on being evangelical, and practicing what you preach

When I arrived at the school to pick up S after her play rehearsal, she bounded into the car, practically shouting, "Guess what happened today?"

"What?"

"A motivational speaker came to our school. He was SO cool. And he's going to talk again tonight at 7:30. Can we go, mom, PLEASE?"

Admittedly, the second I heard the words "motivational speaker," I was immediately suspicious. Plus, there was a Halloween party I wanted to attend, and a university cultural event--but I'd missed my chance to get tickets to the second, and I didn't have much energy to pick out a costume for the first. Maybe it's meant to be, I thought. Plus, S is very vulnerable to misinterpreting messages, and tends to get confused about the main idea--maybe, I thought, it would be a good idea for me to go hear this guy so we could talk about him.

"Tell me more," I said. "What did you like about him?"

"He tore a phone book IN HALF on stage. And BENT A STEEL BAR with his TEETH. It was UNBELIEVABLE."

"OK, but what was his message?"

"People told him all his life he'd never amount to anything. And he was constantly getting bullied and beat up and nobody did anything. But he never gave up, and now he's doing all these cool things. Plus, he travels around with this really great band. Anyway," she gushed, "the whole POINT was how it's not OK to treat people who are different badly."

So, I reluctantly agreed not only to go, but to go early to get a good seat. We did--and got a front row seat--but as soon as the band started its opening number, I told her I had to move back. I was so focused on getting away from the loud speakers (and reflecting on how old this meant I was) that I missed both the words of the first song (but, hey, there were like five teenagers screaming into their microphones over very loud electric guitars that were playing the exact same notes--no melody, no texture--so I was also trying to block out the music, if one can call it that). I also missed the fact that several teenagers rushed into the front row as soon as S and I had abandoned it. "We lost the best seats," S said, scowling at me.

In the second song, I heard the name Jesus, but not much else. "Are these guys evangelicals or something?" I shouted into my daughter's ear. I looked around then, recognizing four families I happen to know go to a very conservative church in town--all of them perfectly nice people with nice elderly relatives at the nursing home whom I know well--and I started thinking maybe I'd happened upon the kind of event I'd spent my life avoiding. Besides the families, the auditorium was about half full with high school kids who, like S, had been lured to the event by the assembly at school.

"He's an ANTI-BULLYING SPEAKER, Mom," she shouted. "Don't be psycho."

"They're singing about Jesus," I shouted back.

"But you love Jesus," S replied, pointing to the prayer rope I wear around my wrist.

Good point. Now, S should by now be perfectly clear on my religious beliefs--she knows I'm a liberal Christian, and she knows I've suffered a lot of pain because of how I have been treated by religious people, and she knows I pray and do devotional readings every day, and she knows I'd never push any of my beliefs on her, but that I do need to do some kind of reflection with her each Sunday to feel as if my week is complete, so we've settled on a Unitarian-type service, just the two of us.

But, so far, it was hard to connect these teenagers to any sort of conservative, exclusive movement that spread hateful ideals. They were, first of all, adorable.
The drummer had a "drop beats, not bombs" shirt on, and the main vocalist had long hair and jeans falling off his ass and was pretty incredible at jumping off large speakers while singing without needing to catch his breath, among other things. The teenage girls in the room were cheering and taking pictures with their cell phones.

So, I decided to wait it out. When the backup vocalist got on the mike and said she and the only other girl in the band were going to "show you what we've got," and added that she hoped "the old people in the room" would like "this Alicia Keys song," I realized I was really, really old--I could only vaguely remember who Alicia Keys is.

And then, after a beautifully sung (but poorly accompanied) lyric that did not seem to be Christian, the "motivational speaker" came on stage. He started out by blowing up a hot water bottle until it popped. We were supposed to cheer for him and believe he could do it. I was bored to death watching him get red in the face and hearing the crowd shout for him--in a sort of low-key, Minnesota way, that is--but S was really into it. It popped. More cheering. He went on to tear two phone books in half, bend a steel bar with his teeth, and roll up a frying pan. To be honest, I was sort of wincing through the whole thing, but still, I stayed.

