Drawing My Own Map

“No one can pass through life, any more than he can pass through a bit of country, without leaving tracks behind, and those tracks may often be helpful to those coming after him in finding their way”– Robert Baden-Powell

Several years ago Kevin and I set off for Denver to help our kids move. Normally we take our car, outfitted to handle the Rockies in any season with comfort and safety, but on this trip we were driving his work van. Perfect for moving; not optimal for a road trip. The empty truck rattled with every bump. The wind howled around us. There was no point in playing music; we couldn’t hear it. Still, you can pack a lot of boxes in an empty van, so over the passes and through the woods we traveled, straight on to the Mile-High city.

In the vintage Denver neighborhood of Capitol Hill we wedged the van into the only empty space for blocks, a zone clearly marked “no parking.” Fortunately, their twenty-something friends hustled all the heavy boxes out of the building and loaded us up in short order. We were ready for the road. In the midst of this somewhat-controlled chaos, I asked my son for directions since we would be leaving before they did.

I wish I had listened better. It wasn’t his fault. He and his wife had driven this route countless times. All we had to do was stay on the same road for 208 miles before making our first turn.

How Simple Can it Get?

And it could have been simple. After breaking free of the city, we climbed through almost total wilderness for about two hours, finally reaching the tiny town of Fairplay. At around 10,000 feet in elevation, Fairplay lies atop a grassland basin in a windswept no-mans’ land.  Once you leave town, there’s nothing for miles. No people. No cell service. No internet. No buildings. There aren’t even any trees. And unlike civilized areas, very few signs. We came upon what looked like a fork in the road. And for probably the first time in my hyper-vigilant life, I had missed the only sign.

“Bear left,” I said confidently.

The Plan Goes South, Literally

Since I’ve been navigating our travels for forty years, Kevin just went ahead and turned left. Compulsively over-prepared and occasionally accused of ‘overthinking’ things, rarely have I pointed us in the wrong direction.

So we continued to cruise through the middle of nowhere for about twenty minutes, seeing only the occasional car.

Finally we saw a tiny blue sign that said, “9.” Just “9.” If only it had said, “Eventually you are going to end up in Colorado Springs, you nitwit”- that would have been helpful.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t know what 9 means. Let me look.”

I reached into the glove box for a map.

“Where are your maps?'”

“This is my work truck. I don’t need any maps.”

They were all in our car, tucked safely away in our garage back home.

I fired up my phone and tried to pull up directions. No signal.

I tried to call my son. No service.

Meanwhile, the occasional tumbleweed somersaulted across the road ahead of us as the miles rolled by.

“Should we turn around?”

“I don’t know. What if we’re going in the right direction? It’s quite a ways back to Fairplay. Let’s keep going for a while. We’re bound to run into someone eventually. A gas station. Something.”

So we kept our eyes open for signs of civilization, possibly hidden in the tall grass that sways perpetually in the endless wind.

If We Only Had A Map

You know what maps do? They take the guesswork out of travel. One of the things I loved about the Evangelical life was the structure; it seemed like a map

to wholeness. I was raised in chaos. My father was an abusive, bipolar alcoholic and my mother worked two jobs to support us all. There was no reliable structure to our lives. Each morning brought a fresh dread that kept us ever-vigilant. Over time, my brothers and I fell into patterns of self-destruction. Finding marijuana at fifteen actually saved my sanity for a few years.  Predictably though, better living through anesthesia leads to addled living through addiction. And no one hates addiction more than the addict herself.

Addiction eventually dead-ends in hopelessness, no matter which map you follow.

By the grace of God and a miracle of His power, Jesus reached out to me through one of His kids. For seven years, she prayed. Occasionally she told me about her savior. Not often, not overbearingly, not threateningly, not shaming me. Just loving me. And one day, thirty-five years ago, I said yes.

The Healing Process Commenced

I fell into Jesus’ arms through the folks at an Evangelical Church. They taught me how to love the Bible. They taught me that I could trust God. And they did this by inviting me to join them in the living structure that is church: getting involved. Participating in Bible studies. Volunteering to serve others. Showing up on Sunday mornings. And on one of those Sundays, I heard the voice of God thunder through my chest telling me that this day, January 15, 1989, was the day He wanted me to get sober. He said that on this day, He would help me. And if I didn’t, He would have to get my attention.

I may not have been sure of much, but I was dead-on certain that I did not want to force God to get my attention.

So I found an additional community of kind souls, and their road map for recovery was even clearer than the church’s opportunities for spiritual growth. Between the two of them, I started to get well. Life got better. And I learned how to live without the dread of abuse, without the need for hyper-vigilance, and without the soul-deadening anesthesia of drugs and alcohol.

I found freedom within the healthy boundaries of community; I found a roadmap for life. And it worked like gangbusters until November 8, 2016.

