God has been doing something really interesting, and frightening, in my life.
Let me backtrack a little and tell the story.
Since becoming a full time Christian worker in 2000, I had been the darling of the church. I had been loved, supported, fed, lauded, emailed, embraced, and cherished. People applauded me at the pulpit as I shared about the amazing things God was doing in my life. I loved the church, and the church loved me back. It was all good. I felt I'd found my niche, my home, my family, forever.
So in 2013, when I took the first step of escape away from my abusive marriage, I had expected to run into the arms of the church for comfort, safety, and support. Instead, I was dragged to the outskirts of the community and stoned. Most stood by silently while a vehement minority wielded the stones of judgment and condemnation. A few murmured sympathy from a distance. But most of what I felt was the direct contact of the burning stones on my flesh. My world went dark. Then, little by little, the crowd trickled away, the voices faded, and I was left for dead.
When I came to, I found a small group of people gathered above me looking concernedly at me. Like the good Samaritan, they helped me up, washed my wounds, spent time with me, talked with me, shared their lives, launched my healing. They were honest -- radically, insanely honest -- with me in a way I'd never experienced from any Christian before. They were people I'd only ever considered briefly and theoretically, though with compassion, in my past, but came with startling reality into my life at its most vulnerable point.
They were gay people. Gay Christians, to be specific.
Until that moment, much of how I felt I was being treated by Christians -- people in ministry, people honored within the church -- regarding my pending divorce was making me think, "If that's the gospel…I'm not sure if I want to have anything to do with it any more." There were a few faithful Christian friends who were there for me in it all, who expressed anger on my behalf, who stuck with me and lived life with me and asked me my story, willing to hear the the gory details again and again as I needed to tell it to go through the healing stages of recognition, anger, and sorrow. Yet the overwhelming sense I got was that they were doing that not because they were Christian, but because they were loyal people who truly cared about me as friends. Christianity was not the common denominator in compassion -- because my nonChristian counselor at the abuse shelter, the bank teller who helped me open an emergency account to separate my funds, the guy at Fry's who asked me about my name change and got a summary of my story, and every other random nonChristian stranger I happened to mention my story to, gave me more understanding than most Christians. And those few loyal friends -- it was almost as if they had to leap hurdles of Christianity to be there for me. The difficult Scripture passages, the Christian conventions about marriage -- they struggled with them and, when pressed on the issues, often simply said, "I don't know." But chose to support me anyway.
In contrast, the majority of Christians weren't able to give me a love I could receive. Many were simply too distant and busy to be a real part of my healing. Some showed me compassion but I got the sense that it was the "Hate the sin (of divorce), love the sinner" sort of attitude. Some seemed almost indifferent to the abuse that I had suffered, never even asking me the details of the abuse at all, but wanting to jump immediately to talking about the morality of divorce. Some went to excruciating extremes to attack, insult, and revictimize me by blaming me for the abuse I had suffered. A few went out of their way to tell me that if I ever remarried, I would lose their friendship and fellowship. (Um, folks. You can believe whatever you like, but when a woman has just escaped out of abuse, it's really not the time and place to talk about something like that. Can you, uh, give me a year to recover from abuse first? And maybe wait until I'm actually considering remarriage? If a girl has just been rescued out of human trafficking / prostitution, would the first thing you say to her be, "Now you must never have premarital sex again"?)
