Lenten Project: Day Thirty

After the disappointment I experienced with the "youth" of one church, it took me a while to gather up the courage to try again. When I did, though, I went head first right into another bad situation with more loneliness as the result.

In 1999, I started going to youth meetings at another Independent, Fundamental Baptist church in Singapore. I devoted myself wholeheartedly to this youth group, believing it was heaven-sent just for me. I went to the watch night service on New Year's Eve, volunteered during vbs, sang in special youth services which I attended while not at my parents' church, and basically spent all my time with the kids at this church. My parents blessed my activities, and encouraged me to continue my participation, knowing the American missionary couple who ran the church were keeping an eye on me.

The youth at this church were mostly teens close to my age, but also ranging up to people in their late 20s. I got dragged along as they went door to door witnessing, inviting people to special services. We played a lot of table tennis and practiced playing musical instruments together.  I enjoyed the late night meals at hawker centers. This was a time that I embraced Singaporean culture and learned to love this country and its people. I invited my sisters to come see this amazing group of friends I'd found, and two of them started going regularly, too.

But slowly I started to notice that I wasn't truly fully accepted into the group. I was a tagalong, a wannabe really, who inserted myself into these events because I desperately wanted to belong. But when I skipped events, no one called or mentioned later that I'd been missed. I wasn't a vital part of the group, and sometimes it was obvious I wasn't wanted. This youth group had a serious case of the cliques, and I didn't belong.

It's possible the reason I never fit in totally was because I'm white and American. Or maybe I was just too opinionated and obnoxious. Perhaps my trying too hard was so obvious it was a turn off. I don't know. All I know is that no matter how hard I tried, I was never fully accepted, never fully a member of this youth group, even just with the other youth.

There were several other kids who didn't attend the church but were still members of the youth group, so I wasn't the only one. The pastor strongly urged the kids to all become members of his church, though. Those of us who came from other churches always felt like second class citizens. It wasn't enough to be Christians, or even attenders of a church.  We had to be members of his church to be fully approveable.

After almost a year of throwing myself into this new venture and only getting hurt over and over again (the girls my age I tried to befriend were cold, the boys standoffish, and the American missionary daughter went off to college, leaving me behind), I finally woke up and realised I have more value than settling for whatever meager friendships (really acquaintanceships) I could scrounge. I was so over being a group's unwanted addendum. I didn't have to paste on a smile and pretend I was happy to have no close friends, alone in a group. Of even bigger importance to my self respect, I didn't need to force myself to endure the pastor's wife's sharp criticisms. Gosh, was she critical! And rude. And really cruel, especially when she was criticising me in front of others, like the time she loudly proclaimed me a miserable failure when I played a chord wrong on the piano during practice one day. It took me a long time to understand that that kind of behaviour is not okay.

So I quit going. And no one called. No one tried to contact me to see what had happened. My sisters kept attending, but didn't bring back greetings or questions for me. On the home front end of things, I observed the changed dynamics of our family, with kids who were constantly leaving to go to youth and church activities across town. They had little time to devote to our family or even our own church anymore. It made me really sad to realise that I had caused that by convincing my sisters to go get involved with this other church with me. My sister Elizabeth especially was really sucked in and rarely had time for family anymore. She was always over there at the church, hanging out with the youth group.  I had been like that until I took that step back and stopped going. I felt really responsible for the breakup of our family's unified front. No longer were we working together in one ministry. We were spread out and sometimes even working against one another. 

After some time had passed, my sister Lizzy invited me to a special service at the other church. I went, and noticed how hardly anyone spoke to me in the youth group to which I had dedicated myself all that time. They had no time for a "deserter" like me. The mentality was if I wasn't all in, for them, I was against them. 

One of older guys had left for college a couple months prior, gone away to BJU to study for the ministry, and I received an email from him around this time. He accused me of having a divisive spirit, of actively and purposefully trying to harm the ministry by abandoning it.  Others would see my leaving as a statement that they should stop being Christians too.

