force myself up and pull on some jeans and an old sweater. There's no point in lying around if I can't enter the land of dreams.

I put some coffee on, stifling a yawn as I reach into the cupboards to get the sugar. A week ago I'd bumped into a former student. Sami had been one of my favorites, a bundle of energy who always seemed to be smiling, always willing to help with my disabled students. And unlike most guys in high school, he seemed comfortable with them. He'd come to me for advice more than once, and we'd chatted about a number of things, including religion. Although we talked about it, it was the one area upon which Sami never looked for my advice.

Sami was a Muslim.

He'd grown up in a kind and religious family, and he had about as much interest in Christianity as I had in Islam. This past week I hadn't been able to get Sami out of my mind, even as I confronted the dark shadows of my faith. Christianity stated, without apology, that unless something dramatic happened, my young friend was not going to spend eternity with God.

My coffee is finally ready, and I pour it into my mug, already loaded with cream and sugar. I take a sip, add a bit more cream, and head into the living room. The latest statistics show that nearly ninety per cent of all evangelical teenagers will walk away from the church when they turn 18. And the portion of the church that is conspicuously absent from most evangelical churches are the 18-34 year-olds, especially the ones without kids.

Every youth pastor has seen teenagers get caught up in the youth group and the excitement of church, only to see them go to university and disappear forever. They hit the 'real world', and once the sub-cultural bubble of the evangelical church breaks... well, they realize that church is for women and children. Nice for relationships and some community. Safe enough. But not too authentic. Or risky. They realize that the evangelical church is more concerned about giving answers than asking questions. Especially since the PAT answers we so often give don't make any sense. It reminds me of that great Jack Nicholson line.

"You want the Truth! You can't handle the Truth!"

I take a sip from my coffee and move to the window. The night is clear, and the cold presses itself against the glass. I'm thinking about Sami because even in this relativistic world, I would never suggest that Sami will know God simply because he's a great kid. And yet, I do not want to react like the fundamentalists, who often seem happy when the world 'plunges into the abyss of sin' while they cradle the hammer of self-righteousness and pride. If I'm honest, Universalism doesn't make sense to me, this idea that we can call god whatever we want, do anything we want, and everything will be okay. I can't help but think that if we actually believed in God, wouldn't it be insulting to Him if we didn't care who or what He was? Still, my heart breaks on nights like this, because I wish it were so. I wish everyone could know Him.

The point is that I can accept the truth of my faith, but I don't like it much. I want everyone to know God loves them. I want people broken and shattered by life to find their smile. I want the happy ending. And sometimes, when I think about Sami, I'm not sure about this faith of mine, this faith that says that God loves all of the world, died for all of us, but oh yeah, remember that student you loved, he's not welcome. Remember your brother, your dad, your daughter, they're not welcome. And it's in these moments I remember every jerk Christian, every idiot who accepted Jesus as their Lord, but have tested my patience with their lack of 'fruit.' The more I think about it, the sadder I get, and I step slowly back from the window.

When people ask me why so many college students are leaving the church, I have only one thing to say.

Maybe we're too busy making up answers to listen to their questions. Maybe we've decided that we've figured everything out, when it's obvious that we don't. Maybe we need to tell them how we struggle with this idea of a God who loves us and yet who leaves His wrath on so many. Or maybe we have to face that struggle ourselves.

Sometimes I think we're losing young adults because we seem so smug about being right. I know that it's as much about perception as reality, but for my generation, if there's one characteristic that marks Baby Boomers, its smugness. the insular idea that they've got everything figured out in their little bubble.

I open the door to the balcony and step outside. It's cold out, cold enough to see my breath as I glance at the night sky. Copernicus was the first to suggest that the Earth was not the center of the universe, that it made no sense that a larger body (the sun) rotated around a smaller one. The church forced him to recant his views, and had him thrown in prison. And yes, he was a Christian.

I'm like that sometimes. I think God revolves around me, a larger body revolving around a smaller one. In my bubble, in my world, I have everything figured out.

I shiver as I think about Copernicus and Galileo. I glance up at the moon, which is almost full, so bright it seems to light up the street. Stars twinkle in the night sky, cast across the heavens, shimmering so close it feels like I can reach out and touch them. It makes no sense to me that those twinkling little lights are the size of the sun. It makes no sense to me that the universe is unimaginably wide and deep and long.

But then, there's so much I don't understand.

