Essays from The Shadows
Volume Two
I should probably declare my position up front, to avoid giving the illusion that I have anything to do with organised religion. I became a born-again Christian aged 19; at least that’s what they told me. I never used those words myself. Not my kind of language, not the way I think of myself.
I had a stilted, self-conscious chat with God at dawn, sat on a huge fallen tree in the grounds of a stately home, and then never told a soul for a week. From where I was sitting, Christians looked slightly peculiar and had some very dodgy views about people.
I then spent quite a few years doing my best to fit in. It wasn’t so much that I failed at that, more that I had no idea what they wanted from me. I didn’t dress right, I had far too much attitude, I asked some very questionable questions and smoked cigarettes without apology or shame.
Over the years, I was told many times and in many ways that I was unsuitable. The fact that I didn’t have a proper job made me less of a man, biblically speaking. I was told a prophecy that I would lose my first love, not cigarettes but Christ apparently. I couldn’t, shouldn’t and in no way was I suitable to marry the woman I loved.
I was told I shouldn’t speak to the young people in the church because I might lead them astray; I might teach them to smoke; I expressed dubious views on sex before marriage; I was also trying to wheedle my way into a position of power and become a youth leader.
None of these things were true, and I had never expressed a view to that effect at any time. It was speculation, gossip, a result of prayer or all three.
I have been prayed for, prayed about, prayed against. I have been prophesied over, had words from God given to me. I have been banned and or asked to leave. I have been told I am evil and against God and that I don’t understand the Bible and shouldn’t be allowed to lead anything or anybody. I have been preached about from a pulpit and slapped across the face in the aisle of a church for disagreeing.
Written down, it might come across as exaggerated or just listing things for dramatic effect. I assure you, if anything, I am understating. I have never officially been a member of a church. If you don’t sign up, you limit their control. If you don’t sign anything, you can’t be held to it. If you don’t put yourself under their authority, they can’t exert it.
I never explained that I had been physically, emotionally and sexually abused and they never seemed to have a word about it, no prophecy, not even close to guessing what might be wrong.
If they knew how many people had done unspeakable things to me. How many things I had done to, done for and done with how many men. How many women I had carnal knowledge of. The things I had done and the things I had enjoyed. It is a wonder I didn’t just get engulfed in a ball of flames any time I entered a church.
But God knows a truth that Christians seem to have trouble holding onto. I am one of his children and he loves me. Unconditionally. Completely. No questions. He forgives me. Something a lot of them have failed to grasp.
It may have helped explain why I had a slightly skewed response to things like authority, bullying or injustice. It might have garnered a little more understanding or support, but I doubt it.
What has always puzzled me is how rarely kindness was the first response. Grace was preached endlessly but suspicion arrived quicker. Control arrived quicker. Correction arrived quicker.
Kindness was apparently optional.
Eventually, I wandered away and quietly decided I was done. God was fine. It was just his people I had a problem with.
As it happens, around that time, I came across a small group of renegades that I spent the next twenty years with. We evolved into a group who hosted debates and alternative worship services and ruffled feathers and questioned authority. Maybe it was safety in numbers, or maybe it was just one of those zeitgeist moments, timing and happenstance. It worked for me and became my version of church.
The comments, attacks and opinions didn’t stop; if anything, there was a larger target to aim at, but at least I wasn’t alone. The wonderful irony is that our people went on to become vicars, bishops, army chaplains, professors of theology, singers, writers and troubadours. Taking our questions and attitude into the heart of the establishment.
I didn’t do any of that. I stayed away. If anything, I retreated and kept my distance. Without the safe harbour of my people, I could not face being anywhere near church. I don’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past.
A truth about me and people like me is that church organisations are fascinated when they see you reaching an audience. They want the name or the skill or the ability to connect. As soon as you sign up, they start trying to sand off the edges.
They attempt to make you a softer, more palatable version of you, something that doesn’t offend their sensibilities. It’s much easier to change someone than defend them or justify why they represent you.
It is not easy to carry off the attitude of a rebel at my age, so staying away avoids the problem and nobody gets a chance to tell me what they think of me.
All these years later, I am still a Christian: an unconventional, slightly sweary, on the edge of reason but nonetheless still a Christian. I just make a point of avoiding the opinions, comments and character assassination that would inevitably ensue if I were a churchgoer.
It is safer this way.
For me and them.