Lately, I've noticed it's really, REALLY difficult to let go of things. It's much easier to find justification for keeping them, or in some cases, it's easier to repress the thought from your mind entirely.
Unfortunately, I'm referring to my church. I know normally saying I'm too attached to my church to leave it yields an "Awwh!" reaction, but it's really not the case for me. It's far from it.
I've grown up a lot these past few years, and I am very capable of forming my own opinions and making my own decisions. Especially when it comes to matters involving God. All throughout this process, I've been in church, the same church I've attended most of my life. When I was younger, I saw it as this flawless gathering of worship and praise, but the naivety of childhood has dissipated along with that golden image in my head.
The church, I understand, runs in a similar manner to a business in that there are several jobs distributed among a hired staff, and as in every body of people, there is a chain of command. However, what's supposed to set the church apart from a business, among other things, is a strong sense of morality, something that the corporate world knows nothing of, and churches, for the most part, should move in the direction that the majority of the people want to move. Basically, they should share similar principles to that of a democracy.
My church used to be like that, or at least, I think it used to be, but times have changed. People have changed. Using the word corruption when describing an aspect of my own church leaves a thick, bitter taste in my mouth. I don't know how else to explain it though. Gradually, the chain of command in my church has been infiltrated by select members, some long-time members who are set in their ways. They've managed to acquire a staggering amount of influence over our pastor and our congregation as a whole.
I don't understand why or how this is allowed to continue, but it just doesn't feel right. Is it the fear of losing our history? Is it money? Is it all just a big numbers game?
Our youth group has little to no say in the affairs of our church, while these heavyweights make the decisions. Members are members. I don't recall reading in the Bible about how to separate the church into classes. We aren't a government, so why is there a power struggle among our people? Why is God's house becoming no more than a social club for maintaining yet another status quo?
And that's why I'm torn. The very place I go to learn what it is to be a Christian, is being run in a manner that I don't feel is very Christ-like. My WWJD bracelet is always there, glaring at me, and echoing it's age-old message in my head. I pray, but there is no clear answer. Just silence.
I would appreciate prayers on this matter, but I know that I have to ultimately make the final decision to stay or go. Abandoning the people I've grown up with and the place that has been my home for so long is a terrifying thought, but reaching a point of spiritual stagnation because of prideful, unchanging people is just as scary.
Showing posts with label Church.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Church.. Show all posts
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Popo shut us down.
Every now and then, a story comes along that even I cannot embellish on, regardless of how hard I try. This...is one of those stories.
After church on Sunday, a few of my friends and I went to a charity event to support this sweet little girl who has Crohn's Disease. The point of the event was to raise money and awareness about the illness, and in general, it was an opportunity for people to come out and have a good time.
Leaving the fundraiser, the five of us felt content and happy with the results. Lots of money was raised, everyone had an awesome time, all was right with the world...until...
On the way home, we got a little carried away with the music and the laughter, and my friend (the driver) sped up a bit too much. About 20 mph too much. Needless to say, the celebration quickly faded as those dreaded red and blue lights danced across the interior of our vehicle.
Each of us immediately went into a mixture of panic and nervous laughter. This continued until the officer slowly emerged from his cruiser and headed our way, at which point we all went silent.
Leaning his head in, he informed my friend she was doing 74 in a 55 (Our motto: Go big or go home.), and following the usual "license and registration" bit, the officer said something that none of us were expecting. I still can't believe it.
"Is that marijuana I smell?"
Whaaa? First of all, I'm fairly certain that none of us in the car have ever touched the stuff, let alone used it. Second, we just came from a freaking charity event, preceeded by a church service. Way to choose good suspects, buddy. Still to this day, none of us can figure out what he was smelling. It could've been the mixture of Capri-Sun, Doritos, body spray, perfume, and various other smells in the car, but he was absolutely convinced it was pot. He assured us, "I've been an officer for 20 years. I know what marijuana smells like."
Oh, I'm sure you do, officer. But, given the grand display of intelligence you've shown us so far, I believe the source of that smell is your upper lip, not the car.
At this point, I was laughing as was my other friend in the passenger seat, and honestly, who wouldn't? You just accused the most innocent kids on the highway of using illegal substances. We may have been in a rough part of town, but seriously? Cheech and Chong, Al Capone, and OJ Simpson all passed us like we were sitting still, and they all had smoke and gunshots pouring from their windows, but he pulls over the church kids.
Anyways, Officer Oblivious responded to our laughter rather angrily:
(shining his light back at me) "You think that's funny, sir? You all think this is funny? I'm gonna ask that you step out of the car. Everyone out of the car, now."
Everyone did as we were told, and as my one friend unbuckled, he happened to move a cotton candy bag out of his way. The cop, who had stepped away from the car (because we were all probably packing heat), lunges his head back through the window and grabs the bag.