Honestly, that was the gist of this guy's letter.  It hit me pretty hard.  And further convinced me that his church was a cult.  Because if not going to this one little church meant he believed I probably wasn't a Christian, there was something seriously wrong with his indoctrinisation.

So I renewed my efforts to save my sisters. My sister Mary was okay, never having fully committed herself, but Lizzy was wholly enamoured and overtaken by them.  One of her good friends from that group continually urged her to spend more and more of her time there, so I wrote him an email telling him he needed to encourage her to spend more time with her family.

I'm afraid I wasn't very nice to him in my letter.  I basically accused him of helping to steal away my sister, since I believed that the cult was of a higher priority in her life than anything else.

My parents, who still monitored all my email (I was a few months from turning 18 at the time), were not pleased at my interference.  I was put "on suspension" and denied all computer privileges indefinitely.

That's when I gave up.  My intention had been to repair the damage that I'd helped cause by dividing our family's loyalties, but I'd been severely reprimanded for it.  Instead of recognising that I'd finally decided to fight for our family, my parents punished me for my misguided attempt to fix it.  So I went headlong into rebellion.

Lenten Project: Day Sixteen

There exists a confession fetish in the churches associated with Sovereign Grace Ministries. Every week in small group ("care group," they call it), it was always a competition to see who could outdo everyone else in confessing--but only the white sins, like pride. Never the heavy stuff, like suicide attempts.

When I talked openly about the urge to self harm, one of the pastors' wives eventually called me and we chatted. I vividly remember sitting on the grassy hill in my backyard, staring at the clouds while we talked. I also shredded many blades of grass during the conversation.

She gave me this advice to combat my severe depression and inner urges to kill myself: don't go on Facebook.  She said going on Facebook made her envious of other women's "perfect" lives and she got tempted to compare herself to them. When she avoided Facebook, she held on to her contentment.  Therefore, I ought to stay off Facebook so I wouldn't be discontent anymore. Since my friends on Facebook, constantly messaging me, checking on me, sending me Scripture and prayers, were all that were keeping me alive, I disregarded her advice.

At Sovereign Grace churches, there's a lot of, "our church is so amazing," and, "I love my pastor," and not so much, "I love Jesus," or, "Christ alone."  The overwhelming pastor worship made me wary when we first joined. I knew, even back in 2006, that CJ Mahaney was bad news, but I figured going to that church for a while would be okay.

And it wasn't all terrible. When we weren't busy confessing various petty offenses to one another, my small group was engaged in loving one another beyond measure. They came to my house and had a work day, we all went to the lake and spent a day on the water, and we had really amazing Christmas parties.

But there was always this underlying loyalty to SGM, the kind that screams, "Don't question too much, or examine too closely."  It was a manic loyalty.  And even our devotion to one another in our small groups had the sheen of artificiality.  For me at least, there was little substance to those relationships.  Lots of confession, yes.  But beyond trying to be the first in the group to confess being prideful every meeting, we didn't really create spaces for deeper understandings of one another.  We also were discouraged from trying other small groups.  Everyone stayed in the one assigned, unless asked to move by the pastors.

I questioned too much. And openly. I'd frequently disagree with some point or other from a pastor's sermon. And some of the young men from the church would attempt to quiet me--after all, Sovereign Grace Ministries is a staunchly complimentarian, patriarchal place, so women should shut up and sit down. Having a theological opinion should be secondary to keeping my home and raising my family. And even then, it should be closely monitored and filtered by my head, my lord, my husband. All the women were encouraged to do was repost and share articles from the Gospel Coalition, Together for the Gospel, and other Sovereign Grace affiliated and approved groups. Commenting anything other than, "I totally agree," or, "This convicted me," was frowned upon for women.  Even sharing opinions and convictions in small group as a woman wasn't given respect or weight.