Perhaps it was unfair, but I created a barometer of sorts for my friendships. The ones that never expressed anger or condemnation of the abusive acts of my spouse -- I never felt safe with people like that. "I'm so sorry for what you went through" was not enough. You're sorry about cancer. You're sorry about accidents. But when there is abuse, the first loving reaction must be an indignation, a righteous anger, a desire to protect and defend the victim. My Christian-y friends who never got to that point, even after hearing about the withholding of my basic needs, the scathing verbal abuse, the crazy making, the sexual degradation…they would never be a safe place for me. They were too mild, too sweet, too gracious, to ever stick up for me against my abuser and say, "THIS MUST STOP." If he came for me, wielding wedding vows and legal documents, and I was too weak or confused to resist, they would lovingly let him take me away and abuse me again, because the integrity of marriage was that important. They would happily, guiltlessly slaughter me as a bloody living sacrifice on the altar of marriage. I still love these friends, value them, respect them, and I don't blame them…but at least at this vulnerable period of my life, I just don't feel safe with them. What's hard for me is that the ones that seemed to love the Bible and God the most -- mostly the missionaries -- were the most compassionate towards my abuser and tolerant of what I'd suffered. It was the edgier, more liberal Christians who had no problems with being angry at the ways I'd been hurt. One guy, upon hearing some of the details, said to me, "If he were here, I would just punch him in the face," and then immediately recoiled in shame, apologizing for his unChristian response. But instead, I sincerely thanked him -- not because I wish any physical harm to my abuser, but because that anger was a sign for me of a loving protection that I needed to feel safe.
The pain got to the point that I was considering leaving my faith. There was only one problem with that. I couldn't give up Jesus. I didn't want anything more to do with the church, with morality, with sermons and platitudes and Christian culture. But I'd met Jesus personally. I'd seen His face, heard His voice, felt His hand. I knew He was real, the realest person I'd ever met. But I was stuck with the reality that I could not have Christ and not have His Bride too. I'm still kind of stuck there. I still don't want her. She can be such a mean, catty woman.
Then I met these gay Christian friends. We spent an evening talking, late into the night, about their journey of faith -- the struggle, the temptations, the rejection, the shame, the hope. I was able to take my eyes off my suffering, temporary as it is, and focus on theirs, which promises to last a lifetime. I saw much to admire and praise in their attitudes towards God, others, and themselves. The next morning, I woke up and for the first time in a long time I actually wanted to pray.
I'm really not sure what to do with this. Even after all these years of faithful, even passionate pursuit of Jesus, I believe for the first time, in my misery and despair, I am getting a deeper, fuller, richer view of what the gospel really is about. It's not there in the heart of Christian culture, in the safe, warm, respectable pews of the church.
It's out here, with the outcasts.
Let me backtrack a little and tell the story.
Since becoming a full time Christian worker in 2000, I had been the darling of the church. I had been loved, supported, fed, lauded, emailed, embraced, and cherished. People applauded me at the pulpit as I shared about the amazing things God was doing in my life. I loved the church, and the church loved me back. It was all good. I felt I'd found my niche, my home, my family, forever.
So in 2013, when I took the first step of escape away from my abusive marriage, I had expected to run into the arms of the church for comfort, safety, and support. Instead, I was dragged to the outskirts of the community and stoned. Most stood by silently while a vehement minority wielded the stones of judgment and condemnation. A few murmured sympathy from a distance. But most of what I felt was the direct contact of the burning stones on my flesh. My world went dark. Then, little by little, the crowd trickled away, the voices faded, and I was left for dead.
When I came to, I found a small group of people gathered above me looking concernedly at me. Like the good Samaritan, they helped me up, washed my wounds, spent time with me, talked with me, shared their lives, launched my healing. They were honest -- radically, insanely honest -- with me in a way I'd never experienced from any Christian before. They were people I'd only ever considered briefly and theoretically, though with compassion, in my past, but came with startling reality into my life at its most vulnerable point.
They were gay people. Gay Christians, to be specific.
Until that moment, much of how I felt I was being treated by Christians -- people in ministry, people honored within the church -- regarding my pending divorce was making me think, "If that's the gospel…I'm not sure if I want to have anything to do with it any more." There were a few faithful Christian friends who were there for me in it all, who expressed anger on my behalf, who stuck with me and lived life with me and asked me my story, willing to hear the the gory details again and again as I needed to tell it to go through the healing stages of recognition, anger, and sorrow. Yet the overwhelming sense I got was that they were doing that not because they were Christian, but because they were loyal people who truly cared about me as friends. Christianity was not the common denominator in compassion -- because my nonChristian counselor at the abuse shelter, the bank teller who helped me open an emergency account to separate my funds, the guy at Fry's who asked me about my name change and got a summary of my story, and every other random nonChristian stranger I happened to mention my story to, gave me more understanding than most Christians. And those few loyal friends -- it was almost as if they had to leap hurdles of Christianity to be there for me. The difficult Scripture passages, the Christian conventions about marriage -- they struggled with them and, when pressed on the issues, often simply said, "I don't know." But chose to support me anyway.
