First Church of the Holy Rollers: Part 1 - The First Night

photo © 2008 David Ingham | more info (via: Wylio)

If you're wondering why I haven't been updating my blog as much as I used to during the past month, there are two reasons. The first is I've been taking online courses through UMUC, so I don't have as much time to write as I used to. The second reason is when I do have time to write, I've been focusing on narrative essays instead of blog posts. Occasionally I'll write an essay that I think will fit this blog (i.e. short), but for the most part I've just kept them on my thumb drive.

I am, however, working on a very interesting essay about the first church I ever attended, which I refer to as the First Church of the Holy Rollers. It was a nondenominational charismatic church--in other words, it was Pentecostal in every way except the name. Since it's a pretty long piece, I'll post it on here in excerpts.

Here's the first part, where I talk about the first night I went to the church. Certain names have been changed, and when necessary I slightly altered events to make the narrative run smoother. Other than that, this is a true story to the best of my memory.

* * *

Before I started following Jesus, everything I knew about Christianity came from the movie The Apostle. Even though I thought the movie was great, the image of Robert Duvall running around a church podium screaming about Holy Ghost power only solidified my then-hatred of anything that had to do with religion. It also didn’t help that Duvall’s character beat his wife’s lover to death with a baseball bat.

And then when I was seventeen, a funny thing happened: I became a Christian. My high-school sweetie Arlena was the one who led me to Christ, so I trusted her to teach me about church, too. She went to a non-denominational charismatic church. I didn’t know what that meant, but I figured if Arlena went there it couldn’t have been that bad. Although I did ask her, “Is it anything like The Apostle?”

“Not really,” she replied, “although they do sometimes speak in tongues.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when you speak in another language.”

“You mean like when a Catholic priest speaks in Latin?”

“Uh, kinda. I wouldn’t worry about it, though.”

* * *

The first time we went to church together was during a Wednesday night Bible study. The congregation met in a classroom of my high school, so it was weird to worship God in the same place the jocks would beat me up. Arlena was running late, so I stood by the school’s back entrance waiting for her. I watched all the congregants come in and smile at me as they walked past. When the pastor, Pastor Dave, arrived, all of the congregants followed behind him like sheep following a shepherd. (I know that pastors are supposed to be shepherds, but I always thought it was just a metaphor.) Pastor Dave seemed like a laid-back, friendly guy. He wore a polo shirt, black slacks, and loafers. He gave me a salute as he walked past me. Meanwhile all of the congregants following behind him couldn’t keep their eyes off of him.

Arlena finally arrived shortly after Pastor Dave and we went into the music room, which was where they held the Bible study. But that first Bible study went well. I forgot what the pastor spoke about, but I remember feeling inspired, uplifted, and all those other Christian clichés. Things got a little weird, though, when we prayed. As the pastor asked for healing for various church members and their families, the congregation repeatedly said, “Yeeessss, Lord. Thaaaaaank You, Jesus. Ooooooh hallelujah.” I wasn’t sure if they were praying or about to have an orgasm. But after we finished praying, nobody was smoking a cigarette, so I just assumed that’s how you prayed.

Other than the orgasmic praying, I decided to keep going to that church’s Wednesday night Bible study. Every week I learned about how I didn’t have to roll around in my own self-loathing, like I had been for the past seventeen years. Plus, the people there were nice. One guy who immediately latched onto me was John. When he found out I was Italian, he started calling me “Noodle Head” as a cute pet name. But since he was Italian, too, he didn’t mind me calling him Noodle Head back. I guess it’s better than “dago.” His wife always cried during prayer requests, but John always kept it together. He was a nice guy, except that he always gave me sermons after the Bible study let out.

“So what’s new with you?” he would ask.

“Oh nothing much,” I’d reply. “Just working, y’know.”

“Well the Bible tells us that we’re not working for man. We’re really working for God. Of course nobody really acts like they’re working for God.”

“Right.”

“People think they can just get away with anything, but that’s not what the Bible says. It says whatever’s in the dark will be brought to light. People don’t want to hear that, but it’s true.”

“I see. Listen, I got to go now . . .”

“’Cause, y’see, the Bible tells us that God is the king of heaven and earth and everything in between, so there’s nothing we can do that won’t go unnoticed. Hey, where are you going?”