I don't understand, for instance, why I was born in a rich culture, and most of the world is not. I don't understand how God can love the world so much that He sends His only Son, only to reject the billions who will never meet Him. Perhaps worst of all, I don't understand how I can love this Creator, this Creator who rejects so many, and yet I do. Not only that, but in the deepest part of my soul, I believe He loves me too. Not only me, but every human who has ever walked this planet.

A breeze slips down the back of my sweater and makes me shiver. My apartment seems warms and safe, filled as it is with familiar things. I've created my own environment inside, and I love how I've set everything to my liking. But out here under the night sky, the cold reality of the natural world and all its mystery presses down on me.

I turn and head inside. We will never have all the answers, because no system of theology has ever truly fit this Carpenter we follow. But we should never stop asking questions. Maybe the point is just that. That we don't know everything. That sometimes the reality of our faith is painful. And that in spite of the overwhelming sorrow it can cause, we must face the truth of what we believe. Maybe it's time for us to stop running, to stop trying to pleases the world around us, and be honest with ourselves.

I yawn, still thinking about Sami, but it's too late to go back to bed. I wonder if other people are asking these questions too, the ones that keep me up at night, the ones for which there is no easy answer. But somewhere in my spirit, I believe we honour God this way, don't we? We honour our Creator with thoughts on who He is and how to follow Him. We honour Him when we ask Him how this can possibly be so?

The week has been difficult, and I don't have any easy solutions. What I do know is this: God loves me as much as He loves Sami. I head to my bedroom and get on my knees.

Until God gives me the answer, there really is only one response...

"Lord, I pray for my friend, Sami..."

-Steve

Naked

A cold breeze swept into the room, and I shivered under my covers. As usual, I wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. I huddled myself into a ball, but I knew that at some point I would have to leave the warmth of my bed to at least close the window. "Crap," I muttered, unable to get comfortable again. "Might as well get this over with." I slipped out of my bed and rushed over to pull the window shut, gasping as the cold enveloped me. Why had I left the stupid window open last night? I'd never been a pajamas type of guy, a hangover from my football playing days, but maybe it was time to start wearing them.

Too awake to get back to sleep, I dashed into the shower and let the hot water run over me, feeling my pulse slow down as my body warmed up. I've never been one for long showers, and the apartment was still cold when I finished drying off and quickly dressed and put some coffee on. I glanced at the clock. 7:32am. Too early for a Saturday morning.

I took my coffee out on the balcony, waiting for some early inspiration. The sky was gray, and the thick bushes below me, normally filled with life, were silent, the only sound coming from a car warming up in the parking lot. Smoke filtered from the chimney of the house across the street. Everything around me seemed dead, as if I was the only one alive. Normally I headed to my favourite cafe on Saturday mornings to work, but the thought of putting on coats and gloves and boots and hats and sweaters and packing everything up to drag out to my car and than bringing everything in the cafe and going through the undressing process made me wonder why I simply couldn't work at home today. I loved Ottawa, but the icy winter always made you think twice about going out.

The cold, dead air outside wasn't helping however. I needed the sounds of people around me to write. I sipped my coffee, waiting for a burst of life from somewhere. Nothing. Nothing but a gray silence. So much for that idea. I slipped back inside my apartment and began packing up my work.

It struck me how I hated putting so many layers of clothes on, and that from the time I'd woken up this morning, all I had done was cover myself. And not just with clothes. In the first book of the Bible, it tells the story of a man and a woman. They live in the garden with God, and He gives them only one command: Do not eat the fruit of a certain tree. They eat the fruit however, and suddenly they feel exposed. They cover themselves with leaves, and when God calls to them, He asks them, "Who told you that you were naked?"

I thought about this because it's obvious that we still love to cover ourselves, not only in the presence of God, but from the people around us. I stopped packing for a minute and looked around my apartment. It was filled with books. Shelves upon shelves of books, movies, music... my apartment suddenly seemed nothing but a swirling mass of narrative to get lost in, like a lost set of tunnels and caves to explore and discover.

And hide.

My books had been, for as long as I could remember, my security blanket. My covering. When despair and depression grabbed me by the neck during my twenties, I turned to books and writing to weather the storm. I withdrew into a cave, and for a while it seemed I would never be able to leave. When I was forced to come out, I would smile and laugh, sparkling like a piece of costume jewelry that looks good until you examine the metal closely. I worried over what people thought of me, anxious not to get too close to people who might happen to get a glimpse of the man underneath. The more I worried, the more I withdrew, and the more I withdrew, the more layers I added, until I wasn't sure who I was. For a long time I wasn't sure that I would ever be able to push myself into the open spaces again, to allow my naked self to be seen and heard, and to hear and see the people around me.