Then the guy told his story--he couldn't read, write, or speak for many years, he was forced out of public school, he went then to a private Christian school and was bullied even more harshly there. He persevered and got into college. A professor he trusted told him he should drop out, that he'd never amount to anything. He persevered and graduated college. Soon after that he found himself in a room not unlike this one hearing a message not unlike his, and he ended up getting on his knees and accepting Jesus into his heart. There were some jokes along the way, and people respectfully and forcefully laughed in that Minnesota-nice way, but, to be honest, nobody seemed particularly into the story. Except my daughter, who whispered occasionally, "That sounds like me."

And then things got creepier. He began to weep and explain how Jesus had changed his life, had helped him to believe he could not only overcome his limitations and still go on to graduate college, but also help turn other people onto Jesus. He asked those of us who wanted Jesus to change our lives, too, to raise their hands. I didn't, S did. (Jesus has already changed my life; I didn't need this dude to "help" with this). Then he asked the people who had raised their hands to join him in prayer. I watched as he closed his eyes, as the teenage band began to sing some Christian rock song, as he moved his lips in prayer for those hand-raisers. Then he asked the hand-raisers to come forward, because he was going to break a baseball bat across his knee and he wanted to dedicate that action to them. I didn't, but I decided not to stop S. I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to watch her up there with everybody else, to see how she'd react. About half the crowd followed her up: the volleyball team, a few football players, some parents with little kids--and crowded around him. He said, "Before I do that, though, I want you all to close your eyes and repeat after me. I am just so moved by how many of you want to turn your lives around. Let's commit ourselves to Jesus." I didn't listen to what he said. I couldn't. But I know he asked for sins to be forgiven, for Jesus to come into each person's heart.

He then asked for all the mothers in the room to raise their hands. My daughter turned and looked expectantly at me. I wasn't planning to raise mine, but I did anyway--to keep my hand down when she was staring at me would be like denying she was my child. "It looks like there are only a few of you, but I'll tell this story anyway," he said. "My mother is the only person who ever believed in me, and the only person in my family who now approves of what I'm doing. So no matter what brought you here, just know that God doesn't want you to give up on your children. I don't care if they have a learning disability, or ADHD, or even autism--don't give up. You're not hear on accident. You're here to learn that God is going to use your child for something amazing, just like He is using me."

And then he asked a man to come on stage and introduced him as the man who made all of this possible. I recognized him immediately as the youth pastor of one of the churches in town that had recently written a letter proclaiming homosexuality a sin, and those who supported it hell-bound. The band passed out cards for people to sign. I didn't read them, but I silently prayed--yes, prayed--that my daughter would not sign one, or at least not put our contact information on it.

After the cards were signed and returned to the pastor, he broke the bat over his knee, then held up the two pieces, making the shape of a cross with them, holding it up victoriously. "Now, everyone, I'm leaving town tomorrow, and so is the band. But Youth for Christ will still be here. This guy," he said, pointing to the local minister, "He's the real deal. He'll ALWAYS be here for you. He will show you the love and acceptance and hope you need in your life."

And then, it was over, finally. As people were walking out, I saw S approach a band member who was cleaning off the stage. I watched as he handed her the torn phone book. She ran her fingers through it. He nodded at her, and she grinned widely and hugged him.

Then, she walked toward me. "He GAVE me the phone book, Mom," she said, holding it out me. "Wasn't that awesome?" I couldn't believe she hadn't caught onto how I felt about it all.

"Not really," I mumbled, but she didn't seem to hear.

"I figured I'd just rededicate myself," my daughter said. I realized suddenly that, in one short year, she had made a complete circle from evangelical Christian to atheist to Greek Orthodox to evangelical Christian.

I nodded, trying to push her out of the room. But the big-muscled evangelical approached me and put out his hand. "Thanks for coming," he said.

S hugged him. "Thanks for coming here," she said. "I'm one of those kids who has thought of giving up a lot of times because nobody believed in me."

I was mortified. I didn't want this man hearing my daughter's story. But then she went on. "But thank God my mom is here for me. She makes sure I never give up." Admittedly, when the story ended that way, I got tears in my eyes. S put her arms around me.

"Oh, that's so beautiful," he said. "You must be an amazing mom." He looked directed at me, a tear coming out of the corner of his eye.

I thanked him politely and practically carried S out of the room. In the hallway, I met up with another mom I know fairly well; we've been on several community committees together, and I know she goes to a mainline Lutheran church in town, not one of the many conservative/evangelical ones. "That was really amazing," she said to me, but she sounded a little doubtful. "Did you think so?"

