A Time to Laugh

If the 20th-century culture wars were as real as we were taught — and how many times did I leave Whirlybirds convinced that the world would collapse before I woke in the morning? — and if Bob Jones University really is the West Point of Christian Fundamentalism, then I think I finally understand this song. A little.

I was so gung-ho to lay down my whole life for a constructed fight for a pristine good and against a clear evil. . . . we all were. And when you’re fighting — especially when that fight is more about resurrecting a “good war” than anything else — it doesn’t even matter who is wrong and who is right. The fight is everything. That’s how complete the training is.

And we lost in Vietnam too.

Isaac came home talking about Martin Luther King, Jr. this week. He learned about him in school, of course — the first one in our immediate tribe to hear about him as a fact and not a threat:

See this picture, Mommy? He’s waving hello. And he’s saying, “White people, you be nice to black people. And black people, you be nice to white people.”

That about covers it.

Being the public address nerd that I am, I said, “Let’s watch his speech, Isaac!” And more motivated by the snuggling than the learning, he settled into my lap for a viewing.

“He said Stone Mountain, Georgia! I know where that is. That’s where the presidents heads are carved — George Washington, George Bush, and Abraham Lincoln.”

Oh, so close. So, so close and so very, very far. “You’re thinking of Mount Rushmore. But we’ve been to Stone Mountain, remember? There are presidents carved into stone there, but presidents of the Confederacy.”

“What’s the Confederacy?”

Sigh. . . . Where to begin. I did my best. The differences between the North’s industry and South’s agriculture. The labor-intensity of cotton. And slavery. I hate talking about slavery.

I ended up at Abraham Lincoln’s conclusion that the South’s leaving the Union was no option at all. And the Blue Coats and the Grey Coats.

We listened some more and jumped ahead a hundred years to the Civil Rights Movement. I told him that right here in Greenville, people couldn’t eat lunch in a restaurant simply because they were black. Or drink from the same water fountain or use the same bathroom.

I finally sighed through saying, “And you know what, Isaac? Mommy has just discovered one of the most hateful sources of this racism. Right here in Greenville. That’s Mommy’s job right now — working with God as He makes that crooked path straight.”

While I was stuck in my little Public Speaking 121 lecture, I listened to this greatest speech of the 20th-century again. For the first time in a long time. King’s talking about the same thing I read during Advent. It sounds different now than it did in my previous life.

Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together:

No wonder King was such a threat. Shalom is a threat. A threat to habits, isolation, pride, greed. And King was just preaching Shalom. No, I think he was singing it.

We read:

• Luke 1:26-28
• Galatians 4:4-7
• Luther’s Second Sermon

We remember:

• Isaiah 9
• Candle

We sing:

We read:

• John 1:1-18
• Isaiah 9:1-7

We remember:

• Genesis 1-2
• A sunshine

And we sing:

I’ve had a blog post about 1952-53 in my drafts folder for about a year. Really. I’ve been trying to get a bead on that time period for awhile. That same anxiety that we’re all feeling in the air right now in the US, I think people were feeling back then too. And the seeds of our own undoing were planted then. Here are some facts I’ve gathered:

• Thomas Nelson released its second edition of the Revised Standard Version in 1952, this time including the Old Testament. To religious conservatives, the translators were pretty sloppy, seeming to highlight contradictions between the Old and New Testaments.
• The first conservative evangelical Christian school started in 1952 down in Florida — Keswick Christian School. One of its alumni wrote about her experience in My Fundamentalist Education.
• In 1952 and 1953, the U.S. experienced an outbreak of 58,000 and 35,000 polio cases, respectively, up from a typical number of some 20,000 cases a year.
• President Eisenhower started the “Back to God” campaign.
• The Army-McCarthy hearings were just starting in 1953.
• The babies were still booming.
• I Love Lucy was in its second season.
• The Korean War continued as a hotter part of the ongoing Cold War.
• “Under God” was added to the Pledge of Allegiance, thanks to the efforts of the Knights of Columbus, appealing to a newly-baptized Eisenhower.
• The Supreme Court heard Zorach v. Clauson, and released-time religious instruction diminished after that.
• Dr. Spock dominated the parenting-advice market.