My Map Went Up in Flames

I’ve written quite a lot about that day. My own people, Evangelical Christians, voted Donald Trump into office. It’s been five years, and I think I’ve finally grasped the depth of my loss from that event. Rather than rehash the pain, I’ve begun to think about the path ahead. I’ve just been reacting to the loss. Now it’s time to proactively start charting a course for the future.

There’s only one problem. No map.

For someone who thrives on order and stability, drawing my own map is more than navigating uncharted territory. It’s calling me to trust myself, trust God, and believe that the journey towards my own healing is worth the effort.

That I am worth the effort.

That I will eventually find my way.

Long into the afternoon of moving day,  Kevin and I came upon a log cabin/gas station/hunting supply store, all by itself in the middle of nowhere. With a smile (possibly a smirk), the proprietor pointed us toward Podunk Cutoff, saving us further embarrassment and even more miles headed in the wrong direction. When we finally arrived in Creede, our kids were relieved to see us, and even more relieved that we hadn’t absconded with their belongings.

As I search for new direction in this post-Evangelical world, I don’t have to be afraid of making mistakes. I do have to rely on the lessons I’ve already learned. I do have to continue to read the Gospels, pray, and trust God.

But I’ve got a big sketch pad, my tattered old Bible, an abundance of resources, a collection of colored markers,

a handful of like-minded Ex-vangelical friends online, a database of organizations devoted to following the teachings of Jesus, a terrific family, an amazing Savior, a lot of faith, a soft heart, and the ability to write. I’m going to draw my own map.

I invite you to come with me.

©Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC, 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Faith After Doubt Explains It All

My Last Day at Glory Church

I just couldn’t do it. I could not sit there one more minute. As usual, Sunday morning found me trussed up, dressed up, coiffed up, made up, and mentally prepared to nod and smile for the better part of two hours. After all the hugs and handshakes, coffee and snacks, announcements and hymns and bulletin news, the faithful settled in for the duration. With the dying notes of the last hymn  hanging in the air, the preacher dismissed the kids to Sunday School.

Predictably, all the teens bolted from the pews, following my husband down the hall to yet more food and some youth-relevant conversation.

The younger kids fell into line behind their teachers, and I brought up the rear, pretending this happened every week.

In fact, I had just lost my mind. Grabbing my purse and my Bible, I waded through the preschoolers and caught up to Kevin.

“I’ll pick you up after the service.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay.”

With that I waved goodbye to him and his motley crew, walking out into the Colorado sunshine.

Fleeing Church

Just so you know how desperate this move was, the parking lot was in full view of the entire congregation. To the right of pulpit, enormous picture windows showcased the rugged South San Juan Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Keeping their eyes on the preacher was tough enough without one of their own going AWOL. In a church that small, everyone knew everything about everybody. And they all saw me.

Taking a deep breath, I inhaled some pure mountain air and exhaled the tension I’d been holding. I went home, peeled out of the dress, washed off the makeup, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. I kept my eye on the clock so I didn’t leave my husband stranded and fielding inquiries as to where his wife had gone, and why. He had no idea.

Neither had I. Had I known I was going to make a very public break for it, I would have just stayed home, without the trappings and the strappings and makeup applied for the crowd.

So what the heck happened?

That was over a year ago. Until recently, I had no idea of why something in me snapped. Then a couple of months ago, I picked up Brian McLaren’s book Faith After Doubt. I had seen the hype and read a couple of reviews, but didn’t think it would apply to me.

Why? Because I didn’t think I had any doubt.

Sure, I had raised rabble with the church leadership, questioning their support of all things Trump. I had asked some pointed questions, with solid backup arguments, about why the women in our church were limited to cooking food, cleaning, and teaching children. To me, my arguments made perfect sense. We all believed the same things, right? Couldn’t we gently coax the congregation into the twenty-first century?

Little did I realize my ‘doubt’ had begun in earnest on Tuesday, November 8, 2016: the day Evangelical Christians voted Donald Trump into office as President of the United States. A nuclear explosion couldn’t have rocked my world harder. I spent the next three years praying, assuming their eyes would be opened as they listened to his words and watched him in action. When my prayers failed, I launched a website for Ex-vangelicals, more an effort to find answers for myself than provide explanations to others.

Still, I kept going to church. I met Jesus through an Evangelical Christian, and in the body of Christ I found the love, acceptance, and healing I had always wanted and needed. I couldn’t imagine life without church for a number of reasons, and being new to our community, these were the only people I knew.

I don’t know what set me off the day I walked out of the building and into the light. But thanks to Brian McLaren, I now know why.