I slung my laptop over my shoulder and headed out, the wind biting into my face and hands as I trudged out to my car. Instead of sitting in it while it warmed up, however, I tucked my hands in my pocket and took a stroll through the lot. The icy wind felt good on my face, and I pulled off my toque, watching my breath frost in the morning air.

Perhaps the greatest (often unacknowledged) desire of humanity goes back to our time in the garden. The longing to be naked, to expose ourselves to God and the people around us. These days, I am tired of covering myself. (Most of my friends will tell you that it obviously extends to my fashion choices as well) I've grown tired of the shallow worries of what others think. I am tired of clothing myself with "I'm fine" and bending over to make sure others like the Steve I present to them. Deep inside is a longing to be naked and free.

My wife used to tell me how well I rationalized my own actions, how I consistently justified whatever I thought was right. Or how quickly I pointed out the exposed areas of the people around me, but refused to expose myself in any way. Especially in my criticisms of the church. Years later, I still hear her voice, especially in moments like this, and it warms me somehow. The truth of her words has impacted me more than she will ever know.

So much of our faith, this following after Christ, at times feels burdened by expectations. And sometimes I think we get lost in the struggle to "act like a Christian" and exhibit Christian behavior, whether it be listening to the right music or reading the right books or even having the right ideology. These religious trappings may feel good, but I'm not sure that it's exactly what God is looking for. Maybe the idea of the cross is that Jesus alone is our covering, and that the knowledge of God's love allows us to be naked. To be real. To be authentic.

The irony of my thoughts is that I've always believed these things about the church. There is one difference however.

I headed back to my car, enjoying the sudden burst of warmth. The difference between what I used to believe when I was married and what I believe now is simple. I used to believe that the church needed to allow itself to be naked. To lose the arrogance. To stop acting like hypocrites.

These days, I know better.

I am the church.

For the church to be naked, I must be naked first. For the church to be less arrogant, I need to be more humble. For the church to rid itself of hypocrisy I must work at being authentic. It's easy to sit back and scold people while warm and cozy in our money and fashion and sports and books and politics and knowledge and whatever we use to cover up the secret places of who we truly are.

I put my car into gear and headed out. If only we really believed that God loved us. That He loved us without prejudice. That nothing we could do would ever change that. Maybe then, we would feel the freedom to strip naked and stand up under the harsh gaze of our society and human pride. And maybe then we would find the intimacy in our relationships that we so desperately long for. Especially our relationship with the One who made us.

I took a deep breath as I slowed the car at the stop light. What this meant, however, was that I needed to do it first.

"It's okay, Lord, I'm ready."

-Steve

The War Against Boys

“Okay, now everyone take the hand of the person next to them.”

I glanced over at Brooke and tried to hide the surprise on my face.

“What are we doing?” I whispered.

Brooke shrugged.

“They always do stuff like this. Church unity or whatever.”

It was my first Sunday at Faith Tabernacle, a Pentecostal church near my home. Ever since I’d come back from college, I’d been looking to find a church. I’d decided that God was something I wanted to pursue, and so Brooke, who’d grown up in the evangelical church, said he’d come with me to find one to my liking.

This was my first stop.

I watched in consternation as the people in the church all started holding hands. Even the men were holding hands. And apparently, it didn’t bother them! I glanced over at Brooke, a fellow jock, but he made no motion to grab my hand. At least he hadn't lost his sanity. The whole thing felt like I was suddenly back in grade school and the teacher was forcing us to dance the Virginia reel – with a girl. By now, of course, the thought of dancing with a girl wasn’t as repugnant as it had been as a ten-year-old. I looked over at my friend again to see how he was responding to this bizarre ritual, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

Brooke and I played together for the Welland Indians, an all star baseball team for guys aged 18-21. Brooke was a legitimate college talent, recruited by American schools for the last two years. Sturdily built, with an athlete’s jaw line and ready laugh, there was nothing feminine about him. It amazed me how easily he let this whole hand holding thing pass.

Fortunately, I found other reasons to stay at Faith, and soon became involved in Youth Leadership. But I’ve never forgotten that first Sunday, my first impression of the church, and how the years have desensitized me to all the feminine aspects of church life, much as they had with Brooke. And as we look at a gender gap that has done nothing but grow wider over the last century, it’s time to take a look at what we do in church, and see what we can do to change things.