For some reason charismatic Christians are really good at giving sermons after the pastor just finished giving a sermon. After Pastor Dave finished give the night’s lesson, he opened up the floor to whoever wanted to make a comment or offer a prayer request. There were usually three or four people on average who had to share how God told them to approach a total stranger at 7-Eleven and tell them about Jesus. It was always the same three or four people, too: an older woman named Delores who always had a smile on her face; Robert, a hitchhiker with a mullet; and Petey, a former heroin addict whose personality was just as larger-than-life as his belly. When they all gave their week’s testimonies, they always said that it was the Lord who was speaking through them. At the time I thought that my heart must have had a bad reception, but eventually I would learn how to witness like these folks.

(To be continued)

Not Being a Fan of the Fans

photo © 2008 hyoin min | more info (via: Wylio)
This may come as a surprise to some of you, since I mostly talk about indie folk, but I'm actually a huge reggae fan. And not just the popular stuff like Bob Marley and Peter Tosh, either; I'm talking about Desmond Dekker, Toots and the Maytals, Jimmy Cliff, Sister Nancy, etc. Most people associate reggae with either the beach or smoking weed, or maybe both. But if you listen to the lyrics, there's this overwhelmingly prophetic message about justice, human rights, unity, and spiritual warfare.

Unfortunately whenever I get to talking about reggae music, most people only want to talk about pot.

ME: "I'm telling you, listen to these lyrics. 'Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights.' That's some powerful stuff, man!"

THEM: "Man, Bob Marley was totally baked!"

ME: "But even herb is sacred to the Rastafarian faith. They believe smoking herb draws them closer to God and helps them meditate. They don't smoke just to get 'baked.'"

THEM: "I want to sign up for that church so I can toke up, bro!"

I mention this because sometimes I feel the same way when talking to my brothers and sisters in Christ. I try my best to point out stuff in the Bible that they might not have considered before, but it often falls on deaf ears.

ME: "Look, it says right here in the Bible, 'Be openhanded towards the poor and needy in your land,' so why aren't we doing more for the poor?"

THEM: "What are you, some kind of Marxist?"

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying all Christians are like that. Far from it! I've had several great conversations with both my progressive and evangelical friends. But it seems like every time I think the Church is finally getting it, I come across some that still don't get it. It used to make me really angry, and I have learned to manage it.

But sometimes my patience does wear thin.

So I want to ask you, what do you do when you come across a brother or sister in Christ that doesn't quite get it?

Becoming the Bully

photo © 2008 Pimkie | more info (via: Wylio)
(DISCLAIMER: Names have been changed, and situations have been slightly altered. Other than that, this is a true story.)

Some people say if you’ve been abused as a child, there’s a good chance you’ll abuse people when you grow up. I don’t know how true that is if you’ve been bullied, but I think it’s possible. It happened to me when I tried to be an Internet troll.

Back when I first started seriously blogging (meaning writing stuff to actually be taken seriously, instead of an angst-ridden Livejournal), I came across an online community called Twenty-Something Bloggers that was open to any blogger in their twenties. I joined, hoping it would help give my tiny little corner of the blogosphere some exposure. Even though I never became the hot blogger I dreamed of becoming, I did meet a lot of funny, deep, and friendly bloggers. And to be fair, through Twenty-Something Bloggers, I did have up to forty RSS subscribers at one point.

After a while, though, I noticed that nearly all of the most popular blogs in the Twenty-Something Bloggers network were actually pretty crappy. They were all about drinking, sleeping around, pedicures, drinking, manicures, dreams of stardom, and even more drinking. Here I was, writing about faith, justice, and the meaning of life, and trying to find my voice. Turns out all I had to do was write, “Whoo-hoo, I got so drunk last night I screwed a homeless person!” and I would have a hit blog. About a year after I joined the Twenty-Something Bloggers network, I left. Other than the few friends I managed to make, I didn’t want anything to do with Twenty-Something Bloggers anymore.

You would think that this would be the end of that. You would think that after this, I moved on, found my voice, gained a following, and never looked back. But if you’ve known me for a while, you know that I have a hard time letting go of stuff. And Twenty-Something Bloggers was no different.

