Witnessing

The current religio-political climate makes me very uncomfortable. It brings into sharp relief the difference between who I am and how I was raised. The religion I was taught as a child is the same rule-based, fear-ridden brand that seems to be in ascendancy today. The intensity has been dialed up, and the persecution complex seems to be growing even as they gain more power. But it strikes me that as they’'ve shifted focus to the political arena, there’'s less focus on evangelism. They aren’'t really trying to convert everybody else; they'’re just telling them what they can and can'’t do.

Back when I was a teenager, the Great Commission was a big deal. Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, from Matthew 28:19, in the King James Bible, of course. While my parents were willing to use the Revised Standard Version, or even the New International Version, there were still people in the church who believed that the King James Version was the only true version. Sometimes I wondered if they thought Jesus spoke in King James English.

“"Witnessing"” was a big deal. One way of witnessing was “"giving your testimony”", telling how you came to be saved. Having been “saved” at 10 years old, I didn'’t exactly have the most dramatic testimony, so I never had to give my testimony to a group of people. I did do some other forms of witnessing though, like going door-to-door to invite people to church or to Vacation Bible School.

I also went on a mission trip with my parents and some other families from our church. This was after we moved from the very small, very rural church to a little bit bigger, little less rural (but still not “city”) church. We drove in caravan up to someplace in Michigan, I forget where. We camped out in a state park for a week while the men helped build a church and the women went out in the neighborhoods and held little mini Vacation Bible Schools.

But there were several things bothering me about the whole process, though it’s only been with the benefit of many years’ experience and hindsight that I’ve been able to understand it. Back then, I just knew that witnessing was making me increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually, there came a point where I just couldn’t go along anymore. One day, a bunch of people from our church were going to be handing out flyers at a local grocery store, and I just couldn'’t do it. I finally told my parents that I didn’'t want to do it, that I didn'’t feel comfortable doing it. I told them that I didn'’t like it when other people accosted me coming out of the grocery store wanting to give me flyers, so I didn’'t feel comfortable doing that to other people. I don'’t think they were really that comfortable with the whole idea, either, because they didn’'t try to change my mind.

Much later, long after I had left that church, I encountered Alcoholics Anonymous, and the idea of attraction rather than promotion, as stated in AA'’s 11^th tradition. Then I understood what had bothered me about witnessing. There are certainly similarities between witnessing as I saw practiced back then, and what goes on in AA meetings. AA meetings are full of testimonies, people telling how they were saved from alcoholism. And the 12^th step of AA'’s program tells us to carry the message to other alcoholics, which is similar to the Great Commission.

But the focus on attraction rather than promotion changes the whole tenor of the process. It'’s the difference between sharing what has worked for me, and telling you what will work for you. I can tell another alcoholic, “"This is how I got sober”"; I don’t tell another alcoholic, “"This is how you need to get sober".” AA members don’t go to bars and hand out flyers for AA meetings. We don’'t carry the message to other alcoholics by telling them they need to get sober. We show them a different way of life, and offer to help if they want it.

By contrast, the witnessing that I saw practiced assumed that we had the answers, that if other people weren'’t following our path, they needed to be saved. There was a somewhat grudging acceptance of other Christian denominations, but back then, at least, before the alliance over abortion, Catholics weren’t really regarded as “Christian” by many of the Southern Baptists I knew. The same people who would get annoyed at the Jehovah’'s Witnesses knocking at their door would go knocking on other doors without any sense of irony.

So, the presumption that “"we’'re right, everybody else is wrong, and it’'s our job to save them”" was one reason I was uncomfortable with the evangelism I saw. Another reason I was uncomfortable with it was that I had a hard time inviting people to attend a church that I was having difficulties agreeing with. This was in the 70’s, when the fundamentalists were starting to take over the denomination. Inerrancy was becoming a big deal, and that was something I couldn’t accept or agree with. I remember my pastor asking me if I knew how we could know the Bible was true and quoting John 1:1 as the answer: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. His point was, we knew the Bible was true, because the Bible told us the Bible was true. There’s a deep strain of anti-intellectualism in most of the southern, conservative churches I saw growing up, and I couldn’t go along with it. “"God said it; I believe it; that settles it.”"

A third problem I had was racism. Southern Baptists, as a denomination, do not have a good track record with racism. The denomination was formed in a split over slavery. Southern Baptists weren'’t out there promoting civil rights. And my church wasn'’t really very interested in witnessing to blacks. Not that the people in the church didn’t think that blacks needed to be saved, but they didn'’t really want blacks worshipping with them. I remember a discussion one Sunday night about what our response should be if a black family came to church; one prominent member said that we should direct them to one of the black churches in the community, “"where they'’d feel more comfortable.”"

When I left home to go to college, I pretty much stopped going to church. The few times I did attend church over the next four years, it was a Presbyterian church. After college, I stopped going to church at all, except to keep the peace when I came to visit my parents. It took many years, and becoming a parent myself, to want to seek out a new church, one that I could be comfortable with. I researched, and talked with friends, and even prayed, and joined an Episcopal church, looking for a place to teach my daughter, and discovering a place where I could find my own long-dormant spirituality. And I get there, only to find that the fundamentalists are trying to take over that church, as well...

