following Jesus is more complicated than we might suppose

You have searched me, Adonai.
    You know me.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
    Where can I escape your presence?  Psalm 139:1, 7

I don’t pray much anymore, not with words anyway. I hope I’m not fooling myself but I’ve concluded in recent years that God is less interested in wordy prayers or even I-Thou gazing than in our leading lives of prayer – trying to be and do as we are led by the Holy.

Sometimes I miss prayer times but in honesty I seem to be in a post-Christian part of my life. There I said it. Almost two years ago, I left my pastoral role at a local United Methodist Church and while I’ve made peace with not going there – did you know UM clergy aren’t allowed to attend a church where we served? – and am attending First Universalist Unitarian, I do not have a church home. While grieving this loss, I’m beginning not to miss it.

Ever since Constantine converted in 312 CE and subsequently declared Christianity to be the religion of the Roman Empire (from England to Turkey, the Holy Lands and northern Africa) Christianity has kept company with empire. Hear that. For all but the first 300 years after Jesus’ life and death, Christianity has been the religion of empire. Among other things this means that Jesus’ message of radical love for the other was compromised in favor of an easily measurable “say-the-right-words” religion.

Although some hold onto the word Christendom to mean the body of all Christian believers, its historic meaning was more about the power of the Church – in Europe, particularly – after it aligned itself with governments, and the ways that this power was wielded.

(When I write Church with a big C, I’m speaking of the Christian Church as a whole. For a thousand years, we were (almost) all one Church. Then for another five hundred, we were two branches of the same faith tree. That’s most of Christian history. Don’t give in to the luxury of thinking this isn’t about you.)

Christendom led to lots of wars. It encouraged colonization, the usually violent conquest of peoples for their own spiritual good (and to line Christian pockets). Even when atrocities were committed without the express support of the Church – and usually, it was right there in the thick of things – it seldom condemned the genocide, murder and rape. Kings were believed to be chosen by God. They sought and received blessings from their bishops before every endeavor.

When we find ourselves despairing about people’s religion today, we want to remember that, along with examples of faith, our spiritual ancestors offer us a long history of oppression and white supremacy. This history of treating peoples as if they are “less than” while also instructing them to seek atonement for their very existence is what we must own and for which we must repent. Last week, Pope Francis did so in regard to Canada’s boarding school horror. Historic white Christian supremacy fuels homophobia, xenophobia, and misogyny. White extremism is build on the premise of Christendom.

In recent years, I’ve felt helpless to confront the hatred that’s exhibited in the name of Christianity. After saying I was Christian I'd taken to adding, “not that kind of Christian.” But saying this leads me into an “us” versus “them” mentality that I don’t want to perpetuate.

Maybe you’ve had similar thoughts. I’m aware that many of the folks with whom I ministered at Appleton: First UMC left after the denomination’s governing body could not agree that our LGBT+ siblings are as fully beloved of God as anyone, ought to be able to marry in our churches and to be ordained if they feel so led and that leading is affirmed by those charged with guiding them.

What are we to do?

When I used to meet with individuals toward the end of their Confirmation classes, I tried to impress upon them the importance of resting with the questions and not accepting easy answers. Most thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds haven’t gained the maturity to understand that important questions require spiritual wrestling in order for us to grow into answers we wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. (Sadly, many adults never allow themselves to do this either and spiritually stagnate.)

All of this to say: I don’t have an answer. I try to resist hiding in my own silo but admit that exposing myself to another’s anger or ridicule is scary. Still, I believe that as a Jesus-follower (what I call myself), I need to love the haters as much as the outsiders, not feeling-wise but with words and actions. It’s hard. But when following Jesus is easy, there’s a good chance we’re doing it wrong.

Take care.