Our friend Anne Jackson's second book, Permission to Speak Freely - Essays and Art on Fear, Confession and Grace releases today! She's giving us a little taste of the book by sharing seven excerpts on seven different blogs, this is the sixth. To read the rest of the essays, check out the links at the end.
Anne is also giving away a copy of her book to two commenters, chosen at random, on Friday. So check out the question at the end and leave a comment to be entered to win!
You can pick up a copy of the book here.
Essay #6 - Ghosts of Churches Past
The confession about the porn and the men and the million other shameful things was the beginning of a spiritual reawakening. Although I wasn’t completely convinced that a sovereign, loving God could just sit by and watch a family get abused by His church, and a sixteen-year-old girl get her heart broken by a youth pastor, there was something new inside my heart that caused me to listen and watch for Him.
I figured if He was who He said He was, maybe He’d show me. Maybe I would give Him another chance.
My best friend Julie, from Abilene, was going to college at Hardin-Simmons and decided she needed a mental and financial respite from university life. I had just left my position managing the Christian bookstore to take a better-paying job in communication design at a trendy dot-com. I invited her to live with me in my cute one-bedroom condo outside of Dallas, and a few days later she showed up with her Nissan Sentra packed full of laundry baskets and clothes.
The weekend rolled around, and I got dressed up to go out with some friends. We had plans to go to a few bars and hear some bands, then head to another friend’s house to drink and sleep over so we wouldn’t have to drive back to our respective homes intoxicated. I asked Julie if she’d like to go along, but she opted to stay behind because partying like that wasn’t really her thing.
It was probably seven o’clock in the morning when I made my way back home, where I crawled into my own bed and cursed the amount of drinking I had done the night before. Julie, as consistent as ever, was already awake and in the shower. I had just nodded off when she came out, dressed nicely, and asked me where we were going to church.
How funny of her to assume that we’d still go to church together like we did in high school. Maybe I was ready to give God another try—but church?
Not a chance.
I muttered some expletives under my breath and told her I didn’t go to church but there was at least one on every corner, so she shouldn’t have a problem finding something to suit her.
She left, and when she came back home, I was still in bed.
This pattern continued for a while until Julie finally convinced me to go to church with her.
She hadn’t yet found a church she was in love with, so I decided if I was going to have to go, I got to choose. We drove up to the Highland Village area of Dallas. A few of my coworkers lived in the area and I figured if I was going to have to go to church, I may as well make a networking opportunity out of it.
We pulled into the parking lot of a Baptist church. It seemed familiar enough and small enough. I recognized a girl from the marketing department of my company sitting on the far right side. We took a bulletin from the ushers and made our way to our seats.
I didn’t feel as uncomfortable as I thought I would. The music was familiar but fresh. Fully expecting to see someone like my father take the stage for the sermon, I was completely surprised when the pastor stepped out. He couldn’t be too much older than we were—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. And he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie.
Julie asked me as we drove home what I thought. Would I go back?
I shrugged.
At best, I was apathetic, still wrestling with the truth of where and who God was. My logical undercurrent told me the best way to be objective as I attempted to discover—or rediscover—my faith meant I needed to stay away from churches. As nice as the people at the Baptist church were, in my mind, they were the ghosts of pastors and church people in my past that I couldn’t trust.
It wasn’t their fault.
But I still couldn’t move on.
We didn’t go back to church there, or at least I didn’t. Julie may have. However, we did visit a couple of other churches on occasion, usually because of how cute the boys were. Regardless of where I may have attended church the few times I did, I couldn’t let go of the pain and confusion of the past.
Not too long after Julie had moved in, I found out my department at work was being downsized. On a whim, we decided this change of employment was an opportunity to leave Texas behind. A week after my last day at work, we packed up and moved to Kansas City. After all, we were young—almost twenty-two years old at this point—and, except for my family, had zero commitment to anything in Dallas.
In fact, if anything, I felt haunted as I drove through certain parts of town, being reminded of what happened there and with whom.
Maybe a fresh start is what I needed to find God again.
That is, if He was looking for me.
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Have you ever had a difficult time trusting people in churches because of something you experienced in the past?
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For the first essay, visit Don Miller's blog and follow the
chain...
For the next and final essay, visit Anne Jackson's blog, FlowerDust.net.
