Church

I was having a tough conversation with a very good friend of mine who was, and still is being hurt by the church.

Because of her current circumstance, my friend had to make some very difficult changes in her life. Someone well respected in the faith who disagreed with some of those changes asked her, "So have you renounced your faith?" insinuating that a certain "choice" she had made meant that she had turned her back on God, or that for some reason God couldn't love her anymore because of something she couldn't control. And it's messed up. While it's possible that the person asking was concerned for my friend's walk with God, the question itself is so insulting and marginalizing for someone who is hurting and trying to navigate their new normal. 

It may also bring up feelings of abandonment from both peers at church and from God. I truly believe my friend made the right decision to move forward with her life. Those changes came at a huge cost and tears and required a lot of courage. I can't imagine making a change like that knowing that it would also mean that God would stop loving me.

When I heard of my friend's situation, it was familiar - but I felt that I couldn't relate because I had never experienced this myself.  At least directly. 

As I read more about addiction and the 12 steps I realize how addiction support groups are all borne from the same fear that people have of abandonment from the church or from God. I've been a member of four different churches in my adult life, and I don't think I would feel safe admitting my addiction, fears or issues with anybody on a Sunday.  The risk is that if I admit the addiction, I would become that guy with a sexual addiction. I would be that guy that doesn't have the faith to conquer his sin. I would be the that guy that wouldn't be safe to have around their children or wives or girlfriend. I would be that guy that turned his back on God to masturbate.

In his book "Samson and the Pirate Monks", Nate Larkin talks about a person who decided to take the church's rhetoric about grace and forgiveness at face value and bare his soul in a desperate bid for freedom:

As soon as the fateful words were uttered he looked around, hoping somebody would say, “Me too,” but all he heard were crickets. After a pause, a curious investigator launched into spiritual cross-examination. Then a few concerned “ex-sinners” gathered around him and preached a series of sermons disguised as prayers. Finally, a helpful brother prescribed three Scripture verses to be taken in the morning and at bedtime. Later, the guy was assigned to a probation officer—excuse me, an “accountability partner”—who would check in on him for a few weeks to make sure he had actually turned around.

In all this religious activity, he heard this message loud and clear: “You have lost status, boy. For the foreseeable future, you can forget about being a leader in this group, or even a trusted member. Maybe later, if you can demonstrate that you have been fully rehabilitated and if you promise never to speak that way again, we will consider reinstating your membership.

I feel like there's very little safety in the Sunday church for those that have problems, are hurting or need to talk.  The Sunday church is great if you want to serve, learn, talk about sports, and feel like you're a part of something. The people mean well, and I don't say that with any cynicism - but most are simply unequipped with dealing with the hurt and those that are seeking help and support.

Many people who attend addiction support groups consider their time with each other what the real church should be. There is a real freedom in being able to share something, and being met with the kind of silence that means understanding, heartbreak and solidarity.  The feeling that you get when you know somebody is hearing your story, internalizing it and carrying you through it.  There is a real freedom in knowing that someone else has also fought your battle, is still fighting the same battle, and has found daily victory.

It's so true when Nate says:

In church we are allowed to speak of past victories over sin, but not battles that are still underway. As a result we promote a gospel of our own construction. This is not the gospel the New Testament talks about, the foundation strong enough to bear the weight of the world and the depravity of the redeemed. Ours is flimsy, too fragile to carry our failures.

I'm thankful I do not have to deal with this addiction alone, and my heart breaks for those that feel like they have to face their problems without any help.  Addicts like to keep things hidden, and they do that because of fear. Courage from fear can only come from a place where they can see victory in sight, where there are others to help them, and where they won't feel abandoned.