“I wouldn’t have gone into writing if I hadn’t like talking to myself so much.”
--- Larry McMurtry
What would lead me to believe anyone would care what I think, or better (or worse) take the time to read this? It really doesn’t matter – putting it out there in cyber-space is all I feel led to do at this time. But it sure does my quasi-egotistical heart good to think that someone out there is interested in what I think and believe.
In addition, what gives me the right to make such bold statements in opposition to church, an institution that has stood for thousands of years, resisting governments, revolutions, and even the IRS? Well, the fact that I live in the good old USA gives me the right, but I also feel it necessary, for those of you who might stumble upon this blog, to give you some idea of my background, where I am coming from, so you’ll at least know I’ve had more than my share of experiences to accompany the ideas that I am proposing.
You need to know that I was once a card-carrying, tithe-giving, pew-sitting supporter of what I refer to as church. Like most of you, I started out at a local church – this one was the Methodist church my parents were members of. My first memories were of VBS at age six. I remember two things: My friend, Jay, and I won the thee-legged race. I also remember that he and I gathered up all the toys in the Sunday-school classroom, stacked them in the corner, and dared the other kids to try to get them. Since Jay was about the size of a 7th grader (he later went on to be an all-state defensive tackle), we held off every charge the rest of the group made. The results of our actions were: 1.) several bruised six-year-olds ran crying for help, and 2.) Jay and I were told we couldn’t return to VBS the next day unless our moms accompanied us. I didn’t go back.
Over the years, I would occasionally make a stab at attending church, usually at the urging of my parents. Even though they never went, dad would drive me, and my younger sister, to that same Methodist church and drop us off for Sunday-school. I remember those shiny, gray tile floors and the cinder-block walls of those little classrooms, and the piano that played a couple of opening songs, none of which I knew. There was always a nice man or woman that would always make sure I had a new “quarterly” to take home so I could prepare for the next week – if I actually came back. I remember lots of coloring, watered-down kool-aid, and men in dark suits, white shirts, and skinny ties, smoking cigarettes outside the side door where my sister and I would wait for my dad to pick us up after Sunday-school. We never stayed for the worship service. I had no idea what went on in that big room they called the sanctuary. I don’t really remember that much about Jesus, except that there was a huge, somewhat menacing portrait of his head hanging on the wall in our classroom. And after three or four weeks, just when I was getting the hang of things, we’d go out of town for the weekend, or just sleep in, and we wouldn’t go back to church for six months or so. Then, for some unknown reason, we would repeat the process.
When I reached junior high, going to church became cool. That was because of something called MYF, which was basically the Methodist version of what we now call “youth group”. We met in the Boy Scout cabin behind the church every Sunday night and played some fun games and drank less watered-down kool-aid. I learned about several things in my MYF experience: 1.) how to throw a curve-ball, 2.) who Jimi Hendrix was (the pastor’s son had all his albums), and most importantly, 3.) that girls were no longer yucky. In fact, I later learned in college psych classes that all those games we played on Sunday nights were specifically designed to help teach boys and girls to interact. I can tell you this – THEY WORKED! Occasionally, we had MYF parties on Friday nights at some girl’s house. I remember that the refreshments were a lot better. I also remember that we would listen to records. Though we usually just listened to top forty hits, one night my friend, Jay, brought a Steppenwolf album and, after the parents retired to a back room, we listened to the song, The Pusher, where the primary lyrics simply said, over and over “God damn, God damn the pusher man”. We all thought it racy to listen to such language, with parents only a few feet away. But I never thought of the words being demeaning to God. I hadn’t yet learned the phrase, “taking God’s name in vain”, and even later, when I did learn it, I used it incorrectly. It would take many more years in church before I realized we really knew nothing about the actual meaning of that statement, as well as many others. The best part of those parties was when we eventually mustered up the courage to dance, which led to slow-dancing, which led to kissing. That’s what I remember most about MYF – we learned how to kiss! But I don’t remember that much about Jesus. I’m sure Jesus was mentioned – probably a lot – I just wasn’t really listening (especially when kissing was on your mind).
