Hugh Hollowell

Creating a compelling vision of a better world.

Evangelical Gifts: The evangelistic impulse

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Note: Last week, I mentioned I wanted to examine some of the things I got in my evangelical days that were gifts to me. This is the first one. 

It was the summer I turned 14, and I was at Bible camp. There were trails, and archery, and swimming (which the girls had to do with shirts on, lest we be led down the path to lust). There were Bible things, too, like sword drills, where we would be given a Bible reference and race to see who could find it the fastest.

And because we were low-church Protestants, there was lots of preaching. So much preaching.

There was a guy, I forget his name, who was a specialist brought in to relate to us young people. He was hip and cool, in a smarmy sort of way that youth ministers often are. He would talk to us every night and he only had two themes.

The first was that we needed to change, or repent. That our souls were in danger, and that if we did not change, were were bound for eternal torment. Apart from our accepting Jesus into our hearts, we were going to burn in hell.

But the secondary message that week was that the world needed to change. Not in a culture war sense – it was a little early for that discussion to make its way into my world – but in an individual sense. We were taught that the majority of the world were not Christians – not real true ones, anyway – and that if they did not change, they were also bound for hell.

“If you love someone, the most loving thing you can do for them is to get them to accept Jesus as their savior”, this guy said. “Because if they don’t, they will burn in hell for eternity. And it will be your fault, because you didn’t even try.”

No one was exempt from this. Our friends, our parents, our teachers… we were taught that apart from our telling them the truth about Jesus, they would burn in hell, and we would be responsible. I remember sitting around that campfire, crying huge, snotty tears for “the lost” – those people who would be punished eternally, for those who I could have reached and did not, for the times my “witness” – how I acted in public – showed my lack of concern for their soul.

If you did not grow up in this world, I want to assure you: We believed. We believed that there would be a literal day of judgement, when we would be weighed and found wanting. That God was angry at the world, and nothing but the blood of Jesus could save us from God’s wrath. And that crying for “the lost?” It was real, too. We wanted the whole world to be saved, and everything was geared to that, and around that.

Now, I want to say a couple of things about this:

The first is that I no longer believe that God is angry at me or you, and apart from the intervention of Jesus, I would burn in hell for eternity. I just don’t. There are things God is angry at – things like injustice, racism, hunger. But God isn’t angry at you.

I also want to say that putting the responsibility of the souls of our friends on us (that their eternal salvation depended upon our telling them about Jesus) was manipulative and just wrong.

But I also want to say that I think those of us who moved from more conservative spaces, like the one I grew up in, to more progressive understandings of the work of Jesus lost something irretrievable when we gave up the evangelistic impulse.

Around that campfire, we prayed – hard – for those who believed differently than we did. We cried over the thought that they wouldn’t. We studied what they believed with vigor and devotion so that we could “give an answer.” We sought evidence that would reinforce our arguments, and we went to classes to learn how to convince skeptics of our positions.

We actually cared, and saw it as central to our faith, that other people would change. And to a large extent, we believed that our primary job was to convince them to change.

I see none of that in the progressive church.

Understand, I am not saying that I think we should have some progressive tracts, or go door to door talking about hell. But I am saying that, in the progressive groups I am in, there is little concern about other people changing. Instead, what I hear most often is about how “we” are right, and “they” are, at best, wrong, or at worst, stupid, or inbred.

I have been in many progressive spaces where they taught us to protest, to name the injustice we see, to call out the oppressor. And I think that is right, and good, and we should do that.

But:

I have never been in a progressive space that taught me to convince a member of the alt-right of our position.

I have never been in a progressive Christian space that sought to teach me what the anti-environmentalist believes, and the fallacies in their thinking.

I have never been in a progressive Christian space that prayed for those who persecuted others, and where people cried real tears because we believed that we could play a part in their liberation.

I have never been in a progressive Christian space that seemed like it accepted any responsibility for changing the mind of anyone. Or for even trying.

And frankly, I have never been in a progressive Christian space where we were convinced that the soul of the oppressor was dependent upon their changing, and that we could play a part in that change.

I’m not just talking specialized training. I mean, at the pew level. Empowering and equipping Mary and Joe in the pews to effect lead people who think differently than they do to change.

