I typically post an Easter-themed blog. Most years, I find myself with some thoughts that are just bursting to come out -- something beautiful and hopeful, something about how love wins, something that evokes joy.
I don't have that this morning.
I have to admit that, this year, I feel quite disconnected from Easter. I didn't wake up overflowing with joy today at the realization that Christ has risen from the dead. I'm frustrated with this feeling, or lack thereof -- but here we are.
I think there are a couple of reasons for this. One is that we find ourselves church-homeless this year (more on that in the second part of this post). Deciding where to attend on this holiest of holy days has been a regular topic of discussion in our home over the last few days, and something about that admittedly takes some wind out of my sails.
The second reason is a bit harder to explain. I recently finished a book by Brian McLaren called "Naked Spirituality." In the book, McLaren proposes that the spiritual life is best understood as a succession of seasons -- a "spring" of rebirth and new life, followed by a "summer" of strengthening and growth, then an "autumn" of waning and questioning, and a "winter" of quiet reflection -- which then gives way to another spring, and so on.
The book has yielded some important insights, the most notable of which is that we aren't made to "feel" the same way all the time. People who try to do this typically end up spending much of their time in performance mode, not to mention beating themselves up for not really feeling like they're "supposed to."
Maybe that's why I feel like acknowledging that, today, I find myself in something more akin to autumn than spring. This is disappointing, especially on the day when we celebrate the new life that springs out of death. Today, of all days, should be a "spring" day; today, of all days, should be a day when we are bursting with joy and hope.
But the season we're in, is the season we're in. All the effort in the world to change our season is futile. My first order of business this morning has been to simply accept my autumn.
Luke 24 tells the story of Jesus, shortly after his resurrection, meeting a couple of followers on the road to Emmaus. They didn't recognize him as he asked why they were so down in the dumps. They explained what had happened, and how their expectations were shattered. He spoke to them for a while, explaining why things had to happen the way they did. Eventually, they stopped for dinner, and as he blessed the food, they suddenly recognized him.
I think it's pretty clear that those followers found themselves in autumn as that day began. But by the time they laid down to sleep that night, it's safe to say they were feeling a whole lot of spring bursting forth in their overflowing hearts.
Maybe that'll happen for me today. Maybe my autumn will turn to spring. Maybe I'll find joy erupting, seemingly out of nowhere, through no effort of my own.
And maybe not. Maybe I'll feel the same way tonight and tomorrow and the next day as I felt when I woke up this morning.
Either way ...
Jesus is alive. Jesus is just as alive and present in my autumn as he is in my spring and summer and winter.
And for that, I am happy and filled with gratitude.
* * *
"Religious refugee."
I read this phrase a few weeks ago in a post by Rachel Held Evans, relating her reaction to the news that World Vision -- faced with the threat of dropped child sponsorships by the evangelical community after news broke that the organization would change its policies to allow for the hiring of Christians in same-sex marriages -- was reversing course. The phrase has stuck with me ever since, and certainly seems an apt description of me.
I started attending church when I was 2 years old. Over the past 32 years, I've been part of a small Baptist church, a Holiness church, a Pentecostal/charismatic church, a seeker-friendly non-denominational church, a progressive hippie church, and a formal Presbyterian church.
Now, at 34 years old, I have come to the conclusion that I don't belong at any of the churches in Harlan County.
Before going on, let me clear up a few misconceptions. First, please don't read the above statement and think that I'm trying to sound superior. This is not Sheldon Cooper looking down on those whose understanding isn't as advanced as his. And, for what it's worth, I'm sure there are a few (probably mainline Protestant) churches whose theology is reasonably in line with mine -- the response I received to sermons I shared at the Presbyterian church sort of confirms that. I'm not too good or too wise for the churches around here; I'm only saying I don't fit in.
I'm also not writing this so that you'll contact me and say things like, "Oh, no, you'd be more than welcome at our church -- we welcome all kinds of people, just as they are. Come and give us a try!" I'm sure I would be welcome at many churches in the area, and I appreciate the hospitality. But the fact remains: to "fit in," I would very likely have to swallow my opinions about a number of issues. My Obama bumper sticker would be reason enough for shunning at a good many churches; and, once you pile on my support of gay rights and my appreciation for a good beer -- well, let's just say I'm not getting many invitations to stand behind a pulpit.
It's OK. I've made my peace with it. It hasn't led to a faith crisis; in fact, I feel that my faith is stronger than ever.
It's also made me more aware of another reality:
I am not the only one. I am not the only religious refugee in Harlan County.
I am convinced that there are plenty of others who are in this same boat. Plenty of others who are following the way of Jesus, or who are at least drawn to the idea of Jesus, but who simply cannot feel at home in any of the churches here. Plenty of others who crave spiritual community, but who need it to be authentic community -- the kind that allows for diversity of opinions, that encourages wrestling with difficult questions about God and the Bible, that is even OK with leaving those questions unresolved.
If that is you ... I would love to hang out with you. Starting June 1, we're going to open our home on Sunday evenings for anyone who might want to spend some time having a snack and discussing the Bible. It will be fairly laid-back, it will be open to all -- conservative and liberal, black and white, "broken" and "together." The only prerequisite is a willingness to be respectful of other people's opinions and to agree to disagree.
There might be 20 of us. There might be 10. There might be 5. There might only be 2. It's OK -- we'll be here regardless.
You are welcome to join us.
