Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

faith & spirituality

When following Jesus doesn’t mean what I think it means {a synchroblog post}

Follow Jesus, they said. It’ll make your life better, they said.

Okay, maybe nobody said that. Maybe that’s just what I heard.

Except that what I first heard was from Jesus.

“Come,” He said. “Just as you are,” He said.

So I did. I jumped right in and felt the love of a God who required nothing of me.

Except that I soon learned that God did require things. Things like:

Obedience, which I translated into Always Doing the Thing I Didn’t Want To Do.

Holiness, which I translated into Never Doing a Wrong Thing Ever Again.

Trust, which I translated into Never Worrying About Anything in My Life Ever Again (or at least Not Telling Anyone If I Do Worry).

Faith, which I translated into Always Having the Right Answer Even If I’m Not Sure Myself  What the Answer Is (also Never Having Doubts or Questions About What I  Believe).

And then Something happened. A Something so big that it requires a capital letter.

These things that I thought about following Jesus didn’t ensure a good life. In fact, life got the worst it possibly could get and I wondered what I did wrong. I thought I was following Jesus. Wasn’t my faith supposed to be a shield from these kinds of difficulties? Didn’t these sorts of things only happen to people who didn’t have Jesus in their lives?

The big Something was more than five years ago now, but I’m still asking those questions. And the things I thought I knew about following Jesus are less certain now. It’s like I had a jar full of faith trinkets and someone dumped it out and scattered the contents all over the house and now I’m still picking up the pieces and deciding what to put back in the jar. (Or if I even need the jar at all.)

I’m sorting it out, as Sarah Bessey calls it in her new book Out of Sorts (review of the book is in a separate post). I’m wrestling with questions I didn’t think to have all those years ago, and while I sometimes want to discard my early years of following Jesus all together, I know that some of those beliefs and actions are valuable, even if just as reminders of where I was at the time. We don’t have to junk family heirlooms simply because they’re old.

But some of those former ways are damaged and it’s time to toss them.

I wish I could tell you for sure what I believe about following Jesus today. Or what it will look tomorrow or five years from now. It’s ever-changing, and that’s okay, because my life is ever changing. Just because God is not changing doesn’t mean my understanding of Him won’t change.

Out of Sorts theology

Even writing those words feels sinful sometimes. Am I supposed to change what I believe about God and living out my faith?

[bctt tweet=”But what I was supposed to do never saved me and it never will.”]

If I’ve learned anything about following Jesus it’s that it’s all about following Him. Shocking, right? I’m no longer interested in following a set of rules if it means I lose Jesus in the process. I’m no longer certain that there’s only one way to follow Him, only one way to be a Christian. To be honest, there are a whole lot more things I don’t know than I do know. Maybe I’ve lost my religion, a la R.E.M., or maybe not.

What I do know is this: I haven’t lost Jesus.

And I’m still sorting it out.

That used to terrify me, the unraveling of my faith, the questions about what I believe.

Now, though, I welcome it.

The questions don’t scare me anymore. Most of the time, they make my faith stronger.

Following Jesus doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. And that’s more than okay.

To celebrate the launch of her new book, Sarah Bessey is hosting a syncroblog on the topic of “I used to think ____ but now I think____.” Head over to Sarah’s blog to join the conversation.

How has what you believe changed over time?

Why I (still) choose the church

Our history isn’t long, me and the church, or maybe it is longer than I think, but officially it is only a decade and a half. Long enough anyway to have ups and downs and trials along the way. My relationship with the church is longer than my marriage, and neither are without their problems.

Every now and then our family skips church for a week, which at one time I would have counted among the worst sins, in favor of family time or visiting friends. It’s usually in the midst of a chaotic schedule. It’s a reset of sorts. A short break. We always go back the next week or the next. Sometimes, if we’re traveling, the weeks add up, but we’ve never gone a month’s worth of missing on Sundays. At least not that I can recall.

Some days I want to, though. I’ve toyed with the idea of walking away from church more than once. When I’m hurt or confused or just plain tired, I wonder why on earth I’m still part of this messy relationship. (I should mention here that I am part of the mess. It’s me AND it’s you, church.) Wouldn’t I be more fulfilled by sleeping and resting on Sundays? Wouldn’t it be easier to go out for breakfast as a family instead of wrangling children out the door and into seats and off to classes for a couple of hours? Wouldn’t I feel better if we just spent the day however we wanted it instead of starting our “rest” after noon?

Maybe.

But here’s why I’m still choosing the church, even when I think I want to walk away.

Stefan Kunze | via unsplash

Stefan Kunze | via unsplash

The church is both a place and a people to me. There is the building we enter most Sunday mornings and there are the people inside other buildings who have played significant roles in our lives. There are people here, in our community, and people on the other side of the world. We are a church together and we meet in groups, inside and outside, here and there.

I keep coming back because the church is the first place I learned that love isn’t limited to the people who share your blood.

[bctt tweet=”The church is the first place I learned that love isn’t limited to the people who share your blood.”]

The church–its people–have loved us well through a lot of hard times. They’ve treated us better than we deserve. They still do. Before there was an “us,” there were church ladies praying for our union. They were teaching me how to cook for a crowd and slice fresh bread, how to laugh at life’s absurdities and how to weather its adversities. In the church I learned how to stretch a food budget before I needed to. I learned to make pizza dough from scratch, though I’m still terrible at it. I felt the effects of prayer and generosity and encouragement. Rarely have I walked into a gathering of the church and not felt loved and welcome. Even before I believed, they accepted me. (I know this is not everyone’s experience. Later this week, I’ll tell you about how much my beliefs have changed.)

I choose the church because sometimes I need a reminder that I’m not the only who is having a rough day. Or week. Or year. I need the communion of saints, the shared sufferings, the united declarations of hope and peace. I need a place where I can safely say, “It’s going to be okay, and even if it’s not, God remains.” I need to see in the flesh those who have struggled and survived. I need the hugs. The words of encouragement. The care and concern.

I keep coming back because when I see my daughter’s name on the prayer list, I know that she is not only being prayed for, but she is a valued member of our group. She is not just our daughter but her own unique self. She is missed when she’s absent. And our son, the rambunctious boy who doesn’t know the meaning of quiet, has a village of people who show him love and grace and patience. In the church, our children are not secondary to us. They are with us and among us. They are part of us. I don’t go to church only for my children but I’m grateful that my children get to know what it’s like to gather together weekly with people who aren’t relatives. For now, they enjoy it, and that is a good thing.

I choose the church because I need to know I’m not alone. When I feel rejected, insecure, like I don’t belong anywhere, the church reminds me that we’re all in the same boat. In the church, we belong to each other (that’s a borrowed phrase from Momastery). We belong with each other. The church, at its root, is a group of misfits. Rich and poor, young and old, from around here, not from around here, raised in the faith, new to the faith, married, single, with kids, without kids. Our humanity is our common denominator and our commitment to show up for each other holds us together.

I keep coming back to the church not because it’s perfect but because it isn’t. Sure, church is difficult sometimes. So is family. So is living with myself. But the good outweighs the bad, and the bottom line is that I need the church.

The church is my place to practice grace. And receive it. To love and be loved. To serve and be served. To grow and be challenged to grow and to help others grow.

I still choose church, even when I think I want to leave it.