I no longer believe that people will go to Hell if they do not accept Jesus as their savior. But I do believe that if the racist, the greedy, the powerful, the ego driven and the rest do not change, they will bring hell down upon themselves and other, more vulnerable people. I believe that if we can convince them to change, what could possibly have a higher priority than that? And that if we choose not to care about their souls, then what does that say about ours?

Throwback Thursday: Bonds and Betrayal

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Content warning: Discussion of sexual and spiritual violence, but no graphic descriptions. As always, do what you need to take care of yourself.  – HH

Note: I originally published this in 2016, but it got lost in the migration to the new site a while back. I am going through my computer archives and will be resharing some of my favorite posts every Thursday. 

JAMES TILLACK

I have a friend who, as a child, idolized his grandfather. His grandfather and he were inseparable. The grandfather taught him how to be in the world, how to navigate life, how to act like he thought a man should.

The grandfather was a minister, and highly respected in their small town. My friend became a minister himself,  in part to be like his grandfather. His most prized possession is his grandfather’s Bible, which he received at his grandfather’s death.

A few years ago, (long after the death of the grandfather), it came out that his grandfather was a serial child molester. He had not only molested children in his church, but his own daughter, my friend’s aunt. The aunt that was always quiet and withdrawn as an adult. The aunt that had trouble navigating the world. The aunt that had always seemed, somehow, broken.

I always wondered how you navigate that – what you do when you discover that someone you loved and respected, who taught you so much, who you idolized and wanted to be like – when you find out that they did monstrous things.

What does that do to your story? Are the things you learned from him now invalid? Is your judgement flawed? How do you know he didn’t try to turn you into a monster too? How do you process those memories? Are they now questionable?

# # #

When I was in my late twenties, the questions I had around faith were no longer capable of being answered by the Methodism of my childhood, and I went searching. I flirted with Buddhism for a while, but I am far too much a practitioner to ever be happy sitting on the floor.

I discovered the activist Catholics (like Thomas Merton and Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin) who taught me you could be Christian and work for justice, too. They led me to death penalty protesters, who led me to nonviolence, which, if you stay there long enough, will lead you to Mennonites.

To a person, everyone that I asked who I should read to understand the Mennonite position told me to read John Howard Yoder. So I did – I bought Politics of Jesus and realized I had came home. These were my people. I followed that up with Body Politics and What Would You Do – a primer on nonviolence – and I was sold. It wasn’t just that it made sense to me, but it made sense of me.

I joined the church, and then was pulled aside and told by several elders, that it was obvious I had a call to be in ministry. They would query me, shelter me, love me and, eventually, ordain me. They groomed me for leadership.

My work now among people experiencing homelessness is directly because of my Anabaptist convictions – convictions I was first exposed to in the words of John Howard Yoder.

In recent years, it has come to (more public) light that during his lifetime, Yoder was a serial molester – that it is estimated he abused, molested or raped more than 100 women, in the name of pursuing “the perfection” of his theology.

The man who taught me the basics of nonviolence was a perpetrator of violence. The man who wrote in Body Politics against abuse of power was an abuser of power.

What does this do to my story? Is what I learned invalid? Does this invalidate nonviolence? Are the theories I learned about power wrong? Is nonviolence just a pipe dream? How much of my story does this put into question? Hell, how much of the theories around my work does this put into question?

# # #

These days, I pastor people, most of whom have been hurt by the church.

I have had deep conversations with so many people who have been sexually abused by church leaders I have lost count.

A significant portion of my little flock identify as LGBT, and many of them attribute their homelessness to being kicked out of their family’s life once they came out, because of their family’s religious convictions.

My friend Lindsay was kicked out of her home at 16, when she came out to her mom. Her mom called the preacher, who said that tough love was the only thing that would change her sinful ways. Her mamma kicked her out and has refused her calls since then. Lindsay is now 26 and a survival sex-worker, with a crack habit and HIV. And she hasn’t been home in 10 years.

Or the woman – one of the most gifted pastoral personalities I know – who was told she could never be a pastor, because she was a woman. And while she knew there were churches that did not believe that, none of those churches were her church. So she didn’t go into ministry, convinced what she thought was her call from God was invalid.

I know all these stories, and more. They are legion.

But none of them are my story.