Why My Brain Seemed to Explode

A war had been raging within me, of which I was completely oblivious. Within the first few pages of Faith After Doubt, I learned that my brain is actually composed of these three modules:

The Heart

The part of me that longed for connection with others; to be part of a community. Most of the folks here had been super nice, and I felt loved and accepted. I was also deathly afraid of leaving a support system. This part of me struggled against leaving the church.

The Head

This is the part of me that screamed out against being part of a congregation that supported Donald Trump, whose policies and actions clearly violated the teachings of Jesus Christ. I tried to rationalize it in many ways- that they were nice, that I was open about my convictions, and was it really necessary to take a stand? Unbeknownst to me, my silence was costing me my sanity.

The Gut

So the gut took over. The instinctive brain, the first module that operates after birth, controls (among other things) a vast network of unconscious reflexes and responses. Anxiety, fear, and panic evoke a threat to survival. When the heart and the head are duking it out, the gut takes over and says, “Enough already!” And for me, that moment came on Sunday, May 31, 2020.

It was my gut that grabbed my purse, slung my Bible under my arm, and almost sent the four year-olds flying in my haste to exit the building. It was my gut that gave me the courage to cross the parking lot in full view of the crowd, climb in my car, and drive away. And it was my gut that said, “I’m not going to let you sell your soul for the security of a congregation and your people-pleasing tendencies.”

McLaren’s Faith After Doubt is a monumental work of research, woven with threads of the author’s personal experience as a long-time pastor, writer, speaker, and follower of Jesus Christ. I’ve been planning to review it for weeks now, and kept shying away simply because the task seemed insurmountable. Please understand that any description I can offer of the book is far too simplistic. Suffice it to say that, within its pages, I found the answers to my questions about the journey of what we call Deconstruction,[1] as well as hope for those of us clinging to a piece of debris in this lonely, swirling, Ex-vangelical sea. The revelation of why I bolted from Glory Church is only the first of several that smoothed my path, brought me comfort, and helped me understand the human dynamics of this crazy organizational circus we call the church.

Before even reading the preface, I was pretty sure I didn’t need to deconstruct anything. After all, I was a mature Christian. The last thing I wanted to do was tear my belief system apart; I just wanted my family of faith to realize that Trump is pretty much the opposite of Jesus Christ. I wanted them to actually read Gospels and say, “Wow, maybe we were wrong about Donnie.”

Is that so much to ask?

It seemed to me that those who held the keys to the Kingdom had changed the locks. But Faith After Doubt gently reveals a structure of belief systems within church organizations, and explains the reasoning each follows. What looked to me like narrow-mindedness could instead be a commitment to uphold the tenets and traditions of their faith. And moving on down the line, I learned that we all fall within a ‘stage’ of belief and development, none being ‘better or worse’ than the last. Moving forward is a challenging process. Until now, I didn’t realize I had even been doing it, and I daresay most of us don’t. And honestly, there are times it’s so confusing and discouraging I find myself wondering:

Is it worth it?

Well, our new neighbors probably wonder the same thing. Kevin and I live in a rapidly-expanding neighborhood where multiple homes are being built simultaneously. Just behind our back fence, a young couple is doing the vast majority of construction on their first house themselves. They work from before the sun comes up until it goes down, rarely taking a day off. At this rate it’s going to take them quite some time. I’m certain there are days they just want to throw in the bandana and call it quits. But one day, they will have a home. And on that day, I imagine they will say, “it was worth it.”

That’s what Reconstruction will probably look like. McLaren doesn’t leave us hanging. Already there are folks hard at work in this brave new world that I want to be a part of. Just like constructing a house, working through grief, getting in shape, raising children, building a marriage, or any other endeavor worth doing, there’s no road around it.

The only way is through.

Where Do We Go From Here?

In his ‘Afterward,’ Brian McLaren says this:

“I don’t want to be better than anyone. I don’t want to win in a way that makes others lose…Faith after Doubt is faith after supremacy. Instead of standing over others as judges or ruling over others as commanders, we want to join with one another in a circle dance of love and joy…instead of analyzing others, showing their logical inconsistencies and exposing their hidden agendas, we want to join with them as co-creators of a better world and a new day, as part of a community of all creation.” [2]

Sounds like something worth working for.

©Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC, 2021. All Rights Reserved.

[1] My definition of Deconstruction, as it relates to faith, is “the dismantling, piece by piece, of our belief system, searching for the truth in each component to ascertain its validity in both stand-alone mode and in cooperation with the other parts.”

[2] Faith After Doubt. Copyright 2021 by Brian McLaren, St. Martin’s Publishing Group. ISBN 978-1-250-26278 (ebook)

*You can purchase Faith After Doubt through Amazon by clicking any of the blue links above.