The balcony outside my apartment reminds me of a southern porch, big and wide, its timbers old and worn. Tall bushes strike up to my third floor apartment between the buildings. And in the distance, a large patch of trees rise from the swill of dilapidated structures like some sort of magical green forest. I've spent many nights out there. I love to sit out and watch the orange fire seep across the horizon, watch as the violet sky fades to black, wait as the stars appear in the night sky. It’s the reason I immediately took the apartment when the landlord showed me the place. I felt the inner writer in me come alive as soon as I stepped outside.

I’m standing out there now, although not for long. The wind is particularly cold, too cold to do any reading or work this night. Still, I’m enjoying the soft snowfall and the sparrows’ song from the bushes. I’ve been asked, more than once, why I tell people that I’m a writer when my day job is working with disabled students. It’s a good question, but my answer is always the same.

Writing is a vocation, a calling. It is not a job. Writing is a mindset, an attitude, a personality. It is a worldview, a passion, a love. I would be no less a writer if I wrote a diary than if I wrote literary fiction or won a Pulitzer Prize. For me, there is always separation between culture and perception and involvement. As a writer, I am an observer, and as such, I work hard to preserve that sense of otherness. Have you ever wondered why artists and writers are so neurotic? So quirky? We have to be, because the culture we live in, no matter where we are, is always looking to assimilate us, and it is impossible to write, to create art, if you’ve been swept up into the cultural mainstream.

I tuck my hands deep in my pockets. The snow has begun to fall harder now, thick fluffy flakes that cover my jacket. I think about sticking my tongue out, but I’m pretty sure there’s an age limit for my gender when it comes to that sort of thing, so I decide against it. As a pastor, I remember how the church had similar struggles in wrestling with the idea of culture, in not getting caught in the swamp of a mainstream consistently trying to push God to the sidelines. It’s a much bigger debate than I have time for tonight, but the truth is that the war against boys started many years ago in Western culture.

And the church has joined the wrong side.

It’s with reluctance the cold finally sinks in and I head back inside to make some coffee. I can hear the murmurs of protest as I talk about those ‘poor boys’.

“Men have everything! Steve just wants the church to go back to when women were nothing! Sure, give a little, and the next thing you know, men will be telling women to ‘submit’ all over again!”

I sigh, because even as the arguments run through my mind, it’s easy to see how the church has become swept up in the cultural mainstream. No wonder a pastor’s job is so difficult. If a pastor believes in a more masculine church, he has to quantify his thought process to four hundred people, many of whom haven’t even bothered thinking about it.

I smile as I shake in the sweetener and add some cream to my coffee. Fortunately, I’m a writer, and I don’t have to worry about that. But then, maybe that’s the problem, isn’t it? Do you see the bias? “Don’t rock the boat” is not a particularly respected idiom in my gender. And in our culture, it starts in the schools. I’ve spent the last six years working in public schools, and I can tell you that the approach is becoming increasingly soft and feminine.

From the “quiet, please and sit still” approach in the classroom to setting softer boundaries to cutting phys. Ed out of the curriculum, boys are being left behind in the schools, and every study backs that up. My question then, is in a time when the church is crying for more men, more Godly men, why are we consistently tailoring church for women. From books to services, it has even affected our theology.

I head into the living room with a glance out the window to watch the snow. It's slowed down some, and seems to drift and float now rather than fall, as if pulled gently from the sky. Someone asked me recently how I could possibly say that church is geared towards women. My response was simple. Name one thing in the church that, as a rule, is inherently uncomfortable for women? I can think of about twenty things that make men cringe.

I take my coffee to my desk and open up my laptop. The problem is not just this culture. (When was the last time you saw a man portrayed on television as a respectable father in a sit-com) And the problem is not post-modernism. The problem is us. The church you see, well, we started our war against boys a long time ago. Nothing will change, however, unless we are willing to back away from our preformed ideologies and become an observer. We need to see just how feminine we have made Jesus, whether it's in our language or our choice of colours. Most importantly, we must give men permission to be men. Flawed, rough and courageous men. Until we do, the gender gap will continue to grow, and the only people holding hands will be women.

