Author: Through Grace

I was raised in a somewhat unhealthy church group within the Nondenominational Christian Church. After graduating high school, I began attending a United Pentecostal Church (UPC). I've been a member of four UPC churches and visited many others. Of the four of which I was a member, I was "encouraged" not to leave the first and then later sent to the second; attended the second where an usher repeatedly attempted to touch me and the pastor told me I should not care about the standards of the organization and was wrong to do so; ran to a third at that point, which threw me out after a couple years; and walked out of a fourth. For these transfers and because I refused to gossip about my former churches, some called me a "wandering star, a cloud without water" (Jude 1:12). I love the fact that when the blind man was healed, questioned by the Pharisees and temple rulers, and expelled from the temple, Jesus went and sought him out. He very rarely did this once someone was healed, but for this man, he did. I believe God has a special place in his heart for those who are abused, wrongfully accused, or condemned by religious leadership. I believe He loves those who are wronged by churchianity--yes, churchianity, not Christianity, because those who do these wrongs follow a church, not Christ. 1 John 4:7-8 7 Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. 8 He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love. 9 In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. 10 Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 11 Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.

What about Judas????

Last year during the week before Easter the question kept coming up, “What about Judas?” That, and the “immersive experiences” that include a mirror with “Behold the betrayer!” as though we should identify with Judas.

I’ll change the questions for myself this year. Instead of “What happened to Judas?” let’s ask what happened to the betrayed. Not just to Jesus, but to the disciples. Jesus knew what was coming, but the disciples didn’t. They felt lost, scared, confused, and angry. So much that had been wonderful in their lives was seemingly upended with a single kiss. Judas was their friend, someone they’d spent a lot of time with and cared about, maybe even respected.

Maybe some argued it couldn’t have been Judas. It was dark. It must have been someone else they saw. And maybe this upset others who knew who they saw, even in the dark. Maybe some blamed themselves. They recalled something Judas had said or done… they should have known. They should have warned Jesus. They should have done something. Anything. And then there was Peter. He did something. He drew his sword. But it was too late, and he was rebuked, and then he denied Jesus on top of everything else.

I’m sure the disciples felt to one degree or another that they were betrayers, but not because they identified with Judas. No, if they felt like betrayers, for the most part that was because they’d trusted Judas. Except Peter, who had even more to deal with. They couldn’t see through what was happening. They felt betrayed, and they may well have wrongly blamed themselves for a large part of the betrayal. They were scattered. Sunday didn’t bring them all back together, either. We like to think of resurrection as the final victory, but it would take a week or two or three for all the disciples to realize the story wasn’t finished.

I sat around a table tonight with strangers. There were prayer requests… and so many were for hope. Mine too. Last year this time was filled with so much joy and hope. This year is so different than I thought it would be, and I grieve what should have been and could have been. And yet Sunday’s coming, and even that’s not the end of the story. Just the beginning.

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Easter?

I just wasn’t feeling it today. Maybe I missed the memo. It’s Easter. I should be excited. But like Thomas I’m just not quite there yet. And like Thomas, when others are saying, “Look, there’s hope! Here’s joy!” I’m asking to see it and feel it first. Before I celebrate, I want to know there’s really a reason because images and sounds of all the reasons not to are still too fresh in my mind. Or maybe I know there will be a time when I can celebrate again, but I’m not so sure that time is now.

Give me time. It’s OK to hang back, to want to be sure, or not to take others’ word for something that sounds too outrageous to be true. After everything that’s happened those saying it’s all OK could be a bit delusional. Or maybe not. Giving it time is OK. If Christ is risen, he’ll still be risen in a few more hours or a few more days. There will be time to celebrate. But maybe not yet.

I don’t think anyone was angry at Thomas that day. No one said “shake yourself out of it!” I’m not sure anyone even pressured him to take their word for it. Surely no one was frustrated because Thomas wasn’t on their timeline, their schedule. They were still pretty surprised themselves. Whispered stories. “Did I imagine it?” “No, I heard Peter…” “Yeah, and Mary said…” “Cleopas was on this road and…”

Did he eat? Did he touch you? He just appeared — the doors were locked! A ghost? A vision? Are we crazy?

Yeah, there was excitement, but I suspect it was still hushed and that there were more than a few doubts even among those who’d seen Him. So I don’t think anyone was bothered by Thomas’ statement that he’d need to see Jesus himself and touch the wounds — to experience joy, he would need to see a reason for hope but also fully experience the pain. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s actually a pretty wise thing to do.

And the thing is, when Jesus did appear, apparently Thomas didn’t need to touch him anymore. But Jesus was willing to go as far as necessary for Thomas’s hope and joy to be restored. May we all find that kind of resurrection in our own lives.

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Healing

In the last few months I’ve been very triggered. I watched as someone I cared about was ostracized, gossiped and lied about. I watched as others participated in the gossip. I warned people, knowing doing so would likely not end well for me. I lost friends, felt judged… and relived a lot of past church trauma.

