May 2021 – Midlife Creative

How can one sentence change the course of a life? How can one sentence change how you see a person?
How can one sentence change how you see the world?

The time I’ve been thinking about when a sentence changed everything was when my oldest child was 14. We were driving in the car and had just arrived home from a church event. There was a long silence, and then Ellie said, “Mom, I need to tell you something.” I took a deep breath because it seemed like it was something big, but I couldn’t imagine what? Then Ellie said in a barely audible voice,

“I don’t believe in God. I’m not a Christian.”

This was after a time of worship where Ellie was singing, with eyes closed and arms raised. I said “Well, why were you worshipping like you were tonight?” To that, Ellie replied, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I was pretending.”
Ellie has always known that my faith is very important and I assumed that all my kids would follow me down the same road of beliefs. Much later, Ellie told me they had felt this way for 3 years and felt pained to go to church and “fake it” and that’s why they decided to sign up to work in the nursery so they wouldn’t have to listen to the sermons.
I was in complete shock.
What now?

In the days that followed, a neighbor told me about the Liturgists podcast. The early episodes feature a worship leader and a Sunday school teacher who talk about their complete loss of faith, while continuing to lead worship and teach on Sunday mornings, unbeknownst to their family and church members.

I started to look around in my church and wonder if there were others who were “faking it”. How many people in the room had doubts that this whole Christian/God thing was real? How many people were there to please their friends and loved ones or out of habit, but in their heart of hearts, didn’t buy it.

I started reading books by authors who had went through faith deconstruction and disillusionment. I started to have my own doubts. Instead of seeing the good in the church, I started seeing everything that was wrong. I didn’t feel like reading the Bible anymore and prayer felt empty. This went on for several years. I read a book called The Critical Journey about the stages of faith and realized I was going through something called “the wall”. There was no way around it. I was just going to be there for awhile. I started meeting with a mature spiritual friend who listened and helped me walk through where I was at. We have met monthly for the last 4 years. I’ve begun to see that asking questions is an important part of a maturing faith. It is normal and should be embraced instead of feared. Now, when someone tells me they have been hurt by the church or don’t understand the faith of their child or teen years anymore, I don’t feel surprised or worried like I once would have. I am actually drawn to people with doubts because they tend to be more authentic and tell you the whole truth.

Am I back to “loving church” again? Yes, but in a very different way. I assume the best from people, while all the while, expecting that they will disappoint me. I don’t look to Sunday mornings as the centerpiece of my life, but a small part of the whole. I do not see church as a building and I don’t see it as a small group of people. It is wider than that and extends beyond the small minded barriers we construct in our tiny human brains. I have more questions than answers and nothing seems impossible to consider. I do love Jesus and He is my model for loving others. I find myself praying again and looking forward to doing life with God’s people in whatever setting that may be. Around a table, at the piano, on a hike, or in a time of prayer or conversation. I see God’s people as those who have accepted His gifts and those who have not. God created all and includes all at the table. No exceptions.

The sentence spoken by my firstborn 5 years ago has taken me on quite a trip and I’m better for it. Thanks Ellie, for your honesty. Love you tons!

As I pause today to remember George Floyd and his family, I also pause to consider how his murder has changed me.

I didn’t grieve for Philando Castillo or the other innocent victims who were killed before him.

I didn’t grieve the treatment of slaves, and the killing of black bodies throughout history.

I didn’t know that thirty-eight Dakota men were hung from a gallows in Mankato, MN in 1862. Their deaths scarred generations of native people and cemented Minnesota as home to the largest mass execution in U.S. history.

I didn’t learn until recently about the mistreatment of indigenous children taken from their parents and forced to attend “assimilation schools” where they were instructed to abandon their way of life which was thought inferior to the ways of white people.

I didn’t know about Mary Turner, an 18 year old pregnant black woman who was tied upside down from a tree and burned to death for questioning her innocent husband’s death. Her unborn baby was cut from her body and trampled. Her story, as shocking as it is, is only one of thousands of stories of the torturing of black bodies in the U.S. Most of the white men who committed these crimes were let free and continue to be let free.

I didn’t grieve the unjust systems throughout our history that put people in categories and burned down black neighborhoods, including the Greenwood neighborhood of Tulsa, OK, where over 300 African Americans were murdered in 2 days. At the order of the Oklahoma government and National guard, more than 6,000 black citizens were arrested. Not one White person was arrested. The looting and rioting that happened following George Floyd’s death was built on generations upon generations of anger over the wrongs of the past.

I was blinded to my own racist thoughts and tendencies. I was lost in a sea of “nice white people”.

Until last summer. George Floyd’s death was a wake up call.

I am not the same. Nothing is the same.
I can no longer ignore the racism all around me. Some say we’ve come a long way, but for me, I’m just beginning.

Lament and repentance is the first step to change. Forgiveness and healing cannot begin until we all become more aware of the historical roots of the problem and acknowledge the harm caused. As I have begun to dig a little and learn about the black and indigenous history in this country that many like to white wash and cover up, doing nothing and saying nothing is no longer an option.

In Latasha Morrison’s book Be the Bridge – Pursuing God’s Heart for Racial Reconciliation, she writes, “Have you ever been afraid of someone just because of the color of his or her skin? If you have, whether you’re white, black, or brown, you have confession work to do”. I have realized that I fear what I do not know. And I believe what I have been told. I was told that the city is a dangerous place and that the most dangerous neighborhoods are filled with people who are not white. I believed this stereotype.

I am sorry for my silence. I will use my voice and privilege to bring about change along with the incredible generation of truth tellers and justice seekers that come behind me – my children. It often feels they are leading me as I try to catch up.

Black Lives Matter.
They always have, but now I’m finally seeing why.