Born Again

I grew up going to church. My family is Southern Baptist. We went to a small, country church. It was the church my dad had gone to growing up. There were a lot of people in that church whom I loved, and who loved me. Yet for all that, I never felt entirely comfortable and at home there

Every summer, there would be a revival. It would be hot and muggy, and some preacher from out of town would be brought in to preach fire and brimstone every night for a week. We’'d sit in the pews, sweating and fanning ourselves with the paper fans advertising the funeral home. Then we'’d stand for the invitation. If the week was getting on and not much was happening during the invitation, the preacher would really start to drag out the invitation. We’'d sing a verse of the invitation song (“Just As I Am” was a standard), then the preacher would interrupt to preach a little bit more, try to persuade the sinner out there that they needed to step forward and be saved. Maybe he’'d have us bow our heads and close our eyes, while the pianist played (this was a country church, no fancy organ here). You began to hope that someone would walk down the aisle, so that we could go home, because you couldn’'t really fan yourself while you were standing with your head bowed for the invitation. It wasn’'t polite.

Eventually, someone would give in and walk down the aisle. There were a few people you could generally count on to do so, even though they were already “saved.” You could always rededicate yourself, and some did, every year. I don’'t mean that as cynically as it sounds. I don'’t believe they walked down the aisle just to get us all off the hook. I believe they genuinely felt moved to do so. The whole setup is designed to make you feel moved to do so. A fiery sermon, with a heavy focus on sin, a prolonged altar call, a recognition of your sinful nature; the surprise is that there were only a few that did it every year.

I was not one of these. For one thing, my parents spoke with mild disdain for those people; we were “"once saved, always saved”" Baptists, after all! For another, I tend to be left cold by such manipulation.

I did walk down that aisle once. It was not during a revival, it was during a random Sunday in the spring when I was 10 years old. I have no memory of anything the preacher said that day. I doubt I was even listening. By then, I had learned the fine art of letting my mind wander while appearing to pay attention. Besides, that day, it didn'’t matter what the preacher said; I had already made a decision to walk down that aisle.

The decision had been made the week before. The previous Sunday night, I was in church as usual, and we had the usual Sunday night service. I don'’t remember anything about the service that night, except that when the invitation began, suddenly I felt an intense urge to walk down the aisle. I felt a chill down my spine, and blown away by the intensity of the feeling. I didn'’t walk down the aisle that night; I didn'’t do things on impulse much, even then, and I didn’'t understand what was going on with me.

I wasn'’t totally immune to manipulation, though. My big worry, as I rode in the car home, was that something would happen to me before I could get the courage to walk down that aisle. That staple “"what would happen if you died tonight?”" question of preachers working the altar call had had an impact on me. Finally, I decided I had to talk to someone about this, so I told my parents about my experience. They asked me a few questions, and suggested that I might want to go forward during the invitation the following Sunday. As for my fear about what might happen before then, the reassurance was “"nothing’'s going to happen, you’ll be fine.”"

So the following Sunday, when the preacher issued the invitation, he had us bow our heads and close our eyes, and I stepped out of the pew and answered the call. Suddenly I realized that I was not alone; there was someone else marching down that aisle with me. My younger brother, having heard the conversations between me and my parents about accepting Christ as your savior, decided he was ready, too. We were subsequently baptized together a few weeks later.

Despite my “conversion experience”, I still didn’'t really agree with much of what I heard in that country Baptist church. Eventually, when I was on my own, I rejected the religion of my childhood, and even for a while rejected God. The tradition of the path I follow now doesn’'t focus on a dramatic conversion experience, and I understand and even agree with that lack of focus. But that doesn’'t deny that what I felt in that small country church one Sunday night wasn’'t real.

Birthday

I put a stop to it the year I turned twelve. I remember my brother coming in the room…

“Ready for your birthday spanking?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “I’m done with those.”

“Mom! Dad! She won’t let me give her a birthday spanking!” he yelled as he left the room.

I don’t know where the tradition of birthday spankings began. Our family had always done them, one smack for each year of the birthday, plus one to grow on. All I know is, I had no intention of letting anyone spank me, in jest or otherwise.

The rest of the family came into the room.

“What’s this about being done with birthday spankings?” my dad asked.

“I’m too old for them,” I answered.

“Too old! You’re never too old for birthday spankings! Are you getting too big for your britches?” Dad asked.

“No, I’m just don’t want birthday spankings anymore.”

“You’re always so sensitive and touchy,” my mom put in. “It’s just a birthday spanking, it’s no big deal.”

“I still don’t want one.”

“Can’t have a birthday party without a birthday spanking,” Mom said. “Do you want to skip the birthday party?”

“I don’t care, as along as I don’t have to get spanked.” I stuck to my position. It’s not like she was talking about a real party with friends, anyway. She was just talking about a cake from a mix and blowing out the candles with her and Dad and my younger brother.

“It’s not fair! I want to give her a birthday spanking!” my brother yelled, and tried to grab me. At twelve, I was already my full adult height, and my 9 year old brother had no chance of physically forcing me to do anything. I grabbed his hand when he tried to hit me and held him at arm’s length.

“Don’t fight her,” my mom told my brother. “If she’s too good to participate in family traditions, let her go.”

So I never had to endure another birthday spanking. I did get the cake, after all, and presents, so the only price I had to pay for my victory was the sense of feeling apart from my family, of being the one who didn’t fit in, was too sensitive. Given that I felt that way anyway, it was worth it.