Reclaiming Easter In My Heart

Ah, Easter. Green grass and daffodils, lilies and ham and asparagus. And snow.  Colorado is famous for spring blizzards, and we were not expecting Kevin’s family to make it in time for the Easter Sunday service. They were driving in from Michigan, way back in 1983, and that morning they were white-knuckling their way over the Continental Divide. We couldn’t imagine that the whole pack of them- Mom and Dad, grown children and spouses and grandkids- could possibly pick us up by ten am. We figured we’d do the lazy thing and hunker down in our jammies. No, we wouldn’t make it to church, but they’d probably be here by lunch and we’d celebrate Easter then.

Those were the days before cell phones, but still, Kevin should have known better. After all, this was HIS family. Had I known more about their history, I would have at least put some clothes on.

Nor would I have been shocked when the car pulled up out front, encrusted in frozen slush and honking the horn at 10:00 am sharp. Nothing says embarrassment like being caught in your nightgown by your new in-laws. Never in their lives were they late to church on Easter, and they weren’t about to start now.

Easter Then

My husband was raised in a rather strict Protestant sect, and their lives revolved around church. By the time we met he had walked away from the church and his faith, with good reason. I was raised with no belief system whatsoever. In our lives as young marrieds, church was not something we did. Easter, maybe. Christmas Eve: absolutely. After all, we weren’t heathens! Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that church would become the loving family I never had. With all its ups and downs, personalities and peculiarities, weaknesses and strengths, I loved being part of a church. We changed a few times due to our kids’ needs and the seasons of our lives, but I always felt as though I had a home as long as we were part of The Body of Christ.

Easter was no longer about the bunny, or baskets with plastic green grass and marshmallow eggs. When I asked Jesus into my heart, the most sacred of seasons filled me with a joy I had never known. The tragedy of Good Friday was transcended by the joy of Resurrection Sunday. Now we had friends with whom to celebrate, and for the first time in my life sacrifice had meaning and passion had purpose. And I-the real me- I was loved, and I knew it. Even with the stresses of parenting young children and trying to make ends meet, I had found a level of peace that transcended understanding.

We never intended to become as involved in church as we did; it just happened. We wanted to raise our children to know Jesus. We wanted to be part of a community. Far from our families of origin, we needed love and support to wrap their arms around us and our kids. We found friendships with other parents when we volunteered to teach Sunday School. We created bonds with all kinds of folks when we hosted Bible Studies. No longer did we have to eat holiday meals alone- there was always someone willing to come over.  Many kind people hosted us as well. Together we raised our children, figured out how to stay married to our spouses, prayed for each other’s families, shared cribs and bikes and baby clothes, and grieved when the worst happened. No matter what, we were never alone.

Easter Now

I’ve written quite a lot about my despair over the Evangelical Church’s devotion to Donald Trump. There’s no point in rehashing the heartache. Sadly, most of the people we have known over the years have fallen prey to the Religious Right’s political movement. That, in and of itself, is tragedy enough. But add in false conspiracy theorists who now occupy the pews on Sunday morning, and we no longer trust what we always believed to be true: that the primary mission we share as a church is obeying the teachings of Jesus Christ.

This will be the first Easter for just the two of us. Our kids have gone on ahead- one to Heaven; the other, with his wife and kids, to teach in Norway. We moved to a small town three years ago that is overwhelmingly Christian AND overwhelmingly MAGA. We did join a church when we arrived, only to find out the leadership was very partial to Donald. Though the congregation welcomed us with open arms, it was absolutely assumed everyone was Republican. The Stars and Stripes onstage spoke silently but clearly about American nationalism. We  communicated our concerns to the leadership, and they politely blew us off. Then COVID hit town, and we were able to make a graceful exit.

There’s probably a church out there somewhere waiting for us; a place where they stand up to MAGA thinking and white supremacy. Where the teachings of Jesus are not just preached but acted upon. Where the LGBTQ children of God are as welcome as everyone else. Where women are not relegated solely to the kitchen and the nursery, but also encouraged to use the gifts given them by the Holy Spirit for teaching and preaching. Where the congregation believes that Black Lives Actually Do Matter, and are willing to take a public stand to that effect. I’ve got to say, it’s probably not in this little town, but I’m not going to let that take Easter from my heart.

Easter In Our Hearts

The tragedy of Good Friday has still been transcended by the joy of Resurrection Sunday. Christ’s sacrifice still holds the ultimate meaning of love,  and His passion’s purpose saved me. I am still loved by God, and I know it.  Even with the stresses of politics, the COVID pandemic,  the betrayal of the Religious Right, Evangelical leaders selling their souls for presidential favor, and QAnons occupying the pews, I can at least aim for a level of peace that transcends understanding. “Christ The Lord is Risen Today” will surely be available on YouTube. The Gospel accounts of that first Easter morning will still bring tears to my eyes. I may have to cook up a ham dinner with scalloped potatoes and asparagus, and hustle down to the supermarket for a bunny cake. While the expression of our Christian faith may not look exactly like my husband’s childhood experience, we endeavor to live the life Christ called us to. We still pray without ceasing. We do our best to love our neighbors. When it comes to forgiveness, we give it our best shot, and we thank Him for forgiving us. And we trust that He will make all things beautiful in His time.