And that’s the way it was . . . back in those blissful 1950s. When television couples slept in separate beds and the “coloreds” drank from separate drinking fountains and “fundamentalism” was not-yet-separated from “evangelicalism.”

This is the world in which Ted Mercer was writing.

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The gospel is good news indeed,
To sinners deep in debt;
The man who has no works to plead,
Will thankful be for it.

To know that when he’s nought to pay,
His debts area all discharged,
Will make him blooming look as May,
And set his soul at large.

No news can be compared with this,
To men oppressed with sin;
Who know what legal bondage is,
And labor but in vain.

Freedom from sin and Satan’s chains,
And legal toil as well,
The gospel sweetly now proclaims;
Which tidings suit them well.

How gladly does the prisoner hear,
What gospel has to tell!
‘Tis perfect love that casts out fear,
And brings him from his cell.

The man that feels his guilt abound,
And knows himself unclean,
Will find the gospel’s joyful sound,
Is welcome news to him.

The Reformation was a time when men went blind, staggering drunk because they had discovered, in the dusty basement of late medievalism a whole cellarful of fifteen-hundred-year-old, 200-proof grace — of bottle after bottle of pure distillate of Scripture, one sip of which would convince anyone that God saves us single-handedly.

The word of the Gospel — after all those centuries of trying to lift yourself into heaven by worrying about the perfection of your bootstraps — suddenly turned out to be a flat announcement that the saved were home before they started. . . . Grace has to be drunk straight: no water, no ice, and certainly no ginger ale; neither goodness, nor badness, nor the flowers that bloom in the spring of super spirituality could be allowed to enter into the case.

– Robert Capon

Since leaving fundamentalism, I feel like those Reformers. I feel like we’ve found a barrel full of Grace — something that was only a rumor in my previous life — and I’ve been just sipping it since, with lots of ice, from a small glass, and with buckets of fruit juice. I’ll get braver as my taste buds are cultivated to know Grace like I now know Rules.

I found this song this week from the Red Mountain Church. It’s a revision of “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus.” Listen to it. Really. I’ll wait ’til you’re done.

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The first time I heard that I was taken back by the changed lyrics. I thought, “Oh. I get it. That’s cute.” The third or fourth time, I thought, “Wait a second.  What was I singing before? With the old version?”

You sang it too, didn’t you?

I have decided to follow Jesus.

I have decided to follow Jesus.

I have decided to follow Jesus.

No turning back. No turning back.

What a weird song when you think about it! I hate to be too English-majory about it, but gee-whiz — I am the actor/agent/subject of every sentence! Jesus is merely the object of the action. I chose Jesus. I invited him in. I choose to slurp his tasteless smoothie. I sit in the formal dining room with Him. I eat God’s healthy food. I keep a neat house/soul. I, I, I. What an arrogant jerk I am when I sing this song!

It misses the biggest sin of all. My own temptation to make rules and make everyone else abide by them. The seduction of seeing everyone else as wrong and me and mine as right. The lure of self-righteousness. The hedge-building. The moralism. The rotten, stinking sin of perfection. After all, I have decided, so I‘m good. What’s wrong with you?

Of course I never wanted to give up my own self-righteousness and follow Jesus. But He rescued me. That’s it. That’s the whole message outside fundamentalism: He rescued me. From myself.

By not recognizing the wretched moralistic sin of self-righteousness as sin, you get Keswick theology. Or just bad theology. Or just anthropology, I guess. Or egocentrism. Or just not-God.

I sometimes fear that many of us (and I include myself) find our definition by our obedience, in our ability to persuade others to be like us, and in our ability to win the battles. There is a lot of ego involved in being good, in being right, and as part of the battle, having others know that we are good and right.

– Steve Brown

In these last two weeks of remembering how God grabbed us by the collar and dragged us out of fundamentalism two years ago today, I brooded about past conversations, wistfully remembered dear (and too often former) friends, and cried over God’s goodness and my own Pharisaical actions.

There was one conversation from November 2007 I couldn’t get out of my mind. We were told that we shouldn’t say this or that because it was sin and Christ’s work couldn’t be done if we sin. We couldn’t be blessed. We were “sitting in the seat of the scorner.” We were bitter. We need to be silent in order to prove that we weren’t bitter. So that God could use us.