In contrast, the majority of Christians weren't able to give me a love I could receive. Many were simply too distant and busy to be a real part of my healing. Some showed me compassion but I got the sense that it was the "Hate the sin (of divorce), love the sinner" sort of attitude. Some seemed almost indifferent to the abuse that I had suffered, never even asking me the details of the abuse at all, but wanting to jump immediately to talking about the morality of divorce. Some went to excruciating extremes to attack, insult, and revictimize me by blaming me for the abuse I had suffered. A few went out of their way to tell me that if I ever remarried, I would lose their friendship and fellowship. (Um, folks. You can believe whatever you like, but when a woman has just escaped out of abuse, it's really not the time and place to talk about something like that. Can you, uh, give me a year to recover from abuse first? And maybe wait until I'm actually considering remarriage? If a girl has just been rescued out of human trafficking / prostitution, would the first thing you say to her be, "Now you must never have premarital sex again"?)
Perhaps it was unfair, but I created a barometer of sorts for my friendships. The ones that never expressed anger or condemnation of the abusive acts of my spouse -- I never felt safe with people like that. "I'm so sorry for what you went through" was not enough. You're sorry about cancer. You're sorry about accidents. But when there is abuse, the first loving reaction must be an indignation, a righteous anger, a desire to protect and defend the victim. My Christian-y friends who never got to that point, even after hearing about the withholding of my basic needs, the scathing verbal abuse, the crazy making, the sexual degradation…they would never be a safe place for me. They were too mild, too sweet, too gracious, to ever stick up for me against my abuser and say, "THIS MUST STOP." If he came for me, wielding wedding vows and legal documents, and I was too weak or confused to resist, they would lovingly let him take me away and abuse me again, because the integrity of marriage was that important. They would happily, guiltlessly slaughter me as a bloody living sacrifice on the altar of marriage. I still love these friends, value them, respect them, and I don't blame them…but at least at this vulnerable period of my life, I just don't feel safe with them. What's hard for me is that the ones that seemed to love the Bible and God the most -- mostly the missionaries -- were the most compassionate towards my abuser and tolerant of what I'd suffered. It was the edgier, more liberal Christians who had no problems with being angry at the ways I'd been hurt. One guy, upon hearing some of the details, said to me, "If he were here, I would just punch him in the face," and then immediately recoiled in shame, apologizing for his unChristian response. But instead, I sincerely thanked him -- not because I wish any physical harm to my abuser, but because that anger was a sign for me of a loving protection that I needed to feel safe.
The pain got to the point that I was considering leaving my faith. There was only one problem with that. I couldn't give up Jesus. I didn't want anything more to do with the church, with morality, with sermons and platitudes and Christian culture. But I'd met Jesus personally. I'd seen His face, heard His voice, felt His hand. I knew He was real, the realest person I'd ever met. But I was stuck with the reality that I could not have Christ and not have His Bride too. I'm still kind of stuck there. I still don't want her. She can be such a mean, catty woman.
Then I met these gay Christian friends. We spent an evening talking, late into the night, about their journey of faith -- the struggle, the temptations, the rejection, the shame, the hope. I was able to take my eyes off my suffering, temporary as it is, and focus on theirs, which promises to last a lifetime. I saw much to admire and praise in their attitudes towards God, others, and themselves. The next morning, I woke up and for the first time in a long time I actually wanted to pray.
I'm really not sure what to do with this. Even after all these years of faithful, even passionate pursuit of Jesus, I believe for the first time, in my misery and despair, I am getting a deeper, fuller, richer view of what the gospel really is about. It's not there in the heart of Christian culture, in the safe, warm, respectable pews of the church.
It's out here, with the outcasts.
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