Happy Easter to all, especially to the spiritually homeless. This present darkness will not last forever.

Hallelujah! He is still risen, indeed.

© 2021 Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC. All Rights Reserved.

God Is Doing Something New

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.”- Isaiah 43: 18-19 NIV

Pyrotechnics, black-eyed peas, and Scotsmen swinging balls of fire, arcing through the midwinter night.  Around the globe, cultures and countries will soon celebrate the new year. Humanity can finally take a deep breath. For the special 24 hours when  this particular midnight circles the globe, I suspect God will hear a collective sigh of relief.

“Goodbye, 2020; Hello, Hope.”

Of course, our problems will not disappear overnight. In the US alone, millions have suffered through COVID-19, and hundreds of thousands have died. The lunatic in the White House held the relief money hostage while he golfed; can you say, “let them eat cake”? Our country has been divided, our families have split, and our nation’s poor are played as pawns while the wealthy battle over power.

I’ve spent the last sixteen months using every resource available to me to protest this present evil. But after much prayer, I’ve decided to turn my face toward the rising sun of 2021 and begin a new chapter in my spiritual journey.

There’s no going back to the way things were. The political and social climate of Trumpism simply gave greater voice and power to the meteoric rise of the Religious Right. The churches that supported Donald Trump and his agenda will continue on their paths, and their people will continue in their beliefs. I have used this forum to grieve their divergence from the teachings of Jesus Christ, and I appreciate all those who have walked the rocky road alongside me. Thank you for your support, your insights, and your company.

Fresh Vision, New Direction

In 2021, I’ll be shifting my focus from protesting the adulteration of the Evangelical Church to exploring other expressions of loving our Savior. Those who subscribe to my newsletter will see the banner change to Faith After Church. I’ll keep The Christian Resistance site updated and the bookstore stocked.

Also, I’ll be sharing my search for a fresh vision of God. To that end, I will continue to list new books, websites, writers, and resources that I find along the way.

Ideas, Resources, Rebuilding

Lastly, I will continue to pray for you, fellow wanderers. I know that, for my sanity’s sake, doom-scrolling has got to go. I have no control over Donald Trump’s increasing insanity; I’m not going to wait until he actually leaves the building to live again. Instead, I’m adopting practices to nurture my mental health and to further the growth of my soul. In my case, I’m watching interviews and Ted Talks on YouTube with some of my favorite writers. I’m reading books by authors whom I used to dismiss because they swam outside the mainstream of Evangelical thought.

And the walls. You know, the walls we all construct around us. As I built my house of faith, I felt like I needed security against the storms “out there,”  meaning “not Evangelically-approved.” Having been raised with no belief system whatsoever, I borrowed some windows here and some doors there from people whom I respected and admired. There was nothing wrong with that. But over the last thirty-five years, I’ve built a firm foundation from reading and rereading the Word of God. I’m ready to remodel the old house, strip her down to the studs, and rebuild upon the foundation with doors of a different color, and windows that let in more light.

My prayer for us all is a fresh vision of God. May we be able to wipe the grime of 2020 from our windows to let the sunshine in. May we be willing and able to let go of the hurt we have suffered from the loss of our church communities, and look for new doors to walk through. May we trust that God is making a new way for us; streams in the desert for us to follow.

May we hear His voice today, as we celebrate His mercies that are new every morning. Happy New Year to all!

©Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Why The Election Won’t Fix American Evangelicalism

“Hope has two beautiful daughters; their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.” -Augustine of Hippo

At this moment, evil is holed up in the White House, and still supported by an enormous contingent from the Religious Right. The old saying “you can’t go home again” will apply to many who have left the Evangelical Church over their support of Donald Trump. Even in these last days of his failures, Hate has found a new home. “Patriot Churches” are now a thing. In reading their propaganda, I see no Jesus. Their platform is just an extension of the Religious Right’s crusade to condemn the LGBTQ community and maintain the power of the status quo; a logical continuation of the evil that exists under the withering gaze of the Religious Right.

I believe the majority of Americans are just exhausted. It’s easy to give up hope. COVID has infected almost eleven million of us, and killed hundreds of thousands.  Black people continue to be disproportionately murdered without consequence. Poor children continue to go hungry. The rich continue to grow richer, and many of us pray that Amy Coney Barrett won’t bring the hammer down on our health insurance.

What’s a Christian to do?