Same song, thirty-second verse: “SHUT UP!” Grant actually got a similar email saying the same thing this week.

The thrust of that 2007 conversation, however, was this challenge from our old friend: “There is not one example in Scripture of what you’re doing on your blogs. All confrontation is done privately in Scripture. It is never public. I challenge you to find one example of what you’re doing in Scripture.”

I remember sitting there with this genuinely confused look on my face. I remember saying something about how there are sages (those who speak within a culture) and there are prophets (those who speak from outside a culture), and the Bible has examples of both (obviously!). He insisted that only the sage’s posture is biblical. I got an even more confused look because I know a little bit about this kind of stuff. I said, “It seems to me that everything God has taught me in my education and my experience has brought me to the point of uniquely being able to speak on this issue. Why would I be silent?” He again insisted, “I challenge you to find one example in Scripture.” The presumption being, of course, that such example didn’t exist. And when a religious professional tells you that it’s not in the Bible, you’re supposed to just believe him.

But deep down, like at the end of a tunnel, stuffed with pillows, behind a wall of cement blocks, I heard a tiny Voice screaming, “NO! He’s wrong! HE’S WRONG!! Don’t believe him!!”

I didn’t know what that Voice was yelling about until this week. And it’s not just an example from the Bible. It’s the Example Himself:

Jesus went straight to the Temple and threw out everyone who had set up shop, buying and selling. He kicked over the tables of loan sharks and the stalls of dove merchants. He quoted this text:

My house was designated a house of prayer;
You have made it a hangout for thieves.

Now there was room for the blind and crippled to get in. They came to Jesus and he healed them.

Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple was bold, loud, and raucous. It seemed obnoxious and ill-tempered to the religious elite. It was certainly unconventional and far from being “tempered with gentility.” But it was, of course, good and just and full-of-grace.

The sick and the lame couldn’t get to Him, so He destroyed the barriers. Jesus wasn’t trying to convince the religious elite of anything; He was loving, healing, breaking down doors so He could nurture people. It’s the most public and active example that we have of Christ’s actions to stop religious corruption. And it was beautiful to and necessary for everyone in need! What an amazing Example we have!

So now I just giggle at those who chide me for not being “tempered with gentility.” Of course not! Jesus wasn’t either!!!

And I never saw it until just now. Neither did my old friend. It’s hard to see Jesus in fundamentalism. He’s there, but He gets covered up. Or hedged in.

I s’pose I’ll keep hearing new things outside of fundamentalism. A couple friends have emailed me a few that they’ve noticed this week — the praying for the invisible Church, the communing with each other and with Christ over the elements as not a threat. The list will continue because . . . well, the 200-proof Grace takes forever to digest.

No, I really never, ever wanted to follow Jesus. I didn’t. But He grabbed me and showed me the Way. And there’s no turning back. I was home before I started!

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The Book of Remembrance

Then those who feared the LORD spoke with one another. The LORD paid attention and heard them, and a book of remembrance was written before him of those who feared the LORD and esteemed his name. “They shall be mine, says the LORD of hosts, in the day when I make up my treasured possession, and I will spare them as a man spares his son who serves him. Then once more you shall see the distinction between the righteous and the wicked, between one who serves God and one who does not serve him.

“For behold, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble. The day that is coming shall set them ablaze, says the LORD of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall. And you shall tread down the wicked, for they will be ashes under the soles of your feet, on the day when I act, says the LORD of hosts.

Malachi 3:16-4:3

I love gardening. Well, I love it in the Spring. And the Fall. I just about hate it in the South Carolina heat.

We did our spring planting last week — just in time for this week’s frost. Doh! We lost a few tulips, but we didn’t lose the tomatoes I foolishly planted too soon. And I grew these babies from seed. Brandywines!

But every time I go out in the backyard the same thing hits me.

We bought four creeping figs last year for our new wall. We had talked to a green-thumb-friend about it. We consulted our gardening books. We went to the best nursery in the city. We asked the people there for advice. We planted them carefully and watered them regularly. We did everything right.

They died. Well, all but one. And my first knee-jerk response is “It’s my fault. I didn’t work hard enough.”

