My Story- Part 3

When my family moved, things were relatively the same for a little while. Our church didn’t lose many people in the church shift, since part of the reason for our geographic change was that many of our members had moved a county over. So, we launched a new campus in a new county in a temporary space. I guess now you may call it a church plant, but we were an established church just moving to an unestablished location. We met in a performing arts studio and I became well acquainted with the meaning of the words “set up” and tear down” at the age of 14. I believe this was also the first year I attended a Willow Creek conference. For those who don’t know, Willow Creek Church was a mega church (meaning multiple thousands of members over several campuses). It was known in the church world for being one of the early pioneers of what is lovingly called by some “the seeker sensitive movement.” Also unlovingly called that as well…. The seeker sensitive movement, in my view, existed so that people were more compelled to come to church. It would be as “fun” as church could be, wouldn’t make you feel too bad about yourself and offered free bagels and coffee. (See also: “attractional model”) Dig deeper and you’ll see a lot of good intentions about relevance, but in many ways the shift was harmful to keeping the core message the core message.

A brief aside that is still a crucial element in my story, as I do believe my church experience had ramifications on how I viewed God (And that my father’s experience became wrapped up in worldly success- which is promised to all who follow the seeker sensitive mantra): “Was your church dry? Boring? Weird? Try being seeker friendly and make all your dreams come true. Fill those seats!” Said in my best announcer voice, of course. Maybe not. One of the major concerns I see in the seeker friendly movement today, and the ripple effect it has created, is that it might just have taken Christ out of being a Christian. That’s not to say Christ wasn’t talked about, He was, but perhaps it made Him just a player in a force that is mostly about us and not nearly enough about Him. It often is accused of, and perhaps rightly so, of feeding into a consumerist and convenience mindset that needs to be transformed by the Word, not catered to.  We are, after all, humans, and He is God. How often we forget.

But, this was the 90s. It was how many churches operated, and many dying churches were taught to operate, if they wanted to survive in what was quickly becoming known as a postmodern and post- church culture. I knew about the power of God, I had seen and heard of miracles and the power of God on display, I even had a prophetic dream at the young age of five. But this was quickly pushed out of my view as I came of age. As a young girl, I had been in “charismatic” churches, I even knew that to some extent my parents believed in the power of Holy Spirit for today, but in my view it was mostly fake and people (saved and unsaved) were creeped out by it. So, why have church that way?! It made sense to appeal to the masses, when my view of God was so very shaped by my limited view of Him.

Still, even in my limited view I remained a “good girl” to the core. The move did not shake me up nearly as much as I had pretended it might. I started high school at a new school but knowing a few people, and by my second semester had made great friends. I only had to spend the first day locked in the bathroom during lunch, having no one to sit with. I was involved in church, becoming involved in school, had friends, and didn’t feel nearly as awkward as I had in middle school. I did not cuss, drink, smoke or think about even entertaining drugs, so that meant that high school was limited to a certain group, and I was fine with that. For 9th and 10th grades, my life remained steady and while certainly not carefree, it was the normal cares of 14 and 15 year olds that concerned most of my days and times. I didn’t focus on the church or my parent’s marriage or even my little sisters. I worried about what lip gloss I was going to wear, if the cute boy on the bus would ever notice me and if my baby fat was a permanent fixture to my size 10/12 frame. Which by the way, I thought was SO fat among the 2s and the 4s of high school. 

It was at the age of 16 that my life began to shift and change in ways that I never thought it might. I honestly do not remember if it was my sophomore or junior year. My family got sick. We passed it around, and the week that my life changed was a week that both me and my mom had gotten whatever “it” was. I had gotten it first, so I emerged from my room a day or two before my mom and made my way down stairs to rejoin the “real world.”

My dad’s computer was on the couch and me, being a lover of AOL and AIM and even the Christian teen chat rooms, I hopped on to see what was up in the new and exciting world of dial up internet. But, that day I felt like my breath was knocked out of me. A gut punch to the stomach is what I received as I opened up the computer and read the words that my dad had written to a woman. A woman that was not, in fact, my mom. Thankfully by this time in my life I had lived through a couple of years of public school, so the words on the page weren’t nearly as shocking to my 16 year old self as they would have been to my 14 year old self. But, nevertheless, I learned of my father’s secret shame. Not wanting to crush my mom but not knowing what else to do, I called for her. My dad had gone. Maybe he had run out to the store. In any event, he was not home.  

She didn’t seem shocked. The wind was not knocked out of her at all. She held a quiet resolve as she did her best to explain. I slowly realized, she knew. I am sure it didn’t happen this way but in my memory it played out like a movie where suddenly all the scenes of my life made perfect sense. My dad’s anger at my internet usage, his explosions at nothing, my parent’s little fights here and there that always seemed to lead to some kind of depressive episode with my dad. Episodes that in my limited understanding I tried so hard to fix or help by offering him encouragement. Once I even played the DC Talk song “What if I stumble” when he told me he had done something wrong and that my mom had every reason to be upset with him. I thought maybe he had said something mean to her or told a lie. I didn’t know that in essence the family I was living in was a lie.  

All of the sudden the emotional angst of middle school seemed like nothing. Not being liked by a small group of limited friends seemed mild in comparison to feeling as if your entire life was a facade. I went from anger to feeling sorry for him back to anger and then to righteous indignation in moments. I didn’t know which way was up or down, the foundation on which I had stood was shaken. Who do you blame when your foundation is built on a faith that is supposed to be rooted in trust, honesty, and a strong moral compass? I blamed my Dad, but even more than that I think I blamed God. Or worse, I couldn’t fathom why a good God would let me hurt this much. My faith was in many ways still my parent’s faith, and if my parent’s faith hadn’t sustained them, then what was sustaining me?