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

*Names have been changed to protect their privacy.