I walk past the Space Bags at Target. I have about a dozen of these already at home. None of them work. Not one. And I think, “It’s my fault that they don’t work. I didn’t try hard enough.” And I have to stop myself out loud (“Keep moving, Camille!”) to walk away and not buy more. Capitalism thrives on this kind of egocentric self-loathing.

I find a bag of moldy pumpernickel in the pantry. Pangs of guilt shoot through my body. “Why did I let this happen? I’m not careful enough.”

Fundamentalism taught me this. “No doubt the trouble is with you,” right? Well, living in an abusive ideology taught me this. And it’s not just my previous life. There are countless examples. The hyper-focus on sin and an obsession with humility is a tactic for control, not a command from Christ. It’s too egocentric to be from Christ.

As I read these early contemporary conservative evangelical books, I realize that this ideology — whatever I should call it — reduces the entire person to the will. There is no body or even gut or heart — no “dreams and bones.” Just a will. You either choose to do right or you choose to do wrong. That’s all there is to it. An on-off switch. Simple compliance. And every problem can be explained away as such. If you can’t do the right thing, you have too weak of a will. If you can’t stop doing the wrong thing, your will is too strong. Back and forth — same old Keswick crazy-maker.

You see, ’cause no doubt the trouble may not be me. The world doesn’t rise and fall on my making simple choices. Take the creeping figs. Maybe the sun is too hot in that spot. Maybe the soil is bad. Maybe the plants are diseased. Maybe the bugs got ‘em. Maybe they were just cursed. Whatever it is, it’s not all about me.

And gardening forces this very product-oriented INFJ to throw caution to the wind a little bit. It forces me to stop the habits-for-the-sake-of-habits and think about what works. “Well, the petunias didn’t work here, so let’s try them over there. Or forget them altogether. Let’s get azaleas. Carrots taste bad in this red clay, so I’m not planting them again!” Habits are not a virtue. And when I reduce myself or when I’m reduced to mere habits — mere will — I’m no longer acting, but simply just moving.

Besides, I can plant and I can water. But come on now, God gives the growth. Inch by inch. It’s not all about me.

For the last several years, my main motivator for those deep-down personal things that would probably go unnoticed to the world at large has been self-loathing. Egocentric self-loathing. I would (can I use the past tense for this?) actually shame myself into sticking with a particular habit, telling myself that I don’t deserve any different.

Stupid. I admit that it’s stupid. But I have to get it out in the open to work past it. It’s not the way I was raised. And it’s taken this long to realize that what I endured 10-15 years ago is the same thing I’m reading about in my project and that pushed us out the door of fundamentalism. It’s a pair of book ends around a multi-volume set.

Sigh. . . .

I found some brown romaine in the vegetable crisper drawer today. And slimy cilantro. So into the new composter it goes. It’s really invigorating to do that, you know? Turning slime into black gold. Composting is like grace for garbage. Turning my failures into the best fertilizer for the flowers.

Now if I could just find a composter for these Space Bags.

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But even in my re-telling this wanting-to-be-forgotten story, it’s revealing to find the persistent theme: God gave me good roots. Grant was my ally. He reassured and loved on me. My brother, too, was a reliable friend — honest but gentle. My dad was also a rock — ever the cheerleader.

But who was there reading, listening, comforting, reminding, dragging, and even nagging me all the way through? Who remembered the deep-down-all-of-me before the seeds of that abusive ideology took root?

My dear mother.

We were talking the other day. Mom had read my church’s newsletter from this month and had noticed their support for CEF. My church and my parents’ new church, too, sponsor Good News Clubs at nearby public elementary schools. They even send kids to C.Y.I.A — CEF’s training for summer missionaries.

I was in C.Y.I.A. back in the day with no small amount of skepticism and criticism from the fundamentalists around us. My parents ignored it and so I did too. It had been a terrific experience for me. Instead of taking it all in, I was giving back. And it was when I was 16-year-old C.Y.I.A. summer missionary while teaching a little disabled child in my 5-Day Club that Jesus loved her that I really, truly realized (again) that Jesus loved me too.

Mom has said more than once in this mutual transition which moved us out of fundamentalism: “After all this time, I finally don’t feel at constant odds with my church’s philosophy. What took us so long?”

I guess we really never were fundamentalists, were we?