"I thought it was interesting," I responded. My throat felt really dry.

"I didn't know what to expect," she said.

"I didn't, either."

I said goodbye to her, and we got into our car. I took a deep breath and prayed, Please let me handle this the right way. And I felt myself get really, really calm.

"What did you like about it?" I asked, finally.

"Well, he's kind of like me. I mean, he didn't have anything going for him, and nobody cared about him, but now he's doing this great thing because he believed in himself and didn't let everybody convince him he was nothing."

"That is a good message," I said. "I liked that he talked about how important it is not to bully other people." I swallowed hard. "But," I said.

"But what?"

"But I didn't like everything he said. I think he is a different kind of Christian than I am."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't believe it's OK to manipulate people into feeling like they have to raise their hands to say they are dedicated to Jesus. I didn't raise my hand or repeat after him when he wanted us to pray together. And I didn't go up front. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't believe Jesus likes that kind of prayer. Jesus criticized the hypocrites who would stand on street corners showing off how they pray and trying to get other people to be like them. He says we shouldn't be like them. Instead, we're supposed to be humble and pray in our own rooms, with the door shut."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," S said, hugging the torn phone book to her chest.

"But see, that's what these people want you to do--not take the time to talk through what you're hearing, not think about it too much."

"I'm not STUPID, Mom. And anyway, what people are you talking about?"

"I know you're not stupid. And that's why I want to give you another perspective, so you can make your own choice."

"You're ASSUMING he's an evangelical, Mom. How do you know that?"

"Well, first of all, that group he was promoting is a group from one of the churches that preaches homosexuality is a sin. I KNOW that minister." But I felt myself getting angry, and I managed to calm myself down again. "But actually," I heard myself say, "I don't really think they ARE evangelicals."

"What do you mean?"

"Evangelical is a Greek word. It means, a person who spreads the good news. What do you think the good news is?"

S didn't answer right away. "Love your neighbor?" she said, finally.

"That's what I think, too. And his message seemed to be all about loving yourself. I mean, you have to love yourself to love your neighbor. You do have to be OK with yourself to do any good in the world. And he's right, every single one of us has the potential to be used by God to do good in the world. But I think we have different ideas about what doing good means."

"He IS doing good, Mom," S said. "He's talking to people about why bullying is bad."

"I agree. That part of his message is powerful. But the rest, in my opinion, isn't. He said himself that his goal in life is to win hearts for Christ. Well, that's fine, if that means that he's trying to get people mobilized to follow Christ's message, which is what I think the good news is."

"What do you mean?"

"Christ's message was about love and inclusion. It was about changing the system so that those who didn't fit in weren't persecuted. It was about feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, freeing the oppressed. Did you hear him say anything about those messages?"

S thought for a minute. "Well, he did say people shouldn't bully."

"True," I said. "But what if I told you that minister that he said would always be there for you has been a bully to me, writing homophobic letters in the paper? What if I told you that everyone isn't welcomed in his church? Or that the church spends more time preaching about what they think is wrong with individuals instead of what's wrong with society, and what we can do to change it?" By this time, we had made it home and were sitting on the couch, and she was absent-mindedly braiding her doll's hair while the dog and cat snuggled against her.

"I'm not stupid, Mom," she said again. "You have to trust me. I'm not going to let them convince me to join some scary church that wouldn't accept you for who you are."

"But you practically did tonight when you went up to the front and signed that card," I said. "Did you give them our contact information?"

"I wrote down my e-mail," she admitted. "But if they e-mail me, I'm going to just respond that I'm not interested and please not to e-mail me again."

"That's a good idea," I said. "And if you keep getting e-mails, will you tell me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"But they're not going to e-mail me, right? I mean, you're the town lesbian. They're going to recognize my last name."

"If they do recognize your last name, then that's all the more reason they'll think you need saving. That's how these people work, sweetie. They look for people who seem vulnerable, who need to be loved and included, and they will do anything to get you involved. They tried it on me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm not stupid, either, but I went to a Campus Crusade for Christ meeting my first year in college, because I was lonely and a really nice girl invited me. And they had the same exact message, about how people who have been treated poorly and struggled really needed Jesus, and he would change their lives."

"What happened?"