Lonely

The café is half-full, and the hum of conversation circles the room. Every so often, people stroll in through the doors, and inevitably, it’s another couple. I can’t help but look into every face, hoping for a sign of recognition. A smile. Something. Sunday nights are never easy for me, though I am not sure why. More than anything however, it is the sense of aloneness that affects me. During the week, with my time split between work and my class and my writing, the rhythms are much quicker and more engulfing, and they take me away from the quiet somberness that inflicts itself upon my Sunday nights. And now, if another couple walks through those doors holding hands and laughing, I’m pretty sure I’m going to ask them to stop it already.

Can they please be "so happy together" somewhere else?

It’s a ridiculous thought and nearly drags a smile onto my face. But anyone who's ever been single, except for the occasional happy eunuch, knows exactly what I’m talking about. The Bible says it is not good for men to be alone (written of course, to mean specifically men, because every woman who has entered the café tonight has come with a friend or boyfriend). I concur. It is not good for me to be alone. Unfortunately, my agreement with Scripture does not seem to be changing my circumstances. At least, not tonight, which is when I am hoping for my prayer to be answered.

I think it's worse for single people when you've opened the door to the possibility, when you've met someone who you think will contend for the 'lifetime companion' award, only to have that door slammed in your face. And sometimes, you don't even know why. Is it God? Is it fate? Both answers are difficult, and meditating on them for any length of time produces an even greater sense of loneliness, as they do now. Somehow, it is much more difficult to convince myself that singleness is okay tonight, and for the moment I am lost in an aimless, internal rant against women and marriage and love. Screw everyone, I want to shout. I. Am. Fine!

I decide to step outside and spend a little time breathing the fresh air and searching for new illumination. Once out the doors, however, it is almost too cold to think. I spastically wander around the front of the café like a man who has just escaped a mental institution but suddenly realizes he does not want to leave. Rest assured, I do not have to worry about attracting company.

I’m not sure that I want to hang out with me, either.

Within three minutes, I'm back inside. Considering that it took me that long to put on my jacket and coat and scarf and toque and gloves, and takes me that long again to undress, I’m pretty happy that no one asks me to leave the store because I’m scaring the customers. Which is fine, but does nothing for me, because I feel like I’m scaring myself.

The crazy thing is about my aloneness is that it’s a clear case of ‘mea culpa’. It’s not like I can’t call someone. It’s not like I don't know any other humans on this planet. My cell phone, a recent development and artistic cave-in, is in my pocket. Strange, in a society so concerned about getting connected, how disconnected we have become. Strange, that in such a rich society and a global community where everything is at our fingertips such as ours, how many people feel so alone.

How many people are lonely?

Unfortunately, perhaps because of our wealth, we have a tendency to react negatively to people who are lonely. Just reach out, we want to tell them. Just call someone. What do you want us to do about it?

I'm thinking about this because there is a ridiculous aspect to my lonely feelings. In spite of the fact I have some tremendous friends, there nudges the thought that maybe I don’t deserve their friendship. That maybe they will reject me. That maybe I will never marry and will spend my life writing in cafes and watching happy couples walk by.

I am back at my laptop, hidden behind a post. My coffee is lukewarm. The couple at the table next to me is holding hands and smiling a lot. I look at their hands, but somehow they repel my invisible separation ray and remain locked together. I turn back to the screen. Studies show that the richest continent on the earth (North America) is also the loneliest. Tragedy and poverty and need force people to depend on one another, and in turn, drives community by forcing people to interact. Riches and wealth and security do the opposite. (I always wonder why no one ever mentions this when they preach the prosperity gospel. “Come, be rich and be lonely!”) I am not preaching poverty, although one could argue that Jesus did.

A girl walks by and I’m praying that she doesn’t smile at me. I might end up giving away my home tonight if anyone simply talks to me. As I watch the people around me, I can’t help but wonder if they feel the same way I do. I wonder if in spite of their outward cheeriness, that if they feel inside like they're the only person in the room. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I’m approaching my Sunday night struggles the right way. Maybe the idea is not to sit and wait for someone to affirm me. Maybe the idea is for me to affirm someone else.

It strikes me how easily one can lapse into egocentrism. How easily we allow these crazy thoughts to enter our heads and allow loneliness to settle onto our spirits. Especially me. Sure, we all have moments where self-doubt and loneliness collide. Some of us more than others. And reaching out to others does not guarantee that all of our struggles with it will be cured. But at least, I think, it's a start.

I pack up my computer. Before I leave I look over at the happy couple and their hands, still locked together. Good luck, guys, take care of one another. I head out, and in a strange moment of magic, my loneliness vanishes as I pull out my cell.

Time to reach out and touch some people…

-Steve