That’s what I will be exploring in the next few weeks. Certainly, the election results will elicit reactions from both sides. But as a follower of Jesus Christ, I should have a default behavior. Hope used to be my baseline response. I wore my innocence and trust in Christianity like a sparkly garment, woven from the shimmering threads of my relationship with Jesus and life as part of a church. After three years of believing the Evangelicals would come to their senses, Hope’s daughter Anger blew in from out of town. She surprised me with her power, ripping the fabric of my beautiful cloak away and exposing the reality of politics and religion. She and I left the shredded remnant hanging by the sanctuary door.

Months later, my church family is still married to Donald, and now birthing ugly stepchildren like Patriot Churches. Even if Trump loses, the massive damage to the Evangelical establishment cannot be undone. The wreckage of relationships smokes in the ruins. Sunday mornings are now spent at the supermarket. With COVID running rampant, it’s hard to form new social groups, and the loneliness is exacerbated by isolation. It’s tempting to throw in the towel on finding a new Jesus-based community.

However, I haven’t given up just yet. Recently I was listening to a podcast from a fellow Christian outcast, and he shared this quote: “Hope has two beautiful daughters; their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.” -Augustine of Hippo.

Without meaning to, I had invited Anger to spend the last year helping me cope with this tragedy. Her power helped me reach beyond my technological limits and find ways to fight on a national level. She coaxed me out of my comfort zone as well as my tiny little town. I am grateful for the time we spent together, but I believe I have learned everything she had to teach me.

Now I’m inviting her sister, Courage, to come stay for a while.

Courage’s broad following is nothing new, but she’s breaking fresh ground among Exvangelicals. Many former believers have given up on Christianity, but we must fight devolving into sofa spuds.  We who are still on firm footing with  Jesus Christ must pray without ceasing for new direction. Young people are this disaster’s greatest casualties. Kevin and I hear from them all time: kids from our Sunday School classes, now in their twenties and thirties, who watch in disbelief as their parents continue to follow the pillars of modern Evangelicalism. All we can tell them is this:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.”- Hebrews 13:8 NIV

“The Son is the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being, sustaining all things through his powerful word.”- Hebrews 1:3 NIV

We ask them to keep talking to God. We urge them to keep reading the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ life and teachings. We pray for them. And if we don’t give up, hopefully they won’t either.

Leaving Anger for Courage

Also, I want to spend more time learning from people who lived out real courage. In searching for a quote, I discovered Mary MacLeod Bethune (1875-1955). Mrs. Bethune was an American stateswoman, educator, philanthropist, humanitarian, womanist, civil rights activist, and a national adviser to President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Known as “The First Lady of the Struggle,” this daughter of slaves changed the world in a time when women of color had no voice and seemingly, no power.

“We have a powerful potential in our youth, and we must have the courage to change old ideas and practices so that we may direct their power toward good ends.”

I suspect Mary MacLeod Bethune spent time in Anger’s company, but used what she learned with Courage against what must have appeared to be impossible odds. I, on the other hand, am a white middle-class American. To give up the fight, no matter how dark the forecast, would be a self-centered and lazy waste of of my God-given gifts and an insult to the brave warriors who have gone before me. The American Evangelical landscape appears littered with broken relationships, and our leaders have revealed their all-too-human quests for power. But Jesus is still King. His Word still stands. His glory still shines. His power still conquers. And most importantly, His grace still covers us- me, Religious Right leaders, Trump-supporting neighbors, estranged family members- all of us who have lost something in the fight.

The days are growing colder as we enter November, but I have sewn a new cloak to wear. This one’s not sparkly with the naivete of 2016. Instead, she’s heavier; woven with a fresher awareness of racism, threaded with dark strands of rebellion I wear in solidarity. Her rainbow buttons serve to remind me that all of God’s children deserve equal rights and to be part of a family. The collar is ratty and torn, stained with blood and ripped by barbed wire. The collar is made of garments worn by the desperate, running from gangs and violence in Central America. This isn’t a coat I would have worn to church four years ago.

But I should have. Jesus would love this coat, and His opinion is all that matters.

©2020 Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC. All Rights Reserved.

The Tragedy of Evangelical Compromise

They pulled up in the campsite next to ours in a stylish, late-model sedan. Judy* and Jen*, as we later came to know them, unloaded their trunk and immediately set to work pitching their tent. We were only midday through a Tuesday but clouds were building in the distance. Thunder rumbled down the valley. Kevin and I were playing Scrabble after lunch, watching the storm blow in.

Since our site was close to camper services, everyone in the loop had to amble past us some point. As Judy came by we smiled and introduced ourselves. She accepted a Cheeto from Kevin which put her in his good graces right way. Coming from New Mexico, these two friends were on a road trip and looking forward to seeing Colorado. In these days of COVID we have very little contact with strangers, and she seemed to be a nice gal with a friendly smile.

