I do not attend church (or any “house of worship”) regularly anymore. However, one hot, humid, Sunday morning this past August, I wended my way to St. Mark’s Episcopal to hear my friend, Dale, preach. He does “pulpit supply” there (his home church) occasionally. Dale earned an MFA (Master of Fine Arts) in creative writing after finishing his seminary studies. He’s written a one-man play titled “Jesus Phreak” and has performed it in churches and universities nationwide. Dale and I have been friends for a decade or so. He identifies as a Christian, but he’s not like any Christian I’ve ever known.
Church is familiar to me. I was born to Protestant, missionary parents who “served the Lord” in Buenos Aires, Argentina, after graduating from Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, Illinois. My parents had a “special burden” for Jews and worked to bring them to “the knowledge of Jesus Christ.” In other words, they sought to convert Jews to Christianity–not just any Christianity, but the specific Christianity my parents believed in–a literal, “fundamental” understanding of Scripture made popular by Dwight L. Moody (1837-1899) and Cyrus I. Scofield (1843-1921).
I was raised on church and Sunday School, attending three services every Sunday for years. Later on, as a young adult in the United States, I added Wednesday night prayer meeting, heeding a pastor’s adage: “Those who love the church come on Sunday morning, those who love the pastor come on Sunday evening, but those who love the Lord come on Wednesday night.” I did not stop my regular church attendance (non-denominational, Baptist, Presbyterian, Reformed Episcopal, and just plain Episcopal–in that order) until well into my 40s. By then, I could no longer contort myself to fit the mold “church” demanded from me. Continue reading “Whose God is it, Anyway? by Esther Nelson”
Feminism and Religion 