I had a wonderful time in church. I was always loved, and taught to love. I belonged, I felt safe there, I grew up there, developed life-long friendships there. The problems I had in my twenties were about religion – they weren’t about church.

I loved church – right up until I learned the truth. Until I was a trusted pastor person, who got trusted with other people’s stories. Until I learned that many people did not have my experience. I loved church until I learned that for many people, the church was their molester, or at the least, the enabling system that allowed the molestation to happen.

I am a pastor. I preach most weeks, and I bury and marry people. I say the words of institution at The Lord’s Supper every week, and I baptize a couple of folks a year.

But I seldom go to church anymore – at least, not when I am on my own. Not when I am not paid to be there. Not for my own benefit.

Because I have too many questions: How much of what I learned was invalid? How much was fake? How much was abusive, but I didn’t recognize it? How much was coercion? How much was propaganda?

How much, dammit, of my own story is now in question?

Notes: I recognize that a large reason I was groomed for leadership was my maleness and my whiteness and my social skills I had learned – in other words, a lot of it wasn’t just my being lucky, it was factors beyond my control. It was privilege. That said, I also recognize that those of us with privilege have a responsibility to use it to the benefit of those who do not.  

The oppressed never have an obligation to educate the oppressor, but I am grateful to those people who have been patient with me, who have taught me, who have educated me and who teach me still. Every single time, it has been a gift. 

Thanks to my friends Jasmin and Jay for looking over this before I hit publish, to make sure I didn’t make an ass of myself. Any credit goes to those who have taught me, and only the mistakes are mine. 

 

Evangelical Gifts

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I was in Albuquerque last week with the folks from Red Letter Christians, most of whom are firmly evangelical (if mostly on the progressive end). Looking around that room, it was readily apparent to me that I no longer find myself in the Evangelical Christian camp. (The Evangelical Christians decided that for themselves years ago.) From simple cultural markers like their use of only masculine pronouns for God to doctrinal positions they hold, that room was no longer my theology, nor my anthropology.

But it used to be. I grew up evangelical. I “got saved” when I was 14. Got re-baptized at 16, just in case the first one didn’t take. And while I am clear that is no longer where I find myself, Evangelicalism nurtured me and fed me for the first 25 years or so of my life. I learned about Jesus there. I learned how to be me there.  And while not everything I learned there was good, some of the things I learned there were very good, and finding myself mostly in Mainline and secular spaces these days, I find I miss those things.

So, in keeping with my desire to catch people doing things right, I had started making a list of those things for this post. But then the post got really long, so I decided it needed to be a couple of posts. So this week and next, I have another three posts planned about what the Evangelicals taught me that I miss, and that I think the rest of the church could learn from.

Harsh and dreadful love

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In 2010, I wrote this as a submission to a book project best left forgotten. However, I have always been fond of it, even if it isn’t how I would write the same story now, and came across it recently while doing some digital housekeeping. I hope you enjoy it.  – HH

I have a confession: I love Johnny Cash. I know, I know, everybody loves Johnny Cash. Now. But not many people were showing him any love back in the early 1990’s. He was washed up. Forgotten. Out of date. Just plain… old.

But I was a true believer. I have always loved Johnny Cash, even when it looked like his career was over. I have digital copies of his entire discography.

Every. Single. Album.

I know the words to all of the songs, even the bad ones (If there were bad ones – a point I am not entirely willing to concede).

I love Johnny Cash.

And I also love my wife. But while my wife and I, like any married couple, have our ups and downs, Johnny and I have never had a bad day. It’s always been smooth sailing between Johnny and me. Johnny has never been upset when I forgot the milk. I have never snapped at Johnny because I couldn’t find my shoes.

But that is because Johnny and I don’t have a real relationship. I never met Johnny Cash. He never knew my name. All I have is his music and the meaning I place on that music and the feelings and emotion I put on him. It turns out, Johnny and I hate the same people.

Meanwhile, my wife and I have a real relationship. On some days it is a lot like heaven, and other days it reminds me of the other place. Sometimes, it’s an act of sheer will to reach the end of the day. But that is because it is a real relationship, involving real people and real pain and real feelings.

In the Gospels, Jesus says the entirety of scripture can be summed up in just two statements:

Love God with all you have in you. Love your neighbor as yourself.

