When the Church is Like Trump

As I've watched the election process over the past twelve years (it feels like it) there’s something I’ve noticed about Donald Trump.

As I have heard him recount interactions with various people and members of the media, he’s said something I’ve never heard a politician say,“She treated me really unfairly” or “He was really unfair” or “They really weren’t nice.”

The responses bewildered me because the way he had been treated was really no different than any presidential candidate walking through the normal vetting process.

Then it hit me. Donald Trump has never been treated fairly. He’s a child of privilege.

A while back I was listening to a Christian speaker talking about America. He described the shifting American culture and the persecution of the American church. He listed a couple of stories that were troubling and which bothered me. Still as I listened, I was a bit bewildered because what I heard sounded no different than the struggles of a Christian, "walking through the normal vetting process."

Then it hit me. We, the American church, are children of privilege.

Donald Trump has been so preferred in his life, he doesn't recognize fairness. When you have been habitually preferred, to be treated fairly is unfair. The reason you can't ask hard questions is, no one ever has.

The same is true of the American church. For over 200 years we have had the privilege of being the dominant religion and the dominant culture. When other ideas and cultures are thrust into our multicultural society it makes us uncomfortable. And we confuse loss of privilege with persecution.

I understand things are changing in the U.S. And I understand it can be uncomfortable and may even lead to a period of persecution. What I also understand is if our culture is shifting away from our values we shouldn't take a hard look at the culture, we should take a hard look at ourselves.

Why hasn't the church shifted the culture in America? Why does its impact seem so insignificant? Worse, why hasn't my life changed the neighborhood I live in? Why haven't I reached the guy next door?

Safe

Nancy and I were recently at a wedding for our friend Jenn. It was a hot summer day in Colorado’s Ridgeway state park, in a little amphitheater overlooking a picturesque lake with the Rockies towering all around. Idyllic is too weak a word. 

The picture doesn't do it justice

Sometimes, Jenn can run a bit… late. This day was no different. So Nancy and I had lots of time to chat up the other guests. After a bit a lady walked up with her two little girls, maybe 8 and 5 years old, the youngest shoving popcorn in her mouth like a chipmunk who’d just finished a 40 day fast.

The girls were bright, beautiful and played easily together as mom had duties taking pictures. What captured me was the engagement of the youngest. She sat close to me and talked to me like I was the nice uncle who lived next door.

She talked about her toys, games, the popcorn she was eating and the ants who were dragging away the pieces she dropped. At some point she became fascinated with my floppy camo hat. She took it off and put it on. She put it on Nancy’s head. She put it on the lady sitting next to Nancy. Then the next lady. Then the guy next to her.

Now, it’s pushing 90 degrees and I’ve been wearing that hat all afternoon. I sweat like a glass of ice water. I was a bit anxious about her putting my hot hat on the heads of perfect strangers, many of them women who I know spent more than 3 minutes fixing their hair for a wedding.

But here’s the deal, she wasn’t anxious at all. Nor were the people she was trading the hat with. No one scolded her. Everyone laughed and sat patiently with it and waited until their turn was over. I sat and watched in wonder.

Here was a little girl, uninhibited by the strangers around her and unafraid. She was a girl raised in safety.

The world is not a safe place. Some of us learn quickly, people can cut us. Sometimes our bodies, sometimes our souls, but the lesson is the same, people can’t be trusted. She had yet to learn the lesson. And it was more beautiful than the scenery surrounding us.

She was inhibition free. Unconcerned with what was proper or improper. Why? Because somewhere deep inside she understood, “This is a safe place. This is a place where I can be me.”

For so many that's not true in the Church. And that's heartbreaking. And I wonder for how many, that's not true of me.

True safety is found in strength and vulnerability. The power to refuse the floppy hat. The willingness to embrace it. 

The Cheese is Off the Cracker

The other morning I was making my version of an Egg McMuffin. I had the English muffin in the toaster oven, one half with cheese the other ham, baking nicely. The toaster oven dinged and I went to take it out.

When I tried to remove the half with cheese, it slipped between the grates and the cheese ended up on the bottom of the oven. I sighed in exasperation, tried to take it out, but couldn't. I realized the oven had a false bottom to remove crumbs easily, so I slid it out. The cheese slid off and onto the hot oven's surface. I yelled at it.

I grabbed a nearby butter knife and tried to get it out, but again and again it slipped off and continued oozing. I threw the knife hard on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. It was over. I was undone. The cheese was completely off the cracker.

I've been mad at everything lately. I've yelled at Nancy. I've yelled at coworkers... during our department devotions. I have zero tolerance for BS. Zero. Songs on the radio, Facebook posts, even a local ministry talking about their impact, I hear them and think angrily, "You're so full of crap!"

But here's the deal. Anger is a secondary emotion. It comes from somewhere, some other emotion. In my case grief.  I've written already how, after a 15 year journey, the weight of Mom's loss has surprised me. I was ill prepared.

I realize now I'm running. Filling my days with things to do, the radio, TV, filling my head with anything to avoid thinking about Mom's last days. Her last breaths. The images cling to me like the stench of old sponge that's been in the kitchen sink to long. And I can't wash them off.

It's not wrong to be angry. It's part of the grieving process. And sometimes it's the most godly response we can have. We just need to be sure we understand where the anger is coming from. Only then can we work through it, or point it in the right direction.

Fortunately, Nancy and my coworkers love me. They know I'm struggling. They have given me permission to not be OK.

When I walked back in the kitchen my muffin was waiting for me on the table. Nancy had cleaned things up and assembled it nicely. When your cheese is off your cracker, there is no greater gift, than people in your life who don't yell at you to clean up your mess. Instead, they love you enough in that moment to wait with you and when you're ready, help you reassemble the broken pieces.