High school led to another church experience. I went to a new high school, met new friends, and most importantly, got a driver’s license. This new-found freedom (driving) allowed me to pick out any church I wanted to attend. I settled on a Presbyterian church – for two reasons: 1.) my new buddy, Jeff, went there and 2.) lots of good-looking girls were there. Going to church was totally different at the Presbyterian church – we never went to Sunday-school, we only went to the 11:00 a.m. worship service. It was my first experience in that environment. I sat, along with the other high school students, in the back two rows. I found out quickly that all you had to do was follow the program, which included the page numbers of the hymns we would sing, the order of events, and a couple of weird statements we would all say together (I later learned these were called responsive readings). Within a week or two, I didn’t even need the program, what they called a bulletin. I even had the Apostle’s Creed and Lord’s Prayer memorized. The pastor, who was a friend of mine’s dad, would talk for about twenty minutes. He had a deep voice, used lots of big words, and I remember none of it. And one Sunday, with no real provocation, I wandered into what they called the Narthex and told the pastor I wanted to join. I was ushered into his office, joined by the elders, answered “yes” to several questions, most of which I really didn’t understand, and pronounced a member. I was really glad that membership was so easy. At the Methodist church, I never attended consistently enough to finish the confirmation classes that qualified you for membership. I surmised that becoming a Presbyterian just wasn’t as tough as becoming a Methodist, and I was glad. I would later learn that becoming a Baptist, or member of any evangelical church, was the easiest of all (more on that in a later blog).
Up to this point, if you had asked me, I would have assured you I was a Christian, even though my entire understanding of Jesus was pretty much gleaned from carols we learned for the Christmas pageant (at the public school, no less) in the sixth grade. All I really knew was that Jesus was born in a manger – whatever that is (as in, away in a manger, no crib for a bed). Though I had not learned that much about Jesus, I was beginning to learn a lot about church, and church-goers. There were students at my high school that treated church membership like membership to an exclusive club. On Wednesdays, they wore their youth-group t-shirts to school and boasted about camps, retreats, and other activities that sounded like a lot of fun. But I never was invited. Looking back, I realize they weren’t being exclusive – they were probably just afraid to ask me – I probably didn’t appear to be a good candidate to get “saved”. I went to Young Life and FCA a few times, but it was really booooring. I know that God is sovereign, and if He had wanted, I could have been dragged into one of those cool, evangelical church youth groups (all it would have taken is for one, good-looking girl to ask). Interestingly enough, the youth group at my own Presbyterian church was also a negative experience. Because I didn’t attend Sunday-school, I wasn’t allowed to take part in many of their activities. It infuriated the adult leader (they didn’t have a youth pastor) that several of us would not attend Sunday-school, which he led. I had nothing against him, I didn’t even know him, I just didn’t want to get up a whole two hours earlier on Sunday morning for some boring class. Heck, the worship service was hard enough to endure. The crowning blow took place during spring break. Three of us, all members of the church, headed for the coast. Once there, we found out the youth group was staying in a condo on the same beach we were on. The adult leader told his students to have nothing to do with us, as if we were some derelicts. The worst storm in years hit the beach one night and our tent and all our belongings were washed away – we were left without any shelter, freezing in our wet clothes. Even so, that leader wouldn’t let us wait in their condo, just long enough for the storm to subside. Later we learned he told the other students, “those boys need to learn their lesson – they should have been coming to Sunday-school, like all of you.” Who knows, if he had welcomed us in, it may have changed how we felt about him, and ultimately, Sunday-school, and maybe even God. One thing was for sure, the people I knew that were Christians had made it clear that, if I was a Christian, I must not be a very good one. This may sound like a lot of sour grapes, but I’m really thankful. God is sovereign, for he protected me from an environment that I now see was controlling and manipulative in a very negative sense. By not getting more involved in church, I would head off to college without a lot of pre-determined religious ideas and attitudes that might have restricted my capacity for learning. My college years were extremely important, and I needed the freedom to think and ask, without some fundamental religious beliefs holding me back. Besides, I would ultimately succumb to the conservative, evangelical Christian sub-culture, and all that goes with it, but that’s a story I’ll share later.
--- Larry McMurtry
What would lead me to believe anyone would care what I think, or better (or worse) take the time to read this? It really doesn’t matter – putting it out there in cyber-space is all I feel led to do at this time. But it sure does my quasi-egotistical heart good to think that someone out there is interested in what I think and believe.