I made some different choices this time than I would have in the past. I did what I thought was right, and some of that may not have been what was best and some that I thought in the past would have been better to have done didn’t work, after all. There are just some situations that no matter what we do will not end well. I learned one thing: no matter what we do, we can’t usually stop some large entity intent on hurtling toward a bad end. At least that relieves me of some guilt or self-doubt from the past. And I’ve learned sometimes the only thing we can do is what we think will be best for ourselves – and that that’s not selfish, it’s just life.

Healing is an ongoing journey. It’s not linear. We take a step forward, sometimes three steps back. We move forward, then end up triggered by something and end up cycling back through everything all over again. Or – ugh – we end up in a situation that’s eerily similar to what hurt us to begin with, parallel on parallel, and we have to somehow navigate that AND all the memories and past hurts at the same time.

It’s OK to do that. And the fact that we can demonstrates that we really ARE healing, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.

A year ago I had an experience that brought major healing to an old hurt. It was sudden and unexpected. In the process I learned I could play the piano again. I didn’t think I ever would. After the triggers though, my playing gradually stopped. I haven’t played for close to three months, and haven’t played joyfully or for long for maybe twice that time.

Today brought some closure. Several surprises, several opportunities to remember good things that have happened, past healing moments. And somehow through today, I know the music is back again. I haven’t played yet, but the sadness that blocked the music isn’t blocking anymore. Nothing major happened today. Just memories, just acceptance, just love. And it was enough. And that’s healing, too.

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Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Should I stay or should I go? When we debate leaving anything, we wrestle with this. Leaving means loss. So does staying. And there are likely a few things to gain either way as well, at least from the perspective we have at the time.

I have recently faced this question in another situation, and I was a bit surprised at the similarities there were to leaving the church I left 14 years ago. There are a few people who want me to stay. And I want to stay if only to please them, because I like them and I realize if I leave we’ll grow more distant probably. I’ve been encouraged to stay to help others who stay. A few seem to think I’m showing I wasn’t dedicated or committed if I leave. Just like in the unhealthy church, most will never notice that I’m gone, and just like in the unhealthy church, a few will likely even say “good riddance!”

And if I leave I’ll miss people. I’ll miss what the organization/group could have been, what it seemed to be. BUT.. I’m not happy. The few who want me to stay could leave and most did think about leaving at one time. Instead, they chose to stay. Their choice doesn’t have to be my own. Also, as I consider the situation fully, I realize we weren’t that close. A good friend would encourage me to do what is best for me, not attempt to persuade me to stay in a situation they, too, considered leaving.

Leaving doesn’t mean I’m not dedicated or committed. It may mean I’m wise, or it may mean I’m committed in a different way. It could even mean that I’m committed to myself – and there is NOTHING wrong with that. As for the rest… what others think is not my concern. They should do what’s best for them, but I must also do what is best for me and what I believe is right. Though I’m not sure what’s right, I know staying isn’t right for me.

The situation I’m in isn’t healthy for me. I’ve lost sleep. I’ve shed tears. And I’ve done what I can to repair the situation and bring care and community. Nothing has changed. Staying will do two things: it will continue to make me unhappy and stressed and it will potentially make others think they should stay or are alone in leaving, too. I’ve decided to make one final attempt and give myself two weeks to see the outcome of this attempt before making a decisive move to finalize my leave. In the meantime, I will act as though I’ve left already as much as possible.

This is an opportunity to adjust more than reconsider.

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Love Lessons

I never related very well to the parable of the prodigal. I heard people amazed that the father ran to meet the prodigal and that the prodigal was unworthy. Those things I got, but… so? My own parents were distant growing up in some ways. I’m not sure they would have run, but they’d have welcomed me, even if through slightly gritted teeth.

But… I’ve recently become acquainted with a couple who fosters kids. They’ve had their current fosters since before the pandemic, and their fosters will be adopted soon. And the man has been crying all week. Every time someone asks how he is, every time someone asks about the kids, he chokes up. They aren’t his kids. He’s know they were only there temporarily. That they’re being adopted is great for the kids, and he has said so, but still, this has been a really hard transition for him.

I’ve watched him with those kids. I’ve watched him live in the moment with them, and watched him choke up when the kids won’t see. It’s hard for him to see them go, hard knowing they will be moving away. There’ll be an emptiness in this couple’s lives when those kids are gone, and their own grief is as real as their love for the kids.

If he were the father in that parable I would understand why he was running – not just to welcome him back, but because he missed them and he loves them, no matter what they do, no matter where they are. If this man were the father, and he saw one of his fosters – not even his own kids – coming toward him, he’d run, and no one who knows him would be surprised at that. Not at all. No matter what they’d done, no matter where they were, he’d run to them if they ever needed him, and he wouldn’t ever consider them “unworthy” (like I was taught from the story of the prodigal). He wouldn’t, and neither did the father in the story. They’d be the first to remind them of their worth, not because of what they’d done or not done, but simply because they are.

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