I haven't done this in a while, almost a year, apparently, but this week there has been a lot on my mind, so I thought I'd write for a spell. Folks who know me know that I grew up in a pretty good home. I had a great childhood. We grew up out in the county, theologically conservative, and middle class. We never went without but we weren't wealthy by the country's standards. We hunted, fished, grew a garden, played little league, visited our grandparents on Sunday afternoon, and church attendance was rarely an option.
When it would snow, mom would make snow cream for us, and there was pretty much always a meat and three with some kind of bread for supper. Her biscuit bread is still the best. We made homemade ice cream under the pine trees at my grandparents' house. Mom and dad taught us right from wrong, dad taught me how to treat the girls, and more especially, how to not treat them. We didn't take many big vacations, but I remember several camping trips and day trips. Life was good, then. However, there is one burning question that I've been wrestling with this week, and I'd love to ask my parents.
"Why did you take us to church?"
I mean, aside from the fact that, at that time in history, pretty much everyone went. It was just what you did. I remember that little blonde brick building being packed on Sunday morning with neighbors, friends, and family. I remember the women who taught me the stories of our faith when I was a kid, and then how Scotty continued those lessons when I was a teen. I remember that day in June of 1981 when Paul Peck poured water over my head and said those words, "James Darren, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The Spirit work within you that, being born of water and the Spirit, you become a faithful disciple of Jesus Christ."
What I don't remember is ever asking for any of that.
Now, as an adult, and having answered the call to ordained ministry over 25 years ago, I wonder how different life would be had my parents taken us to the lake on Sunday morning, or hiking, or to the park instead of that little United Methodist Church. Here's why...
I might not have ever asked to go to church, but apparently I listened while I was there. I remember the little felt board in Ms. Marilyn's class that told the stories of the flood, Adam and Eve in the garden, and Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego walking through the furnace and not even smelling like smoke. Or, the little study books in Ms. Mildred's class as we got a little older that gave us some of the other stories of our faith. Or, Ms. Dortha's class in middle school, and Scotty's as I got old enough to start grappling with the reality of what it all meant. I remember them.
Then God called.
And I answered.
And I said, "I will give my life to serving you if that's what you want of me."
And I took it seriously. Very seriously. But, it is so very hard. Which makes me wonder, if mom and dad had never taken me to church, and I had never heard, or never believed, would my life be easier? In some ways, the answer has to be a resounding, "Yes." It would be easier, because I just might not care.
So, Mom and Dad, why did you take us to church?
Without actually asking them, here's the answer I've come up with this week. The world needs kids who are taken to church whether they've asked for it or not. Had they not taken me, and had I not heard, or believed, or answered the call to pastoral ministry, I might not care that the call of Jesus to love God with all that we are and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves is not being lived out in a lot of places or ways. I might not care about the cries of brothers and sisters from south of the border whose lives are in danger. I might not care about the plight of the LGBTQ community. I might not care that systematic racism is still alive and well in one of the leading countries in the world, or that some basic human rights are being ignored. I might not care about the vitriol being spewed by some, or the division in this country, or the fact that 90% of the world lives in poverty. I certainly wouldn't care about some kid halfway around the globe that didn't get enough to eat today.
But...they took me...
...and I did hear...
...and I do believe...
...and I did answer the call to ministry...
...so I do care, and that is the source of most of my problems as an adult. I care.
I care that people are hurting or scared. I care that some are still being excluded. I care that we call ourselves a Christian nation but outright deny the call of Jesus to welcome the stranger. I care so much, that I'm willing to call BS on the whole notion that we are a Christian nation. We are not. If we were, the examples of Jesus would be more visible in our society. They are not.
I've wanted to hole up this week and hide, because dang. I've written posts and then deleted them. I've typed out text messages and deleted them. I've probably posted some things I shouldn't have because those posts have caused problems, but I do it because I care. I know that I won't change many minds, but if I can change even one, it's worth it. I do it because I want folks who feel they are alone to know that they are in fact, not alone, and that someone cares. I know I can't fix any of the problems we're facing now, and honestly I fear that it's only going to get worse, but mom and dad took me to church, so I care. And because I care, I'm not going to stop fighting the good fight.
Because mom and dad took me to church, I will continue to be an advocate. It may be all I can do, but I can do that. I can speak up for folks who feel as if they have no voice. I will continue to take my baptismal vows very seriously, to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.
As long as I have breath, or until God tells me to stop, I will keep going because I care...because mom and dad made me go to church.
And as hard as it may be sometimes, I am so glad they did.
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