Let There Be Light
“God draws straight with crooked lines.” —Saint Teresa of Avila
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I can’t recall a time when I didn’t believe in God. Even as a child, I understood that a supreme Someone lay behind the creation of the world around me. As I grew, however, how that belief was expressed, especially within Christianity, became more interesting with each passing year.
Baptized, confirmed, and married in the Lutheran church, it was years before I questioned my assumption that I would remain Lutheran forever. Why would I question it? I had nothing but fond memories of Sunday School, youth group, Vacation Bible School, and more. I still chuckle when I think of the book our pastor chose for our marital preparation class. It was the New York Times bestseller, I’m OK, You’re OK by Thomas A. Harris, M.D. Married now for almost 48 years, his unorthodox approach served us well.
Once married, however, I began pulling away from regular church attendance for no reason other than the usual distractions of “adulting.” This included full-time employment, bill paying, grocery shopping, family obligations, and other ordinary but time-consuming demands of everyday life on a newly married couple barely out of high school.
Three years later, our son, Michael, was born, and despite our sporadic attendance, the Lutheran church cheerfully baptized him. His sister, Melissa, also was baptized Lutheran. However, I began feeling spiritually restless. Grateful for the firm foundation of faith Lutherans provided, my curiosity about what Christianity looked like elsewhere steadily increased. Did other Christian denominations believe in the same way? What were the differences? Were those differences important? If so, why?
That curiosity led to a non-denominational megachurch in a nearby town. This turned out to be a truly formative period for us all. We enjoyed lively, creative worship, an eye-opening mission trip, and meaningful volunteer work. My husband and I were baptized as adults, which surprised us as much as some friends and family. Equally surprising were the lessons learned about money management. We were both “savers,” by nature. However, waiting to make large purchases, including big ticket items such as a house or a car, until we could pay cash (or at least make a sizeable down payment) was new to us. We learned to be better stewards of our financial resources by spending more mindfully and sharing those resources more freely with others.
The church anchored and invigorated our lives as a family. Candlelit Christmas Eve services spent holding hands singing “Silent Night” added context and calm to a hectic holiday. Easter services were especially memorable. They began in a darkened sanctuary suddenly flooded with sunshine as the window shades lifted to a rousing chorus of “Christ the Lord Has Risen Today.” It was a visceral reminder of the promise of Easter and the joy of Resurrection.
However, the growing contemplative side of me struggled with what sometimes felt like a hyperactive or performative approach to ministry. It had broad appeal to many, often bringing a new relevance or fresh applicability to church teachings. Yet, like author Tish Harrison Warren in Liturgy of the Ordinary:
I worried that when our gathered worship looks like a rock show or an entertainment special, we are being formed as consumers, people after a thrill and a rush, when what we need is to learn a way of being in the world that transforms us, day by day, by the rhythms of repentance and faith.
By this time, however, our now teenage children had begun to lose interest in going to church at all, anywhere. Each later reconnected with church in ways that felt right for them and their families. But I was ready for whatever might come next.
One day during prayer, a Bible verse unexpectedly came to mind. It was John 21:6, which says, “Cast your net on the other side of the boat.” Having graduated from two Catholic colleges and been welcomed at more Catholic retreat centers than I could count, I immediately knew what it meant. We also had close friends and family members whose Catholic faith we appreciated and admired. My own mother was raised Catholic, becoming a Lutheran when she married my dad. And many of my favorite authors, such as Fr. Ronald Rolheiser, Sr. Joan Chittister, Fr. Richard Rohr, Emilie Griffin, Fr. Henri Nouwen, and Edwina Gately were also Catholic.
Like author Anne Lamott, “I loved the sickly sweet-rotting pomegranate smells of the incense. I loved the overwrought altar, the birdbath of holy water, and the votive candles; I loved that there was a poor box, the stations of the cross rendered in stained glass on the windows.” I also loved Easter Vigil, the Saints, All Souls Day, and more. Many of these practices are found in other Christian denominations (and some non-Christian religions) too. But the call felt clear, so Catholics we became.
Admittedly, I sometimes practiced Catholicism much like a Protestant. For example, I once arranged to meet with the parish priest for my first private confession. Unfortunately, the considerate and dependable Fr. Bill never showed. Apparently, whoever managed his calendar accidentally deleted the appointment. When I told him about it, he apologized profusely and asked if we could reschedule. “No need,” I told him. “I confessed to my friend Marlene.” Much to his credit, he laughed heartily. He knew Marlene and was certain I had been in good hands. “Maybe next time,” I teased.
My hope was that eventually God would help me understand why Catholic women could not be ordained as priests or even deacons, and how much that did or did not matter in the grand scheme of things. After ten years, however, I still didn’t understand. Maybe I just didn’t want to. Either way, I felt my commitment waning in ways I knew could not be revived. Even so, I have zero regrets—the people I met and the liturgies I shared with others deepened and fortified my faith in ways I wouldn’t change for anything.