"A confession?!? You're gonna give it up easy, huh?"
"Um...no," my friend replied, "that's...a cotton candy bag."
This bag was the size of a small Wal-Mart bag. If we actually filled that with marijuana and smoked it, we would all be dead. That's not a dime bag, that's like a two-hundred dollars and change bag. There would be no need to search the car because we couldn't have hidden it. It was like a sixth passenger in the car.
Standing beside the busy road, the officer had us all back up against the guard rail while he called in drug dogs. No one really listened to him for the next several minutes as we were all calling our parents and friends, telling them all about this pillar of intelligence working to keep our streets clean of upstanding citizens, like ourselves.
Several minutes later, the canine arrived with another cop. After trying to scare us with the dog, the tail wagging, happy looking dog who clearly wanted us to pet it and take it away from his special needs owners, the second officer walked the animal around our vehicle several times until finally it jumped on one of the doors (leaving several long scrapes down the side, I might add).
Immediately, we all exchanged quick, puzzled looks. I'm still skeptical as to whether the dog jumped on his own will or his owner's. My friend who was driving was exhibiting a more accusatory face. A face that said, "If one of you were smoking that crap, you don't need to worry about what the cops will do to you. They won't get to you before I will."
The policemen first searched my friend and I, the only two males (and the only two who laughed in their faces). Then, they moved on to the car, and of course, didn't find anything. One final glimmer of hope struck the first officer, and he searched all the girls' bags. But SUPRISE! There was nothing there either. Sniffling and heartbroken, he sombered back to his cruiser to write up the report.
About this time, my laughing friend and I began to get somewhat cocky. While he snapped pictures of himself smiling in front the cruiser, I offered the officer stool and urine samples since he was so thouroughly convinced it was in my system. "If you'd like me too, I can crap on something and you can take it back to the lab for testing." He didn't respond.
He quickly signed off on the remainder of the paperwork, and after a few heated exchanges, released us with this warning, "You pulled a fast one on us this time, but we'll catch you next time." My eyes, very evidently, narrowed, and I was within inches of losing my testimony. Instead, we all silently got into the car, and without even so much as a glance back, we left.
The moral of the story? Don't speed because this officer could very well be the guy who pulls you over. The other, more important moral of the story? Don't mess with church kids.
After church on Sunday, a few of my friends and I went to a charity event to support this sweet little girl who has Crohn's Disease. The point of the event was to raise money and awareness about the illness, and in general, it was an opportunity for people to come out and have a good time.
Leaving the fundraiser, the five of us felt content and happy with the results. Lots of money was raised, everyone had an awesome time, all was right with the world...until...
On the way home, we got a little carried away with the music and the laughter, and my friend (the driver) sped up a bit too much. About 20 mph too much. Needless to say, the celebration quickly faded as those dreaded red and blue lights danced across the interior of our vehicle.
Each of us immediately went into a mixture of panic and nervous laughter. This continued until the officer slowly emerged from his cruiser and headed our way, at which point we all went silent.
Leaning his head in, he informed my friend she was doing 74 in a 55 (Our motto: Go big or go home.), and following the usual "license and registration" bit, the officer said something that none of us were expecting. I still can't believe it.
"Is that marijuana I smell?"
Whaaa? First of all, I'm fairly certain that none of us in the car have ever touched the stuff, let alone used it. Second, we just came from a freaking charity event, preceeded by a church service. Way to choose good suspects, buddy. Still to this day, none of us can figure out what he was smelling. It could've been the mixture of Capri-Sun, Doritos, body spray, perfume, and various other smells in the car, but he was absolutely convinced it was pot. He assured us, "I've been an officer for 20 years. I know what marijuana smells like."
Oh, I'm sure you do, officer. But, given the grand display of intelligence you've shown us so far, I believe the source of that smell is your upper lip, not the car.
At this point, I was laughing as was my other friend in the passenger seat, and honestly, who wouldn't? You just accused the most innocent kids on the highway of using illegal substances. We may have been in a rough part of town, but seriously? Cheech and Chong, Al Capone, and OJ Simpson all passed us like we were sitting still, and they all had smoke and gunshots pouring from their windows, but he pulls over the church kids.
Anyways, Officer Oblivious responded to our laughter rather angrily:
(shining his light back at me) "You think that's funny, sir? You all think this is funny? I'm gonna ask that you step out of the car. Everyone out of the car, now."
Everyone did as we were told, and as my one friend unbuckled, he happened to move a cotton candy bag out of his way. The cop, who had stepped away from the car (because we were all probably packing heat), lunges his head back through the window and grabs the bag.
"A confession?!? You're gonna give it up easy, huh?"
