[stylist] please help with kinks

Tue Apr 27 17:35:29 UTC 2010

Hello list,

This is like a second draft, but it needs so much polishing.  I feel like the end trails off and I am having the proverbial writer's block.  Let me know what you think.

Bridgit

The parking lot of Crossroads Christian Center is desolate.  The only sound I hear as I walk towards the entrance is the nearby cars whizzing down the highway, and the crunch of snow under foot.  I pause before opening the heavy metal door.  The primal thump of music vibrates along the cinder block walls of the building.  The once familiar environment places heaviness on my spirit.
For ten years my family gave their life to this church.  For ten years my family was trampled on and eventually spit out.  I stand here now wishing to burn this abomination to the ground.  I swing the door wide and the thumping grows into a raucous musical tirade.  My ears ring from the volume.  The only audio cue I can make out is the surround-sound music that blares like a rock concert.  Worship loses its meaning.  Some how a dolled-up woman belting center-stage as she is illuminated by theatrical spotlights make it difficult to focus on Christ.
I was raised Christian.  I never thought to step too far outside what I was taught.  I was determined to keep the faith despite the dysfunction of my family and my own bouts of depression.  Growing up Christian does not mean I escaped witnessing my mother’s lust for the material and my work-a-holic father to busy to watch his children grow.  Feeling isolated from the rest of mankind for some quirk (referred to as depression I had the misfortune of being born with) left me alone except for the God who claimed to love me unconditionally.  Doubts crossed my mind, but ultimately my faith was bigger than any misgivings.  The wiggle of questions finally wormed their way to the surface though.  Homosexuality, pre-marital sex, burning in hell for believing in a deity not named Christ; I no longer can ignore my doubts in the name of faith.  I do not believe (I never truly did) these are mortal sins damning us to hell.  I won’t go through the motions.
A man steps to the podium as the crescendo of the music begins its descent.  He sputters a guttural cacophony of some long-lost ancient language while the small congregation hoops and hollers.  The worship leader belts her agreement.  A pagan tribe swirls and leaps around a roaring fire in my mind as I cringe and fight my instinct to dash towards the microphone and begin my own tirade.  “What the hell is wrong with you people?  Hypocrites and self-righteous, pig-headed bigots.”
My family moved to Council Bluffs towards the end of my senior year of high school.  My dad was hired as the Head of Maintenance with his Bachelor’s in business and MBA.  He had left the world of business to pursue the ministry though.  Ministry became a family affair.  Mom and my three siblings were involved in some capacity, but it was Dad’s passion.  Sunday school, worship team, nursery, children’s church, we all had our hand in some area.  Crossroads Christian Center was an Assembly-of-God church pastored by a long-time friend of the family.  The Friend, a self-proclaimed former drug addict who viewed higher education as a tool of the devil, felt my dad was suited to the life of cleaning up after others.  Dad, who was in the process of receiving his seminary training, was not trusted to “Shepard” people.  In a short period of time, though, the congregation would turn to my dad for advice and counseling, and eventually he was asked to perform weddings and funerals.  My dad is well-respected in the community.  The Friend, well he has grown jealous and spiteful.  When Dad attempted to apply for a pastor position in another city, the Pastor-friend said, “You really don’t belong in the ministry.  You are being tempted and should resist.  Your place is here, keeping the church beautiful for the Lord.”  
The compound-like church sits on the western end of town.  I always hated the building.  It is dark and no light enters.  My dad finally stepped out on the infamous faith I was always told about.  “All things are possible with Christ.”  The frenzied Sunday morning sermons and concert-like worship hour did nothing for the soul.  “Rejoice in the Lord always,” spread in a jovial arch above the choir loft as the Pastor raved about sin on Sunday mornings.  “This world is going to hell.  Maybe a few Lutherans and Catholics will be in heaven, but it is up to us to keep the faith.  All you who listened to secular music or watched television last night must repent and become holy for the Lord.”  The Pastor paced the stage like a tiger looking for his next prey.