So, again I moved on…to nowhere. Except for an occasional Christmas or Easter service, I took a long break, not from God but from church. It was time well spent, as some important realizations emerged during my self-imposed sabbatical.
The first realization was that my connection with a church was more about its relationship with the Bible than it was about a particular denomination. An emphasis on The Ten Commandments—God’s rules for living well—found in the Old Testament Book of Exodus, for example, felt incomplete without equal attention to the Beatitudes—God’s lessons for loving well—found in the New Testament Book of Matthew. As author Jen Hatmaker said in For the Love, “I crave dignity and healing and purpose for me and mine, you and yours, them and theirs. I want us to live well and love well.”
Another realization pertained to what a church believed about biblical inerrancy, which means “without error.” Like the Catholic assertion of papal infallibility, inerrancy was a 19th century reaction to an outbreak of criticism thought to be undermining the claims of Christianity around the world. The issue always makes me think of theologian Walter Brueggemann, who endorsed the book Searching for Sunday by Rachel Held Evans, as “a forceful invitation to reconsider that faith has been misunderstood as a package of certitudes rather than a relationship of fidelity.”
Certitude offers comfort and credibility to many. However, 2 Timothy 3:16-17 is enough certitude for me. It says that “all scripture is God-breathed and useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting, and training in righteousness so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.”
The important thing is to find a church whose beliefs about inerrancy are a good match with our own. And it’s not uncommon to find churches with a range of views—on many different issues—within the same denomination. As John Wesley, founder of the Methodist tradition, is reported to have said, “In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity (love).” It may take time, but earnestly seeking the best fit is well worth the effort.
As my time away from church unfolded, I began to appreciate what Rev. Barbara Taylor Brown said in her book Leaving Church where she describes Believers and Beholders:
The parts of the Christian story that had drawn me into the Church were not the believing parts but the beholding parts: Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy…Behold the Lamb of God…Behold, I stand at the door and knock…While I understood both why and how the early church had decided to wrap those mysteries in protective layers of orthodox belief, the beliefs never seized my heart the way the mysteries did.
Believers, of course, behold and Beholders believe. It’s a matter of emphasis. Together they comprise a healthy, holistic faith that helps us love God, ourselves, and each other as well as we possibly can.
When I finally decided I had “forsaken corporate worship” (Hebrews 10:25) long enough, I returned, along with my patient and supportive husband, to the Lutheran church. The impetus was a trip to Helsinki, Finland where, wandering the cobblestone streets, I happened upon a Lutheran cathedral. I was shocked—who knew that the Lutherans had cathedrals?
Curious, I climbed a steep set of wide concrete stairs, opened the tall wooden door, and went in. It was cold outside, and the warmth of the sanctuary felt like a heartfelt hug from an old friend. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim flicker of flaming sconces on each of the pale blue walls. When they did, I felt intensely drawn to the stark, sparsely furnished space and deep quiet. Standing in the stillness, I was struck with understanding—it was time to go home. “You cannot make this journey in your head, alone,” says Fr. Rohr in Everything Belongs. “Actually, you cannot make this journey alone at all. You must be led.”
Be that as it may, the church—Lutheran and otherwise—is far from perfect. For example, through the years, one denomination or another has hurt people I love by rejecting them for who they love, refusing to baptize an infant born out of wedlock, and withholding Communion from a woman whose husband divorced her to be with someone else. Church history also is littered with abuse, racism, antisemitism, misogyny, hypocrisy, and more. “I wish we could shield the church from our humanity,” says Jen Hatmaker, “but alas the two are hopelessly linked.” Or as Saint Augustine once said, “The church is not a hotel for saints, it is a hospital for sinners.”
Yet today, as I sit in church each week, a favorite quote by Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, often comes to mind: “I cannot create the light. I can only put myself in the path of its beam.”
The Lutheran church is once again where I most easily experience that beam of light shining in and around me. It’s a branch of Lutheranism that welcomes women and other sometimes marginalized groups to participate fully in the life of the church, including ordination. It’s not the branch I grew up in, but both have loved me and my family well. Indeed, every church we have ever attended has loved us well. Their differences are less important than the fact that there is a place for everyone who wants the fellowship, accountability, and grace that church can provide.
I felt that beam of light again recently as our church bid a tearful farewell to a beloved blind pastor in his nineties preparing for a new chapter of ministry nearer to his family in Puerto Rico. Pastor Gil stood quietly receiving the outpouring of affection, well wishes, and gratitude with a hundred arms extended forward to bless and protect him on his way. God’s light shone brightly in that moment, a beam as loving and luminous as the light of creation itself. And just as God did in the book of Genesis, I believe God looked upon us that day, and despite all our human foibles and faltering, proclaimed it good.
Questions:
1. What role, if any, did faith play in your life as a child?
2. What role, if any, does faith play in your adult life?
3. Does your understanding of God inform or impact your idea of loving well?
