Barely
Why I can barely claim the word “Christian.”
By Anni Ponder
“I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”
If I met you in a bar or on the subway or really anywhere we could chat, and you made a derogatory comment about Christianity, I’d listen extra hard. If you said it was because of any number of atrocious acts committed at the hands of people who call themselves Christians, I’d nod my head. If you told me you thought Jesus seemed like a nice guy, but people who worship Him could be monsters, I’d probably agree.
Then if I told you I was a Christian, I’d want you to know I don’t think we’ve done a very good job of bringing Jesus’ messages to life.
If you said, “Yeah. What about the Crusades, or the Inquisition? How could Jesus be good if that’s what His people did?” then I might—depending on the mood of our conversation—make a Monty Python reference to nobody expecting the Spanish Inquisition.
Then I would nod, and say, “That was not Christlike. It was inexcusable. And when I first learned about the many times Christians have forced their system on others, I felt sick to my stomach.”
If you said, “How about the way Christians supported slavery? How can you say God is good while Christians were behind the slave trade and fought Abolition because they thought owning people was their God-given right?” I would take a deep breath.
Maybe I’d take another few. Then I’d say, “That was wrong. And there’s no justification. No excuse. It was evil. Not of Christ. And when I first learned about it, it brought me to my knees.”
Perhaps then you might bring it in closer to home. “There’s been plenty of wrongdoing by Christians in modern times. Have you read the papers? Have you seen how Christians have screamed to gay youth that God hates them? Have you heard about Christians murdering abortion clinic workers? Abusing their own children? Embezzling money meant for charity?”
I would get very quiet. “Yes,” I would say. “All this and more. Much more. It’s enough to make anyone want to run as far in the other direction as possible. In fact, I did, for a while. I understand. It’s awful.”
I would hope that, by now, one thing would be clear: I am deeply aware of the horrendous suffering that has been brought to this world at the hands of people claiming to follow Jesus. And I don’t blame anybody for wanting nothing to do with Him, if that’s how His followers are going to be.
“I wouldn’t try to point out that there are so many really nice Christians.”
I would not make any excuses. I wouldn’t try to tell you to just look past the brutalities, the injustices. I wouldn’t try to point out that there are so many really nice Christians.
I’d just say, with a heavy heart, “Yes, I know. That’s why I call myself barely Christian.”
I’d elaborate. It isn’t just the heinous acts I can’t support. It’s also many of the tenets, which of course all depend upon how you interpret the text to begin with. Like God burning folks alive for eternity for one erroneous lifetime on earth. Like women’s subordination as secondary creatures. Like the exclusive maleness of God. Like the “rightness” of heteronormative folk and the inherent “wrongness” of the folks represented by the rainbow flag.
You see, there are so many things about Christianity that I just cannot sign my name to.
But, Jesus.
Despite everything, I just cannot get enough of Him. And His Parents (if we happened to have time for more conversation, I’d elaborate about my adoration and love of God the Mother as well as the Father).
As I mentioned, I did walk away from Jesus for a time, because I could no longer identify with all the pain, all the unnecessary suffering. I couldn’t bear to call myself a Christian.
But, Jesus.
He’s just home to me. His love is so pure, so good, so . . . right. It’s the only thing I really know at all.
So. I made a decision. I came back to my faith, or at least, the essence of it. What I found is that in my disgust I had thrown Baby Jesus out with the bathwater, but I didn’t need to. When I returned to Him, He didn’t ask me to affirm all the many doctrines of the church I’d been raised in. He didn’t say I had to accept the atrocities that had driven me away. He just welcomed me back in a wild embrace, and I realized I’d never really been away from His love at all.
“They’re just wrecked people, wrecking people.”
Because those other things? They’re not Him. They’re just wrecked people, wrecking people. They’re just fears, materializing into waking nightmares because it’s so easy to go the way of separation instead of wholeness.
“So,” I would say. “I get it. I don’t like it either. But have you ever encountered pure love? I tell you what, one taste of that and everything else seems to fall away.”
If you wanted to know more, I’d be happy to share what I’ve experienced. If you said you just couldn’t stomach it, I’d understand. Christianity might not be your thing. But love? Now there’s a universal need. And the good news is love is available no matter where you sign your name.
Before parting, I’d thank you for the conversation—what a gift. And I’d tell you I hope to see you around, and I’d love to be friends. Not because I’m trying to sneak in Jesus wherever I can, in the hopes that one day I’ll convert you to my way of thinking. Just because, in the time we spent talking, the love within me has reached out to the love within you, and I already think you’re spectacular.