One night I decided to long on to one particular blog. The author, Meghan, usually wrote about drunken escapades mixed in with the kind of spiritual jargon that you would hear on Oprah. It doesn’t sound like much of a blog, yet somehow she manages to rake in hundreds of readers every day. For me, she represented everything I hated about the Twenty-Something Bloggers network: an exhibitionist, a lush, and a bad writer.

I decided it was finally time to see what it was like to be a troll.

I left an anonymous comment that read, “You’re the blogging equivalent of Ke$ha: over-hyped, lacking substance, and a hopeless drunk.” To make sure she couldn’t tell I wrote it, I used an old email address I hardly used anymore. Sweet revenge! She’ll read that, and her feelings will be hurt. That’ll show her!

The next morning I checked my old email address, the one I used for the anonymous comment, to see if she had replied. Sure enough, there it was in my inbox.

“Thanks for your comment, Travis.”

Crap! Apparently there are things called ‘ISP numbers’ that can track you down.

She wrote about the comment on her blog, but fortunately she didn’t mention my name. Her readers left comments calling me an a**hole, and rightly so. And yet I didn’t feel guilty. I knew I was supposed to feel guilty, especially after being found out, but I only felt guilty about being caught.

Eventually, though, my conscience tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Psst, hey, Travis, you might want to apologize to Meghan. I mean, you’re a Christian, right? And do you think Jesus would leave nasty anonymous comments on people’s blogs? I don’t think so.” I swallowed my pride (which was big enough to make me choke) and wrote Meghan an email apologizing for my comment. “I was being an a**hole and a hypocrite,” I wrote, “plain and simple. Please forgive me.”

A few hours later, she wrote me back. “No problem dude,” she wrote, “it’s all good. But I do want to ask you something: why did you feel the need to attack me? I appreciate the apology, but did I do something that made you angry?”

“Basically I can be really judgmental sometimes,” I wrote back. “You wouldn’t think so since I’m always writing about how we should all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ But the truth is sometimes I get really jealous of people, so I feel the need to cut people down in order to build myself up.”

“I understand, but what am I doing that’s taking away from you? Nothing! I simply live without any apologies, and I write about it in order to build people up. That’s all.”

I can’t speak for bullies (and frankly don’t want to), but I wonder if maybe I somehow briefly stepped into the mind of a bully. Maybe the whole point of being a bully is that you feel like you are such a piece of crap that you have to make other people feel like even bigger pieces of crap in order for you to feel better. If so, I kind of feel sorry for the kids who picked on me in high school.

Take It, Clarence!

I once heard Clarence Clemons say in an interview that if he wasn't a musician, he would be preacher. Then after thinking about it, he said that he was already sort of doing that with his music.

Here's Bruce Springsteen, Clarence, and the rest of the E Street Band performing "Jungleland" live.



Rest in peace, Big Man.

Love Wins (No, Really, It Does)

Alright folks, here it is. After months of reading the tweets, listening to the podcasts, and sorting through the reviews, I finally read Rob Bell's new book, Love Wins, for myself. And here's what I think . . .

*drum roll*

It ain't that bad.

I don't think Bell is a "univeralist," although there are a few passages that suggest it. But that's mostly what the book is: suggestion. Love Wins is a book that asks, "What if?" The only thing the book says is for sure is that Jesus is making all things new.

Instead of focusing on the afterlife, Bell focuses on the heavens and hells we create for ourselves here on earth. Heaven, according to Bell, is when we accept God's gift of salvation and work for the Kingdom of God. It's when we die to ourselves through the cross, and our souls are reborn through the resurrection. Hell, on the other hand, is when we reject God's Kingdom and do things our way. It's when we say, "No thanks, God, I don't want your Kingdom. I don't want reconciliation with either You or my neighbors. I want this world of rape, murder, genocide, war, pollution, greed, cruelty, and pain."

Most of the controversy comes from the stuff about the afterlife, particularly Hell. For those who want Bell to spell out what exactly happens to a soul after death--and where exactly a soul goes--I'm afraid you're gonna be really disappointed. It's all "what if" and "it's possible that." For example, Bell says that it is possible that after death a soul can choose whether or not to accept God's grace. I personally do not find any evidence of this in the Bible, but I could be wrong since C.S. Lewis suggested the same thing years ago in The Great Divorce.