"Um...no," my friend replied, "that's...a cotton candy bag."
This bag was the size of a small Wal-Mart bag. If we actually filled that with marijuana and smoked it, we would all be dead. That's not a dime bag, that's like a two-hundred dollars and change bag. There would be no need to search the car because we couldn't have hidden it. It was like a sixth passenger in the car.
Standing beside the busy road, the officer had us all back up against the guard rail while he called in drug dogs. No one really listened to him for the next several minutes as we were all calling our parents and friends, telling them all about this pillar of intelligence working to keep our streets clean of upstanding citizens, like ourselves.
Several minutes later, the canine arrived with another cop. After trying to scare us with the dog, the tail wagging, happy looking dog who clearly wanted us to pet it and take it away from his special needs owners, the second officer walked the animal around our vehicle several times until finally it jumped on one of the doors (leaving several long scrapes down the side, I might add).
Immediately, we all exchanged quick, puzzled looks. I'm still skeptical as to whether the dog jumped on his own will or his owner's. My friend who was driving was exhibiting a more accusatory face. A face that said, "If one of you were smoking that crap, you don't need to worry about what the cops will do to you. They won't get to you before I will."
The policemen first searched my friend and I, the only two males (and the only two who laughed in their faces). Then, they moved on to the car, and of course, didn't find anything. One final glimmer of hope struck the first officer, and he searched all the girls' bags. But SUPRISE! There was nothing there either. Sniffling and heartbroken, he sombered back to his cruiser to write up the report.
About this time, my laughing friend and I began to get somewhat cocky. While he snapped pictures of himself smiling in front the cruiser, I offered the officer stool and urine samples since he was so thouroughly convinced it was in my system. "If you'd like me too, I can crap on something and you can take it back to the lab for testing." He didn't respond.
He quickly signed off on the remainder of the paperwork, and after a few heated exchanges, released us with this warning, "You pulled a fast one on us this time, but we'll catch you next time." My eyes, very evidently, narrowed, and I was within inches of losing my testimony. Instead, we all silently got into the car, and without even so much as a glance back, we left.
The moral of the story? Don't speed because this officer could very well be the guy who pulls you over. The other, more important moral of the story? Don't mess with church kids.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Knowing Your Place.
Last night at church, I had the honor of listening to Mike Smith, a missionary to Russia. Despite having an extraordinarily normal name, Mike was quite possibly the most charismatic person to ever grace our church's stage. He exceeded human decibel limits, and while that would typically repel people, it only made him more interesting.
His message was one of encouragement. In between his descriptions of the people and land in Russia, he would stop to stress the fact that he "had no clue what he was supposed to be doing." For almost a year, he had been preaching to an empty room. Every Sunday.
He and his wife went out on long expeditions into the surrounding towns on outreach with no response. No matter what they tried or where they went they faced rejection. Naturally, they prayed and prayed for months that God would show them what they were supposed to be doing, but like the people of Russia, He didn't seem to respond.
Finally, when the Smith's had all but given up, God gave them a peace about what they were doing and even began growing their church. Taken aback, Mike couldn't understand why God would put him through an entire year of failure. The whole time, his family was exactly where He wanted them to be, so why would God not bless that?
It was at that point in his story that Mike slowed down and became very quiet. His face lit up with excitement, but he remained completely serious when he said:
"That's when I learned that sometimes God just steps back to see what you'll do."
His words are still floating around in my head, and they make so much sense. All too often, we stop what we're doing when our prayers aren't immediately answered, but we fail to realize that God has His own will and His own schedule.
So, rather than being so quick to give up, when Heaven is silent...
...keep going.
His message was one of encouragement. In between his descriptions of the people and land in Russia, he would stop to stress the fact that he "had no clue what he was supposed to be doing." For almost a year, he had been preaching to an empty room. Every Sunday.
He and his wife went out on long expeditions into the surrounding towns on outreach with no response. No matter what they tried or where they went they faced rejection. Naturally, they prayed and prayed for months that God would show them what they were supposed to be doing, but like the people of Russia, He didn't seem to respond.
Finally, when the Smith's had all but given up, God gave them a peace about what they were doing and even began growing their church. Taken aback, Mike couldn't understand why God would put him through an entire year of failure. The whole time, his family was exactly where He wanted them to be, so why would God not bless that?
It was at that point in his story that Mike slowed down and became very quiet. His face lit up with excitement, but he remained completely serious when he said:
"That's when I learned that sometimes God just steps back to see what you'll do."
His words are still floating around in my head, and they make so much sense. All too often, we stop what we're doing when our prayers aren't immediately answered, but we fail to realize that God has His own will and His own schedule.
So, rather than being so quick to give up, when Heaven is silent...
...keep going.
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