Love God, and love your neighbor. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? I mean, who can be against loving your neighbor? Hearing this over and over in our liturgies and our devotions for over two thousand years, we have lost sight of the radical nature of what Jesus is proposing.

Because it’s not just “Love your neighbor”. It’s “Love your neighbor as yourself”.

What does our loving our neighbor have to do with my love for Johnny Cash?

Simply this: I don’t love Johnny Cash – just the idea of Johnny Cash. And we’re much better at loving the idea of our neighbor than we are at actually loving our neighbor.

In The Brothers Karamazov, a young widow is speaking to the wise old priest. She confesses her dream of serving the poor, of tending the wounds of the sick, of feeding the hungry. But she is concerned: What if the poor are unappreciative? What if they are rude? What if they are petty and demanding? The priest tells her that “Love in practice is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams”.

It is into this harsh and dreadful reality that Jesus calls us.

* * *

Erica is a pain in my ass.

No matter what spin I put on it, she just isn’t a very nice person.

Erica is one of the many at-risk people I work with every day. She is constantly on the brink of homelessness and several times a year ends up in a physical relationship where she gets physically abused. To protect herself, she has learned to be the abuser, not the abused. She is rude and angry and, often, very drunk.

On Saturdays and Sundays, we have ‘Breakfast in the Park’, our little meal sharing initiative where we bring coffee and sausage and biscuits to the park and share with whoever comes. No agenda, other than sharing from our abundance and performing the Gospel in public.

When she shows up, however, Erica always has an agenda. She breaks in line. She pesters folks for money. She bitches about the color of the free jacket we gave her or that Stephanie got a nicer one than she did. If you don’t watch her, she will get back in line, ostensibly to get another jacket or pair of shoes for her ‘cousin’, which will actually end up on Martin Street, traded for her drug of choice.

If that was not enough, Erica is a first class bigot, too. She yells at the Latino men she imagines are trying to cut in front of her. Since Erica is black, this adds a delightful bit of racial tension to our little gathering.

I often wish she would just go away.

Just before Christmas, it hit a new level. Samir is a delightful Indian man who always lives in that gray area between housed and homeless. He is always smiling and happy, and I have seen him take shoes we have given him and give them to someone who needed them more. He is not just a guest of ours – he is also a volunteer, helping us set up the tables and unpack the vehicles. I wish I had 100 volunteers just like Samir.

Erica was at the head of the line. Samir was wrestling the coffee urn from the car when Erica shouts “I don’t want that A-rab touching my food. He looks like a terrorist or something”.

I blew my top. “Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” I shout at Erica. “Samir is my friend and our guest – just like you are. If you don’t want food Samir has touched, you can leave.”

She mumbled something under her breath – I am not sure what it was, but I am pretty sure it was not “I love you”. She took her food and coffee and marched away, quietly, for which I was thankful.

The next week, I saw Erica coming down the sidewalk toward where we were setting up. Samir, who was unloading the coffee, saw her first and pointed her out to me. I thought, “Oh Boy! Here we go again…” I had this bad feeling in my gut – like when you see the train wreck coming, but really can’t do anything about it. But she surprised me.

She comes up to me. “Hugh”, she said. “I owe you an apology. I am sorry for the way I acted last week. I was wrong, and you were right to chew me out. Are we still friends?”

You can look at this one way and believe that nothing has changed. Erica is still a liar and a thief, and her presence still brings tension to the group when she shows up. On another level, she at least owns up to her end of the relationship, and that is not a small thing at all. And I have come to realize I had not loved Erica as I did myself – I only loved Erica as I wished she was. I loved my idea of Erica. No wonder she kept disappointing me.

Several weeks now into this new aspect of our relationship, Erica and I are not yet pals, but we are civil to each other when we run into each other, which is often. Last time I gave her a biscuit, she said thank you and I didn’t want to punch her, so maybe she has traveled a bit farther than I have. But we are working on it.

John the evangelist tells us that God is love, and that God loved the world. If the world has any hope of redemption, that redemption is only going to come about because of love. But not the love of dreams, but the harsh and dreadful love that only comes from real relationships with real people.

Long before we can ever learn to love one another, we are going to have to get to know each other. Even when it is hard.

Maybe especially when it is hard.