Time passed, clouds covered the sun, and the thunder went from booming to cracking. Rain started spitting so Kevin and I took our Scrabble game and headed for shelter in our camper. Sitting down at the dinette, we saw Jen sitting in their car’s driver’s seat. Judy was sitting on the ground outside of the open passenger door. The top of her body was leaned in towards Jen. In the rain. In the lightning. In the dirt.

“They’re probably just having an argument. That happens on vacation,” Kevin observed.

Maybe so, I said, but we should pray. So we did.

It rained harder, and she didn’t move. Neither did Jen. We finished our Scrabble game and played cards, and they didn’t move. The lightning was right on top of us, the wind was thrashing everything in sight, and they remained frozen in place.

Obviously something was amiss, but we were at a loss as to know what to do. The campground host was quite a distance away. Was this any of our business? Were we our sisters’ keepers? Again we prayed, and waited for direction.

The gale reached a fever pitch and was threatening to blow our sun canopy into Utah, so we went out and tried to take it down. Fabric whipped around me and I was losing my grip until Judy and Jen came to the rescue. Together we collapsed the frame so Kevin could wrestle it into submission. As the four of us recovered, bracing ourselves in the maelstrom, Kevin and I introduced ourselves to Jen. I asked if they were okay.

In the Sacred Shelter of the Whirlwind

What happened next can only be described as a holy moment; not because it was a “come to Jesus” event, nor did a rainbow burst out from behind the clouds. Instead, waves of raw emotional pain seemed to roll off these women and over me, to the point where I started crying. We were there, the four of us in the dirt, the rain, the wind, the lightning. Jen mumbled something about being fine; Judy said she was exhausted. In the sacred shelter of the whirlwind, I told them we were there to help. I told them the truth- that Kevin and I had been all over the board in terms of life experience. We were not there to judge anyone; we were there to help. Then I took each woman into my arms and hugged the stuffing out of them. Twice. And though they were both taller than I am, they offered no resistance; rather, each melted into that love, COVID be damned. Finally, straining against the wind, they rescued their now-flattened tent, shaking the pine needles off and stuffing it into their trunk.

This time, they both climbed into their car. And there they sat.

Now I’m figuring it’s time to give up the ghost and go home. We had offered help, and they had declined. It was getting dark. The weather was miserable. I was thinking I’d rather sleep in my own bed than camp out another night. We heard their engine turn over, there was a knock at the door, and the car roared off into the darkness.

Judy stood outside with her sleeping bag, her suitcase, and two handguns.

Thelma and Louise versus The Old Jesus-Freaks Next Door

“Can I come in and sleep with you guys? Jen’s had a gun pointed at her head all afternoon. She wanted to drive us off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. I’ve been terrified. I finally got her to swap her gun for the car keys, but now I’m out here all alone.”

As she spoke, a gust caught the door and flung it wide open. Judy came in out of the dark, out of the wind, and out of the terror. We were miles from cell service. She made a choice to trust us. Now that I think back, I’m not sure what I would have chosen had I been in her place. The logical choice would have been the campground host. But something sacred had taken place in the midst of the maelstrom, so the three of us talked in the dark.

“Judy, we’re going home. Will you come with us? You can sleep on our sofa and we’ll help you make a plan in the morning.”

She strongly resisted putting us out. “I’m the person that people come to in times of trouble, not the other way around. I am so sorry. Why do you guys want to help me?”

“We didn’t know what was happening over there, but obviously you had trouble. We’ve been praying about this all afternoon. We’re glad you came to us.”

We’ve all experienced sacred moments, and we treasure them in our hearts and memories. Until dementia sets in, this will be one of mine. In Aunt Bea, our tiny, ancient motorhome, Kevin drove us over a rough dirt road twenty-five miles through the wilderness in the pitch dark while Judy and I talked about Jesus. She is a new-age Reiki master, life coach, and yoga instructor. She has hiked the Himalayas in search of God. She never understood why Jesus had to die for our sins. She actually had to cancel plans, due to COVID, for another spiritual quest in Nepal last spring. She is beautiful, accomplished, successful, and spiritual. But she had just spent hours sitting in the dirt, talking down a suicidal friend who was holding a loaded gun. She was terrified, hungry, thirsty, cold, tired, stranded, and alone. The old Jesus-freaks next door were looking pretty good right about then.

This, of course, is not the end of the story. By mid-afternoon on Wednesday I had driven her around Pagosa Springs to buy a phone charger as well as the special locking suitcase and the gun carrier she needed to check her bags. She took me to lunch and I drove her to Durango, dropping her at a hotel so she could catch a flight to Albuquerque the next morning. She had called friends back home about Jen’s precarious mental health, and found someone to pick her up at the airport. Back in civilization, she had her phone, her credit cards, and everything she needed to rescue herself from this dilemma.