CJ Mahaney once told me that my son was my highest calling. That my service to God in the form of motherhood was the biggest, most important thing I could do for Christ. While motherhood is a beautiful vocation, it certainly isn't my (or anyone else's) highest calling. I'm not defined by my mothering.

On the whole, I'm mostly just glad I escaped SGM without too much damage. The potential for great harm was always pretty high and very visible. And it scared me, though I tried to ignore it. That culture if shame and guilt, wrapped up in a cloak of "grace," is heavy and unbiblical, and I'm still unlearning some of the habits and attitudes instilled in me during my time as a young, restless, and reformed charismatic.

If anything, I hope I have put off the demeanor of haughtiness I wore so completely while I was a SGM devotee. I'v realised and embraced the fact that I don't have all the answers.  And maybe (probably) my church and pastor doesn't either.  And that's okay. 

Lenten Project: Third Fearless Friday

In late 2011, I left Sovereign Grace Church and started visiting different churches, sometimes two or three on a single Sunday.  I was thirsty, seeking...something. I just didn't know what.

I was depressed, discouraged, my marriage was all but over, but I knew there had to be something out there.  Something greater.  Something that wasn't just a rock concert at church, or a one-man show in the pulpit, or a guilt-fest in every sermon, or a legalistic show window.

Ann Schaefer with Hannah, 1983

My beloved grandmother had long reminded me to seek God first, and assured me everything else would become plainer with time.  But I didn't really know how to do that.  In my background of works, works, works, I didn't know how to let God speak for Himself.  I grew up trying to define God down to the very last characteristic, leaving nothing to Divine mystery.  My grandmother was always patient with me when we talked, answering question upon question about Lutheranism, different kinds of wine, and the best way to pack a suitcase.

With her encouragement, I decided to visit a Lutheran church near my house.  With that first visit, I knew I was home.

I posted to Facebook as soon as the service was over.

Everything was different, and yet so familiar, about the service.  I couldn't find the right page during the Kyrie or Sanctus, but I had several of the hymns memorised.  I didn't know when to cross myself, when to kneel, when to stand, when to say, "Amen."  But the Lord's Prayer was a comfort to me.  The Scripture reading confirmed what is true: the Gospel is preached in the Lutheran church.  There's no escaping it.

I didn't understand what the colours meant, or what the pastor's vestments signified, or why things were done in the order they were done.  I marveled at the Eucharist (I still marvel at the Eucharist, every. single. time.)  But I embraced it all.

I discovered new, and yet so old, Creeds.  Made me wonder why BJU had reinvented the wheel by creating a new one (which leaves important stuff out, too!).  I followed the lead of the woman in front of me and dipped my fingers in the water of the baptismal font on my way out.  Here was a physical reminder that I was always God's child, always held close, always beloved.

And that's the story of how I came home to Sacramental, liturgical Christianity.

What's your story?  How did you end up where you've ended up?  Is there someone who was a positive influence for you?

Lenten Project: Day Ten

Life as a missionary on a tropical island can be so rough.  The overwhelming heat, extreme humidity, stale American food we had to pay way too much for at the grocery store, weevils that kept getting into the flour, unwashed natives who refused to leave their nominal Catholic or Anglican faiths to become "true" Christians like us.  It was all such a hardship.

Obviously, the pristine beaches were exempt from hardship categorisation.

One way Dad showed grace and compassion to the people to whom he was ministering was his refusal to dedicate certain babies in the church.

In fact, now that I think on it, I don't remember a single baby dedication that actually took place during a church service at all.

Normal attendance was just a couple more than this.  Our family more than doubled the membership.

Dad denied this special privilege to those babies who were conceived out of wedlock.  So, pretty much every child we came into contact with the whole ten years we were there, excepting a few.

Instead, he would conduct a private dedication ceremony in the shameful woman's home and that would be the end of it.  She'd be admonished by this chastisement to go and sin no more.  Till the next baby she had out of wedlock was born to be punished like this as well.  I recall one women who was kicked out of our church membership because she got pregnant with her boyfriend.  She had to confess her sin of whorishness in front of the church before Dad would let her come back.