In addition, what gives me the right to make such bold statements in opposition to church, an institution that has stood for thousands of years, resisting governments, revolutions, and even the IRS? Well, the fact that I live in the good old USA gives me the right, but I also feel it necessary, for those of you who might stumble upon this blog, to give you some idea of my background, where I am coming from, so you’ll at least know I’ve had more than my share of experiences to accompany the ideas that I am proposing.
You need to know that I was once a card-carrying, tithe-giving, pew-sitting supporter of what I refer to as church. Like most of you, I started out at a local church – this one was the Methodist church my parents were members of. My first memories were of VBS at age six. I remember two things: My friend, Jay, and I won the thee-legged race. I also remember that he and I gathered up all the toys in the Sunday-school classroom, stacked them in the corner, and dared the other kids to try to get them. Since Jay was about the size of a 7th grader (he later went on to be an all-state defensive tackle), we held off every charge the rest of the group made. The results of our actions were: 1.) several bruised six-year-olds ran crying for help, and 2.) Jay and I were told we couldn’t return to VBS the next day unless our moms accompanied us. I didn’t go back.
Over the years, I would occasionally make a stab at attending church, usually at the urging of my parents. Even though they never went, dad would drive me, and my younger sister, to that same Methodist church and drop us off for Sunday-school. I remember those shiny, gray tile floors and the cinder-block walls of those little classrooms, and the piano that played a couple of opening songs, none of which I knew. There was always a nice man or woman that would always make sure I had a new “quarterly” to take home so I could prepare for the next week – if I actually came back. I remember lots of coloring, watered-down kool-aid, and men in dark suits, white shirts, and skinny ties, smoking cigarettes outside the side door where my sister and I would wait for my dad to pick us up after Sunday-school. We never stayed for the worship service. I had no idea what went on in that big room they called the sanctuary. I don’t really remember that much about Jesus, except that there was a huge, somewhat menacing portrait of his head hanging on the wall in our classroom. And after three or four weeks, just when I was getting the hang of things, we’d go out of town for the weekend, or just sleep in, and we wouldn’t go back to church for six months or so. Then, for some unknown reason, we would repeat the process.
When I reached junior high, going to church became cool. That was because of something called MYF, which was basically the Methodist version of what we now call “youth group”. We met in the Boy Scout cabin behind the church every Sunday night and played some fun games and drank less watered-down kool-aid. I learned about several things in my MYF experience: 1.) how to throw a curve-ball, 2.) who Jimi Hendrix was (the pastor’s son had all his albums), and most importantly, 3.) that girls were no longer yucky. In fact, I later learned in college psych classes that all those games we played on Sunday nights were specifically designed to help teach boys and girls to interact. I can tell you this – THEY WORKED! Occasionally, we had MYF parties on Friday nights at some girl’s house. I remember that the refreshments were a lot better. I also remember that we would listen to records. Though we usually just listened to top forty hits, one night my friend, Jay, brought a Steppenwolf album and, after the parents retired to a back room, we listened to the song, The Pusher, where the primary lyrics simply said, over and over “God damn, God damn the pusher man”. We all thought it racy to listen to such language, with parents only a few feet away. But I never thought of the words being demeaning to God. I hadn’t yet learned the phrase, “taking God’s name in vain”, and even later, when I did learn it, I used it incorrectly. It would take many more years in church before I realized we really knew nothing about the actual meaning of that statement, as well as many others. The best part of those parties was when we eventually mustered up the courage to dance, which led to slow-dancing, which led to kissing. That’s what I remember most about MYF – we learned how to kiss! But I don’t remember that much about Jesus. I’m sure Jesus was mentioned – probably a lot – I just wasn’t really listening (especially when kissing was on your mind).