(Personally, if you really want a good book that explores similar questions about Heaven and Hell, I suggest N.T. Wright's Surprised By Hope.)

If you want more answers that questions, chances are you probably won't like Love Wins. But if you're the type who is more interested in the questions than the answers, then I think you'll like this book. Either way, Love Wins is a thought-provoking book that will no doubt spark many conversations (and it already has).

How To Be The Church (You Tell Me!)

photo © 2009 Philippe Du Berger | more info (via: Wylio)
A few months ago Brett McCracken wrote an article for Relevant Magazine asking why so many young evangelicals are leaving the Church. Throughout the article (which he wrote in between his numerous blog posts drooling over Terrence Malick movies), McCracken basically suggests it's all because of our generation's rampant individualism. While there might be some truth to that, here's the reason why I think so many young people are leaving the Church:

We do a really crappy job of being the Church.

Let me give you an example. McCracken's right when he says there are a lot of young evangelicals who have a "me first" mentality, but that's only half of it. In my own experience I've seen whole families that treat the Church like it's only something you do for an hour every Sunday and that's it. They get into their nice little polo shirts and khaki pants (or if you're a girl, a blouse with open-toe shoes), sit in the pew, sing the songs, listen to the sermon, take communion, and then when it's over they go straight home where they eat their Sunday meal and then watch football (because nothing says "keeping the sabbath holy" like watching men grope and pulverize each other). Then it's the same thing next week, and the week after that, and the week after that, etc.

The problem is Church is more than just a Sunday ritual. In fact, if I'm reading my Bible right, it's not something you do . . . it's something you are.

It's the Body of Christ (Romans 12:5).

It's being Jesus' ambassadors to a dying world (2 Corinthians 5:20).

It's about living in community and having all thing in common (Acts 2:44).

And yes, I do a crappy job of being the Church just as much as the next Christian.

So I want to ask you, my dear readers, how you and your local faith community try to be the Church. I want to know how you try to live like an actual family rather than a bunch of individuals who only see each other once a week. I can't wait to hear your answers.

The Gospel As A Mirror And A Hand

photo © 2009 Andrew | more info (via: Wylio)(DISCLAIMER: Some of my friends are Wiccan, so this is NOT a scathing attack on Wicca. This is just my story.)

When I was seventeen, I tried to find God my way. I was jaded enough to know that Christianity was a load of crap, but not jaded enough to believe that there was no higher being. After some research, I found a path that I thought best suited me: Wicca.

It all made sense at the time: the Divine being both male and female, no devil, no Hell, and the only rule was, "If harms none, do what you will." I dove headfirst into the world of Wicca. I read every book I could get my hands on. I drew pentagrams and goddess symbols all over my notebooks in school. I said the prayers and did the rituals. And yet, something just wasn't right. Looking back, I realize now it was because of two things:

1. I only wanted to be cool.
2. Wicca never explained why I struggled so much with the violence inside my heart.

One of the books I read said that thoughts were things, so thinking about bad stuff was just as bad as actually doing bad stuff. And in Wicca, everything you do, both good and bad, comes back to you three times. So in my understanding, every time I thought about kicking some one's ass, the God and Goddess were going to kick my ass three times. Once is enough, I think! Plus, none of the books told me what to do about the violence within my heart. All they talked about what lighting candles, doing rituals outside naked, and saying "So mote it be" instead of "amen."

It wasn't until I heard the Gospel that it all made sense. It told me why I had violence in my heart, and what I could do about it.

I like to think that the Gospel is like a mirror: it shows us what we really are. The Gospel tells me, "Yes, you do have violence in your heart. And adultery. And pride." As Rich Mullins once said, "We were given the Scriptures to humble us into realizing that God is right, and the rest of us are just guessing."

However, the Gospel is also like an extended hand, because it says that Jesus took care of the dirty work. Because all that violence, adultery, and pride is so deeply imbedded into my heart, there's nothing I can do to fix it. Believe me, I tried! But here's the good part: Jesus died to set me free from the evil in my heart. Sure, it's still there, but it no longer enslaves me. Through Jesus' death and resurrection, my old self--the one plagued with guilt and shame--is dead and the new self has been reborn.

I used to think that the Gospel was a bunch of crap. Little did I know that it was actually the answer I was looking for.