Even then, I hated it.  I couldn't understand why, if Christ was all about forgiveness and grace, with abundant and incomprehensible, immeasurable mercy especially to those who don't deserve it, we had to punish the little babies who hadn't done anything, while also shaming the mothers.  Those babies didn't get a regular dedication in the church, and the moms didn't get to be encouraged and blessed by the other church members.  It seemed so anti-Christian to me.  We were always ready with our stones, trying to be the first to cast it at the fallen.

And if perfect repentance was the requirement for continued church membership, then none of us would qualify, right?  I seemed to put a lot of pressure on the potential church member to be sinless, and not really any focus on humbly walking with God, since He's the only one who can actually help.

'Course, now I don't think babies ought to be dedicated at all, but that they should be baptised into saving faith, but that's a different post.

Lenten Project: Day Five

My family, while being pretty extreme Independent Fundamentalist Baptists, was not as extreme as the Gothardites, or the Hyles-Anderson crazies.  Yet we did do one thing that our fellow "normal" Fundamentalists did not do.  We wore headcoverings.

Floral camouflage 

We didn't have to wear them all the time.  But Dad made us girls wear them to church.  Instead of making our own out of gauzy fabric, like the Amish and Mennonites, we just wore hats, usually berets.  When on furlough in the States, people called us the "beret family" because we always wore them during church services and missions conferences.  Many people thought we wore them all the time, as part of our religion or something, or to show people how much more holy than everyone else we were (I actually have had several people from old supporting churches tell me that's exactly what they thought).

From somewhere, probably the Free Presbyterians he hung out with while in seminary, Dad had picked up the notion that women needed to cover their heads when worshiping God in church, based on an interpretation of I Corinthians 11.  And we weren't allowed to question it or disagree.

But I struggled with it very much. For one thing, those berets were simply incredibly ugly.  (One time, I wore a ball cap instead, and ended up singing with the choir at our sending church. Not only was I the only one up there in the choir loft wearing a headcovering of any kind, but my mom also told me afterwards that I "looked ridiculous." That stung, because I didn't want to wear something on my head at all in the first place! So really, I thought, but didn't have the courage to say, it was my dad that made me look ridiculous.) For another, it didn't fit with the rest of what was taught to us, that all of our lives were to be worshipful and lived spiritually.  If that were true, then we would have been required to wear hats or headcoverings all the time, since we'd always be in a state of worship.  If there really was no difference between sacred and secular for a true believer, why the discrepancy?

I'm obviously thrilled to be stuck with the ugliest beret that day.

So, when I was around 17, I started wearing homemade headcoverings all the time.  One reason was because of the consistency thing.  It had really bugged me all my life that we only had to cover ourselves in church, but, when worshiping with the rest of our day-to-day lives, it was somehow less important to be covered.  I also wanted to be distinct and unique, to have a belief and faith practice of my very own that was not mandated by my parents.  This was the safest, most acceptable thing that would be allowed, since becoming an "evil, liberal, worldly" Evangelical was out of the question.

A scrap of lace, a few bobby pins, and voila! Righteous before God!

I did this till my freshman year of college.  It scared the creeps away from wanting to date me, which was great, but I realised I'd never get a date at all if I continued.  So I quietly quit, without explaining to anyone.  Because that's the Fundy way--to never admit you were wrong, but instead just change the behaviour or action and pretend you've always been that way.

In that same spirit, my dad stopped requiring us girls to wear headcoverings a short time after we moved to Singapore.  No explanation, no apology.  All those Bible verses to support the belief that were quoted to us as kids, just quietly jettisoned.  Now no one in my family does, aside from a sister or two still in Fundamentalism who picked up the practice again after college.

Prayer, my kryptonite

I don't like prayer. It scares me.