Yet, I kept my faith in tact.  I recognized this place for what it was, but the fibers of my being still knew and trusted the core of this religion called Christianity.  I saw the hypocrisy and was disgusted with the politics, but I thought God was bigger than human intrigue and ambition.  How do I come to mistrust it all now?  Mornings spent sitting at the well-manicured feet of my mother while she reads from the story-book full of Bible tales plays through my mind.  The book is white and a Caucasian Jesus garbed in blue and white sits among a group of contemporary-dressed children.  I loved the stories of bravery and heroism and romance.  All pointed back to the salvation of this wonderful savior.  I felt comfort in knowing I was loved and accepted even if home life was rocky.  I read every night in bed with my red flash-light trying to ignore the muffled shouting seeping from my parent’s bedroom.  I would hunker down among my blankets with the pink Cheerbear Carebear and brown stuffed cocker-spaniel to keep me company.  We read the story of Ester, the beautiful young Hebrew girl chosen to marry the pagan king.  Her trust in God saved not only her life, but the lives of her fellow Hebrews.  God’s love was greater than any evil and those who trust Him are showered with this love.  As I shot into a teen I clung to this idea of unconditional love.  Knocks upside my head delivered in frustration by my parents were no match for the love of Christ.  Sitting, crying silently, unable to breathe, I knew I was held in loving hands somewhere.
That assurance is gone now.  I believe in a higher power, but who they are, I can’t answer that.  My parents hang from the ropes of their faith even though they are constantly knocked down.  Whether it is over-due bills or rejections after interviews or constant life-threatening illnesses, my parents find their comfort in Christ.  This differs from the parents of my childhood.  I see the change and want to believe it is all due to the grace of God, but I question.  The transformation of my money-hungry, designer suit wearing, quick to anger father has done a one-eighty.  The remnants of my childhood father no longer remain.  I remember the abuse, but that man left.  This gentle man spends hours watching his grandchildren play on the Moonwalk instead of enjoying the baseball game in the stadium.  When sheets of rain keep me from attempting a dash to the bus stop, Dad is on speed dial ready to drop me off where I need to go.  This is the man I love, and this is the man I wish to protect from a slanderous, spiteful Pastor who did nothing but give grief to those who opposed him.  Dad knew the truth and confronted the Pastor.  Dad spoke in his usual soft tones while the Pastor shifted his eyes around and gripped the edge of his desk.
“You're out of line brother,” Dad said.
“I’m out of line?  You don’t know who you are dealing with,” the Pastor said.  His nostrils flared as he stared Dad down.
“You’re ostracizing people who want to help.  No one is trying to replace you.”  Dad folded his hands and smiled into the red, angry face of the Pastor.
“You all want to take me down.  Satan is speaking through you.  I know your secrets.”
“Brother, I have no secrets.  I’m not proud of my past, but God’s forgiveness has granted me mercy.”
“Your lies and deceit are what keep you from providing for your family.”  The Pastor smirked.
Dad’s eyes looked down for a moment, and he met the Pastor’s glare with remorse.  “I’ve made mistakes, and my family has had to pay for them, but I’m trying to make up for it.”
“Look what your education got you.  You clean up after others.”  He stood, grabbing his black leather jacket purchased at Wilson’s.
Dad sat and turned in his chair.  Zipping up his faded sweat-shirt he said, “The least of you shall be first, and the first shall be last.”  Dad passed through the door before the Pastor said anything.
My dad never loses sight of his faith.  For years he has struggled to support his family, and at fifty-one he still scrambles to pay the bills.  Never once does his belief in god waver.  Prayer and meditation bring him peace.  I was taught that without the peace of God people are empty and have no purpose.  I have not experienced this emptiness without God.  I wonder where my faith went, but I am at peace with who I am.  Perhaps it is all about perception and preference.  If I find contentment, is it necessary to know where it comes from?  I admire those who stick to their guns no matter what life throws at them, but my spirit is not in turmoil.  Maybe one day I will find the right light switch and the beliefs I held for so long will return.  For now I find new ways of experiencing God.  In the love I have for my husband and his love in me.  The joy of nephew and nieces who have become my surrogate children.  The fleeting anger I feel towards Crossroads Christian Center and the Pastor only solidifies my new belief that no one person or group has all the answers.
While the Pastor continues his message of darkness and fear, I find a religion based on love.  The gentle hand sweeping hair from my face to kiss me good-bye every morning as I sleep.  The 15-month-old Curly Sue who wraps her chubby arms around my neck every time I see her.  Even the high-strung puppy that seems starved for attention as she jumps into my lap.  Most importantly is my dad who would give his life for any of his children.  Isn’t this what Jesus taught?  To love one another.  I have an abundance of love in my life, and this allows me to touch God everyday.

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