High school led to another church experience. I went to a new high school, met new friends, and most importantly, got a driver’s license. This new-found freedom (driving) allowed me to pick out any church I wanted to attend. I settled on a Presbyterian church – for two reasons: 1.) my new buddy, Jeff, went there and 2.) lots of good-looking girls were there. Going to church was totally different at the Presbyterian church – we never went to Sunday-school, we only went to the 11:00 a.m. worship service. It was my first experience in that environment. I sat, along with the other high school students, in the back two rows. I found out quickly that all you had to do was follow the program, which included the page numbers of the hymns we would sing, the order of events, and a couple of weird statements we would all say together (I later learned these were called responsive readings). Within a week or two, I didn’t even need the program, what they called a bulletin. I even had the Apostle’s Creed and Lord’s Prayer memorized. The pastor, who was a friend of mine’s dad, would talk for about twenty minutes. He had a deep voice, used lots of big words, and I remember none of it. And one Sunday, with no real provocation, I wandered into what they called the Narthex and told the pastor I wanted to join. I was ushered into his office, joined by the elders, answered “yes” to several questions, most of which I really didn’t understand, and pronounced a member. I was really glad that membership was so easy. At the Methodist church, I never attended consistently enough to finish the confirmation classes that qualified you for membership. I surmised that becoming a Presbyterian just wasn’t as tough as becoming a Methodist, and I was glad. I would later learn that becoming a Baptist, or member of any evangelical church, was the easiest of all (more on that in a later blog).
Up to this point, if you had asked me, I would have assured you I was a Christian, even though my entire understanding of Jesus was pretty much gleaned from carols we learned for the Christmas pageant (at the public school, no less) in the sixth grade. All I really knew was that Jesus was born in a manger – whatever that is (as in, away in a manger, no crib for a bed). Though I had not learned that much about Jesus, I was beginning to learn a lot about church, and church-goers. There were students at my high school that treated church membership like membership to an exclusive club. On Wednesdays, they wore their youth-group t-shirts to school and boasted about camps, retreats, and other activities that sounded like a lot of fun. But I never was invited. Looking back, I realize they weren’t being exclusive – they were probably just afraid to ask me – I probably didn’t appear to be a good candidate to get “saved”. I went to Young Life and FCA a few times, but it was really booooring. I know that God is sovereign, and if He had wanted, I could have been dragged into one of those cool, evangelical church youth groups (all it would have taken is for one, good-looking girl to ask). Interestingly enough, the youth group at my own Presbyterian church was also a negative experience. Because I didn’t attend Sunday-school, I wasn’t allowed to take part in many of their activities. It infuriated the adult leader (they didn’t have a youth pastor) that several of us would not attend Sunday-school, which he led. I had nothing against him, I didn’t even know him, I just didn’t want to get up a whole two hours earlier on Sunday morning for some boring class. Heck, the worship service was hard enough to endure. The crowning blow took place during spring break. Three of us, all members of the church, headed for the coast. Once there, we found out the youth group was staying in a condo on the same beach we were on. The adult leader told his students to have nothing to do with us, as if we were some derelicts. The worst storm in years hit the beach one night and our tent and all our belongings were washed away – we were left without any shelter, freezing in our wet clothes. Even so, that leader wouldn’t let us wait in their condo, just long enough for the storm to subside. Later we learned he told the other students, “those boys need to learn their lesson – they should have been coming to Sunday-school, like all of you.” Who knows, if he had welcomed us in, it may have changed how we felt about him, and ultimately, Sunday-school, and maybe even God. One thing was for sure, the people I knew that were Christians had made it clear that, if I was a Christian, I must not be a very good one. This may sound like a lot of sour grapes, but I’m really thankful. God is sovereign, for he protected me from an environment that I now see was controlling and manipulative in a very negative sense. By not getting more involved in church, I would head off to college without a lot of pre-determined religious ideas and attitudes that might have restricted my capacity for learning. My college years were extremely important, and I needed the freedom to think and ask, without some fundamental religious beliefs holding me back. Besides, I would ultimately succumb to the conservative, evangelical Christian sub-culture, and all that goes with it, but that’s a story I’ll share later.
2 comments:
For as many stories of yours that I've heard, I've never tired of them. You haven't continued posting. Why? I want to hear "Part 2".
talon
I really had no intention of continuing the blog, but when I signed onto yours, it suddenly appeared again. I had forgotten about it. But I must admit, now that it's back, I might actually continue it. If for no other reason, it's good to write - I haven't done much of that since I left Red River.
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