"I needed to hear that at the time. You know I was bullied in high school, and I always felt like there was something different about me. So I kept going for about three or four times. And then I stopped, because after awhile, I realized it was the same thing every time. Well, I wanted more. I wanted to try to figure out what good I could do in the world, and I wasn't convinced that just helping to get people to those feel-good meetings where everybody cried and laughed a lot was enough. They also didn't do any real analysis of Jesus' message, and I'm not stupid. I know the Bible is complicated and pretty much anyone can pull out a couple passages and say whatever they want about them and ignore the ones that don't make them feel comfortable." I realized I was preaching, and that S was losing interest, so I got to the point. "Anyway, when I decided to stop coming, they wouldn't leave me alone. They kept calling and knocking on my door--this was before anyone had e-mail--even though I kept saying no. I tried to talk to them about why I'd decided to move on, but they didn't really want to have a conversation. To them I was a soul to save, and it was their responsibility to do it. But think how much good they could have done if they'd spent that energy working on changing the immigration laws in this country, or finding a way to train homeless people for new jobs."

"Mom, I think I believe what you believe. I think people shouldn't be forced to pray or to make their lives all about converting people. I think we should be working on changing the bigger things, like you said."

"Well, he was right about one thing," I said.

"The bullying part?"

"Well, OK, three things. The bullying part, and the part about how you have to believe in yourself and keep persevering. And he was also right that I was supposed to be there tonight. I think if we hadn't gone, we wouldn't have had this conversation, right?"

"Right. And this was a good conversation to have."

I sighed deeply. Everything was going to be OK.

"Do you think of Jesus as your friend?" S asked, suddenly. "As someone you can talk to about anything?"

I thought for a minute. "Not really," said. "I mean, I do think God loves me as I am, always. And when I pray, I do sometimes tell God my problems or confess the things I've done wrong. But I also feel like God challenges me to keep growing as a person, to ask hard questions, to have hard conversations, and to take risks to make the world a better place. The people I admire are the ones who are in their communities trying to make them better, even what that's a hard thing to do."

S picked up the phone book and ran her fingers through it. "But isn't that what a real friend does, Mom?" she asked me.

I was amazed at her wisdom. "Actually, yes, you're right. That's exactly what a real friend does. Friends don't let the people they love accept easy answers to take the easy way out. But they also love you unconditionally."

"Can I keep this, though?" S asked, holding up the torn phone book.

"If you want to," I said. "What does it represent to you?"

"That I can do things people think I can't do," she said. "That I can get through hard times."

"OK, then keep it," I said. "I think it is important to believe in yourself. Otherwise, you can't do the good you're meant to do in the world."

"What's the good you're meant to do, mom?"

"Adopting you and helping you grow up, I'm sure about that one," I said. "I'm still figuring out some of the other stuff. I used to think it was sharing my writing to inspire others, or my work for GLBT equality, or helping students who needed my help, or the work I've done with elders, and helping other faculty do similar kinds of projects..."

"Maybe it's all of those things," S said, wisely. "Does it have to be just one?"

"No, definitely not," I agreed. "It's definitely about paying attention to every action you take, every decision you make, and using your talents to make good changes. But choosing to adopt you--that was definitely the best decision I've ever made."

S looked away from me and turned her attention to the dog as she often does when I say things like this. The dog jumped off her lap then and made his way to the door, letting out a short yelp to let us know it was time for his walk.

"Grandma," she said, in a strange, deep voice she has made up for the dog, "my mom's tired because you've been talking to her about big things for way too long. Will you give me my walk without her? Because I really, really need to pee."

The dog yelped just as she finished the sentence, as if he really had spoken those words. "Compromise," I said. "We'll take him together."

"OK," S said, in her own voice, followed by a long sigh. "I GUESS that's a good idea." Then she added, "I love you, Mom. And that's evangelical, right?"

"Huh?"

"That's good news, right?"

"Yes," I said. "That's good news. Now I have to figure out what to do about the fact that the school let a motivational speaker..."

She interrupted me. "He didn't say anything about God during the school assembly. He just talked about bullying."

"Still, I don't think it's appropriate for the school to let this guy talk to you and encourage you to come to something else."

"Let it GO, Mom. Please."

"I'm not sure I can. I have to think some more about it. I just need to make sure I'm making the right decision, either way. So I'm going to sleep on it, OK?"

"That's a good idea. You always tell me I should think things through before I act on my anger."

"Right. I guess I should practice what I preach."