But still we talked about Jesus. Between stores. At lunch. On the hour-long drive to Durango. Kevin had given her a small New Testament with the Psalms and Proverbs, and I had given her my copy of God Came Near. She told me she had prayed in the midst of the crisis- the word “help” tossed out there to “The Universe.”

Over lunch, I asked her about her spiritual beliefs. She practices a faith born of teachings from both Hinduism and Buddhism.

“How ironic that you were going to seek God in Nepal, and He answered your prayer in Colorado,” I laughed.

With that, her head snapped back slightly from her enchiladas.

“I don’t doubt for one second that Jesus was there. I want to know more about Him.”

Where the Wheels Fell Off The Bus

How rarely do we, as Christians, have the authentic privilege of sharing our faith? The surge of joy I felt for the moment was tempered by sorrow for the timing. These are the days of Donald Trump. The Evangelical Church has compromised the truth of Jesus’ teachings for the political power of the Religious Right. No longer can I, in good conscience, recommend that Judy seek out a Bible-believing church in her community. No matter how they dress it up in Christianese, no matter what high-and-mighty evangelist justifies it, and no matter what powerful news network promotes it, I see no Jesus in Donald Trump’s words, actions, or policies. I could not be more crushed by the betrayal of people who introduced me to my Savior in the first place, and taught me to love the Bible. And I am beyond heartbroken that the best I can offer Judy is my ongoing prayers, the story of Jesus through the Gospels, and my favorite Max Lucado book.

But it’s going to have to do. The damage to the church is done, and I can’t imagine it can ever be repaired. There are other churches who haven’t been drawn into the darkness; churches that preach Christ crucified and share His amazing, revolutionary teachings about social justice. Churches that don’t tolerate racism and sexism. Churches that stand up to white supremacy and bullies.

I hope they survive the Trump administration. I’ll be looking for these Jesus strongholds when the dust settles, if it ever does.

In the meantime, I’ve definitely lost faith in church, but not in Jesus Christ. The One who saved me reached through the storm to love Judy. He cannot be changed.

He will not be moved.

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”-Hebrews 13:8

©2020 Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC. All Rights Reserved.

*Names have been changed to protect their privacy.

Finding Jesus After Church

It was hot yesterday, but we still enjoyed lunch on my back porch. My friend Lilah is usually cold.  The warmth of the sun just lit up her smile. She and I used to sing together on our church’s worship team. Upon arriving for our Thursday night practices,  I would go around opening the sanctuary windows. Just watching me made her button up her sweater. But we both loved to sing, alto and soprano, and we loved praising God together.

Only three people contacted me after Kevin and I recently resigned from our church; Lilah is the only one who kept in touch. She is bold and courageous. In these tempestuous days of COVID and Trump, there are many reasons believers are walking away from the Evangelical establishment. I harbor no hard feelings against those who let us go without a word. Most people are struggling just to live through the pandemic and make sense of this new world; at this point no one knows the right words to say. Life as we knew it has come undone.

Finding Jesus Through the Evangelical Family

Thirty-five years ago, in a seemingly simpler time, I was introduced to my first church family. Coming from a very small, non-religious, and isolated family of origin, I was simply gobsmacked by the love.  Never in my life had strangers transformed into almost-relatives who cared what happened to me. For the first time I always had invitations to holiday dinners. People prayed for me. Women hugged me in the supermarket. Other moms shepherded me through raising my kids. Older believers offered wise counsel. We worshiped together, celebrated together, grieved together, prayed together, and shared our lives on a daily basis.

At this point in my life, I’ve been blessed to have been a part of several church families. In addition to community, these years have brought me into relationship with God. With no previous religious upbringing, I leapt wholeheartedly into Bible studies, learning everything I could about this Jesus of Nazareth. Ironically, knowing Him is what finally led me to leave. What used to be a spiritual home became a political bastion, espousing policies that run roughshod over our Savior’s teachings. My personal identity as a follower of Jesus Christ has never been stronger, but I’ve renounced my role as a family member in the Evangelical Church.

Finding Jesus Outside of the Evangelical Family

It’s strange, it’s odd, it’s disconcerting, it’s disconnecting, and it’s disorienting to be outside the sanctuary walls. The good thing is, I’m not alone out here. Out here is where I’m looking for my Lord, and out here is where I’m finding Him.

Jesus is hard at work through Red Letter Christians, whose “goal is simple: To take Jesus seriously by endeavoring to live out His radical, counter-cultural teachings as set forth in scripture, and especially embracing the lifestyle prescribed in the Sermon on the Mount.”¹

He’s ministering to the brokenhearted former Evangelicals through the Evolving Faith community. Their welcome told me: