Coming to Christ

Some people are born into a Christian life, raised on it as well as the bread on their table. At some point they are asked to claim a deeper commitment to it, as a formal stage in their life journey.

Some people wander around for decades without any religion. In some cases, their lives become unmanageable, they hit rock bottom, and in the depths of brokenness they reach out to God as a last resort, and thus are led to give their lives to Christ.

It's plain to anyone that my life hasn't followed the first plan. So it's perfectly reasonable to think that there must have been some awful crisis that prompted my conversion. And it's probably human nature to look at my definitely non-bible-approved sexual/relational history, and come to the conclusion that the crippling burden of my carnal sins drove me to cry out to God for relief.

In fact, this doesn't seem to have been the case. In not one crisis did I ever think God would be any help whatsoever. I might have cried and screamed and thrown temper tantrums, but I certainly wasn't going to ASK for help from something that didn't exist, anyway.

God had to be sneakier with me. God courted me patiently during all those years I didn't even believe He existed. And when I finally started noticing Him, He wooed me. All that time, He was protecting me, fitting me for the work he had for me through the diverse experiences of my life, preparing me to be his servant. Whenever I decided to make that commitment.

The not-so-straight-and-narrow sexual history was (in hindsight) clearly part of that preparation.

For the occasion of Baptism at Peace Mennonite Church, it was the custom for the one being baptized and admitted to membership in the church to give a brief statement of their faith as part of the service. On February 25, 2001, I read these words to the congregation:

What I'm about to read won't make much sense. That's OK. It doesn't have to. I'm rummaging through a backpack I've been wearing all my life: some stuff I don't even remember, or know how it got there. Some of you will recognize bits and pieces and see that they are out of context or broken or inside out. That's ok, too--just how it is in a bag you've carried a long time. The cough drops come unwrapped and stick to the Kleenex and grocery store receipts, and there's some pennies, and magic beans a little kid gave me, some rocks, a dirty sock, some nuts and bolts and raisins and birdseed--well, YOU KNOW!

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A parable: A child watches a parade in a foreign city, surrounded by strangers whose ways make no sense. Her parents stand over her, hovering, keeping her safe from alien influences. The Emperor of that world walks by, wearing nothing. Her parents bend to whisper, "He's got nothing on." She is puzzled, then listens to the crowd around her describe the rare beauty of his garments to one another. "but He HAS GOT NOTHING ON!" she cries aloud. The foreign children throw sticks and stones at her. She clings to her parents.

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Childhood values: family values. Homemade dresses, saddle shoes. No cartoons, no bubble gum, no soda pop, no Barbie dolls, no paint-by-numbers, no movies, no social groups or activities, no church. No explanations that made sense. Everything scientific and educational.

In grade school, in Shaker Heights, Ohio, hymns. Tis a gift to be simple. Hiking the wonders of nature, identifying birds and flowers, rocks and fossils. Living in tents in Canada for a month every summer. Sailing; watching fish in their strange watery world under the docks. Tidepools; turning over rocks in the streams. Searching for living mysteries to unfold.

In high school, In Manhattan, Kansas, seeking to unfold mysteries of the spirit. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the Tao Teh Ching; for the first time in my life, the Bible. Unitarian Fellowship: taped classical music, lectures on social issues. It's all about coffee, which I never drink. The youth group, which hides itself from me, does drugs. A few wise elders inspire me to a long life of service.

Tentative friendships with peers in the foreign city: pot-smoking Hippies, vicious Born-Agains, treacherous Charismatics, suicidal Lesbian Feminists, crazy Artists, shy Poets, condemning Baptists, hypocritical Preacher's Kids. Where to I fit? How CAN I fit when I still can't make sense of their ways, and can't articulate my own? I have a dream.

Independence hits like a brick wall. an unplanned child, a brutal marriage, divorce, homelessness. No work or living skills. A few friends hold hands through the storm of early adulthood, each similarly desperate for unique reasons. The dream, unattainable, is abandoned.

A life of fragments, pieces from different puzzles, ends that don't meet. Waling the void's edg, three years of celibacy, lesbian lovers, drunken old men, two-timing young ones. Women of the Heartlands, Women's Festival, the I Ching, the Wander Game, The Manhattan Mercury, in slipstream time, cycles into a dark night, spiraling down a twisted tortured mile. None of this is sustainable. Who tempts me to walk away?

Only years later, I realize that over those troubled waters there came a quiet bridge, a bridge to gently lead me to a new way of thinking, living, loving. It came so ordinarily that it's taken 20 years to see it: the More With Less Cookbook. Not another issue of the Watchtower, not a visit from the Sister Missionaries, not people on the street corner selling roses. I bought it at the local food Co-op. i knew I had "less", I wanted to know what to do with it. The stains document its centrality to my life: a toddler's scribbles, Whole Wheat Orange Bread, Fruit Crumble, Mini Pizzas, Tangerine Peels. Gather up the fragments.

I walk away from the castle: a retreat into the wilderness. No child now; she's in my parents' care. Vision quest. Sitting zazen twice a week. Chopping wood, carrying water. Walking to the mailbox. meeting my self for the first time. A wise woman guides me through dark nights, helping me learn to heal and love myself. How can we meet the gods face to face till we have faces? I remember that once I had a dream.

A voice emerges from the wilderness. A new life, a new job, another marriage. Still in a foreign country, but learning the language. K-State, then Friends University; Vegetable Crop Production, then Business Ethics.

Time and again I realize I've strayed from the path. I boldly abandon each wayward trail and strike out cross-country in the right direction. I don't know what the path is or where it's going; I only know it exists because I am learning to know when I am not on it. I remember fragments of a dream. I buy a house from a Mennonite family; and old hippy friend turned Mennonite repairs the stair rail.

A divorce, a job loss, another job, another marriage. Lawrence. The Episcopal Church calls me a child of God but denies me bread at His table--even the crumbs. Hundred dollar floral arrangements with South American flowers, while we pray for the poor. An old lady I've never seen before, with too much perfume, tell me to move from HER family's pew on Easter sunday. Does the Emperor have clothes?

I retreat again: church in the garden. I consider the lilies. A friend comes to gather wildflowers for his church; the third time I follow them. Here! The upper room is full of windows and sky, faces I danced with on Saturday, friends I'll dine with on Sunday. Sunday school discusses stewardship: sustainable agriculture, not a pledge drive.

Thanks to a dog, a farm falls in my lap, I lose the job. The dream! The path! God calls me to follow. He sends a flock of Quaker sheep--I listen--a flock of Mennonite sheep--I act. Mennonite hay. One good dog leads to another. A llama. I don't need a sailboat any more, I'm in charge of an ark! I begin to know how Noah felt.

Who tempts me to walk away? I spend one Lent in silent retreat, being the Lord's shepherd through lambing time. At midnight, by moonlight, I walk to the flock pastured by a stream, I move silently among them, I rest on the ground where they lie chewing their cuds. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. It is good. I consider the lilies.

Who tempts me to walk away? We spend another Lent studying TREK. Puzzle peices begin to fit. Tis a gift to be simple. Everything that is not of the farm and church fall away from me like an old skin: pieces from some other puzzle. Some are people I love; I have been transformed into something new that I have always already been, and they don't know how to follow. I'm sad, but without self-doubt. Chop water, carry wood. Tis a gift to be free. At church, each service holds some special, surprising message for me. Mandy's dad preached on teh Kingdom of God. Imagination caps! I come to the little children; I'm a child. There's room for me at the table, whenever I'm hungry. Weren't we supposed to remember Him EVERY time we shared bread with one another? Dream becomes vision. Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be.

Who tempts me to walk away? Separation and sin, a season of stress and strife. Misunderstanding, regrouping. For others, great good fortune far, far away. For me, eventually, the prodigal daughter returns. What is good, Phaedrus, and what is not good--need we anyone to tell us?

The Emperor has no clothes; He's given them all away. He tempts me to walk away, and welcomes me to His table. Actions speak louder than words. I wash my face with tears, time and again. This water will be fresh and sweet!

Congregational response: And when we find ourselves in the place just right we will be in the valley of love and delight.

Divine Affirmation, or Coincidence?

"One generation's spiritual convictions become the next generation's traditions, which can become the next generation's inconveniences."

Because I was late (as usual...but I'm rarely alone in this, and no one seems to mind) to church today (not so much because of Daylight Savings Time, as because of the amount of time and chocolate involved in the creation of this blog in the wee hours last night), I missed the beginning of the message. My friend M. shared it with me afterward, including the above quote from one of the ministers.

It seems a young woman of the church in another state was asked by a stranger why she wore the prayer covering, and she couldn't give an answer!

So today's sermon (by a highly respected visiting minister) made sure that THIS flock had good, short, scriptural summaries of some of the basic tenets of the church's doctrine. It was as if God were dictating to me an outline for this blog in the coming months, and reminding me of the real reason I'm doing it:

Because I know exactly why I wear the rainbow covering...a far broader and more complex host of reasons than "it's a conviction". Over time I will share many of those reasons.

The aspects of Old German Baptist doctrine which he highlighted included: Baptism--a kind of "burial" and resurrection. The prayer covering--to be worn all the time, based on Corinthians 11, as a sign of submission to the divine order (God--Christ--men--women--children), and because we never know when we might need to pray. No women speaking in church or at Annual Meeting (though they have a say in local church affairs, I was glad to hear). Love Feast/Communion--including preparation visits by pairs of brothers, footwashing, unleavened bread, a full reenactment of the Last Supper including a meal AND the (unleavened) bread and wine (not grape juice). Not "closeD" communion, but "close" communion, i.e. communion only with those who are truly in full fellowship.

I should explain that I've been attending the Old German Baptist church south of town for a full year now. The Old German Baptist church, proper (not the Old German Baptist New Conference, which divided from the Old last summer...but that's another story), is one of many branches on the complicated family tree of the Anabaptist denominations. The early Anabaptists split off from the Catholic, Lutheran and Reformed churches in the mid-1600s, a diffuse radical movement of courageous individuals who read the Gospels for themselves and tried to follow Christ's word faithfully, even to torture and death at the hands of the "official" Christian churches. Anabaptism evolved through the centuries by way of many schisms, resulting in what we know today as Amish, Mennonite, Church of the Brethren, Brethren in Christ, Old Order River Brethren, Hutterite, and many splinters, sects and divisions of these.

The Old German Baptists are a Plain denomination...not nearly as Plain as the Amish (George Foreman electric grills, minivans, elaborate buttons, and fancy print synthetic dress fabrics are clearly acceptable), but still distinctive. The women wear stiff gauze prayer coverings tied firmly under the chin, and caped dresses with long straight sleeves and hems well below the knees. Black bonnets and capes serve as cold weather wraps. Men wear characteristic full beards, no mustache, and hair cut straight across the back of the neck. Black vests and broadfall pants, collarless coats, and white shirts make the men's attire as somber as the women's dresses are colorful. Despite the name of the denomination, church is in English.

I made regular attendance there my personal Lenten discipline last year...sort of ironic, because Lent does not seem to be observed in the Plain churches. Even before I became a Christian, I liked Lent. Just my kind of religious holiday--an excuse to step out of the relentless march of mainstream consumerism in some manner for a few weeks.

Over the years I've found Lent to be a great way of "trying on" new habits that I think will make me a better person. It's easier to say I'm going to change for 6 weeks (and then just keep on going if I like the spiritual fruit of that change...or not) than to proclaim an open-ended change and then change back when it doesn't work out quite so well. Sometimes it takes me awhile to figure out what my discipline will be, like this year--I just figured out it's writing this blog. Last year, the trial period was a resounding success, and I try to attend as often as I can gird myself for the 30-45 minute drive.

Why this church suits me will hopefully become more clear as I blog on. It does seem like an anomaly, because of my relational and sexual history and identity...my deep roots in Women's Lib...my headstrong approach to life in general.

One reason--the first reason, perhaps, and maybe the only reason I need, is that every time I go there, I feel like God has given the message to the ministers just for me. I hear exactly what I need to hear, in each moment, to reaffirm my faith in a God that perplexes me.

As in the quote at the beginning of this essay.