My aversion stems from my history. Prayer was introduced early in our home when I was a kid, and for that I am thankful. My father always made sure we knew to Whom we were speaking, and he taught us to properly structure our prayers--Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, and lastly Petition. I'll always be grateful for this exposure to what prayer ought to be, and hope that, over time, I will be able to return to that clear, appreciative view of prayer.

It was at Bob Jones University that prayer became deplorable for me. Every night, in every dormitory on campus, the students must gather at 10:30 for Prayer Group. In Prayer Group, the "spiritual leaders" from each room and of the group take turns leading by presenting a short devotional or asking for testimonies and prayer requests. Then each person kneels (this is required) and takes a turn saying a prayer. The student cannot pass or refuse to pray without being subject to severe scrutiny and possible eventual spiritual probation (a weekly counseling session with an unqualified peer where the student must confess sins committed each week).

Their prayers sound like the King James Bible (or the Showtime series, The Tudors)--lots of huge words that few comprehend, and many "thees" and "thous." Much convoluted doctrine gets added to the prayer, so that the one praying will sound very knowledgeable and spiritual.

I despised Prayer Group. I was never a leader, because I was deemed insufficiently qualified and even at one point, "not above reproach." But I was still forced to pray out loud every night, in front of girls I had seen in their underwear (we did all live together in a small space, after all), but in whose personal lives I was not interested.

Praying is a very intimate thing. And to be required to do so in public, knowing that my word choices were being judged and found wanting yet again, was humiliating. I could never keep my mind focused on the God to whom I was supposed to be speaking, but worried more about whether this or that phrase would sound satisfactory enough to see me through another night without being charged as unregenerate. (Yes, that happened on multiple occasions. How does one convince someone else, an obstinate, refusing to be convinced someone, that one is really within the family of God, bought by blood, saved by grace? One doesn't. One just gives up--I just gave up--in exhaustion.)

I repeatedly heard charges that I was "too proud" for God to incline His ear to me and hear my prayers. That was so painful because I wanted to fit in, I wanted to be an insider, a good Christian girl; yet no matter how hard I tried, I kept being rejected. So, I would mentally compose a decent, holy enough sounding prayer for Prayer Group, recite it when my turn came around, and then retreat back into my spiritual shell, because I was just so weary of all the pressure to perform, the pressure to conform. Those prayers were nothing more than pretty words; my heart was completely uninvolved.

Then, after I graduated and left Fundamentalism, I joined an Evangelical church. In the Evangelical world, praying is very personal, and the person praying aloud always makes it sound like he is talking to his buddy in the room with him. Only there's one problem: he says, "Lord," or "Father God" every three words. Over and over and over and over and over again. It's annoying to me, and I wonder if it is annoying to God to hear His name used so flippantly. Honestly, would you like it if I, in conversation with you, invoked your name every other word as though trying to get and keep your attention? Nope. you'd probably scream with exasperation before a minute had passed.

My spiritual wanderings within the wilderness of Christianity have brought me now to a confessional, Sacramental church tradition. Here, many of our prayers are recited, yet are meaningful. At the conclusion of choir rehearsal every week, each vocalist joins hands to form a circle around the room, and we say The Lord's Prayer together. It's amazing to me that my heart actually takes part in this, participates, and joins with the others who approach God in prayer. It's been a long time since prayer had any personal meaning for me.

Never has prayer been more real than at times my voice is lost, either unable to speak, or joined with a multitude of others, not prominent or being singled out. I am part of a community of believers, and we all pray together. I'm not required to offer an audible prayer for the satisfaction of others anymore.

And I like that. Maybe prayer doesn't have to be a chore after all.

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In the Holden Evening Prayer Service at my church last night, the theme for this day of Lent was the Ears of Christ. His ears are open to me, listening and actively hearing, even when I cannot speak. This is something I need to learn, to write it over the spiritual trauma of my past, to tattoo it on my brain.