Welcome to the New Wild West

Rising early, I was hoping for a quick in-and-out visit to the local Walmart on a chilly fall Saturday three years ago. We had recently moved to a small town in southwestern Colorado from what I thought was a similar community, just a few hours north. Not surprisingly, the store was already hopping. But before I could reach the front door, I was waylaid by some tweens-in-green: the local “Girl’s Gathering” was holding a fundraiser.

This was not cookie season, but having been a “Girl’s Gathering” mom myself, I was game for whatever they were selling.

Or so I thought.

The crowd huddled around their table, sharing pens and filling out raffle tickets. Excited patrons were writing checks as they oohed and aahhed over a laminated photo of the coveted prize. Finally making my way to the front, I reached for the flyer as it passed my way. What was all the excitement about?

The shock woke me from my early-morning stupor.

It was a picture of a gun.

A long gun, a big gun, with all the bells and whistles one could hope for in a hunting rifle.

Where Have All The Cookies Gone?

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Back home, the “Girl’s Gathering” sold cookies, with the occasional bake sale to fund special events. A car wash would have been over the top. Momentarily I thought I was in the wrong line. Then a cheerful preteen asked if I had any questions about the rifle.

I mumbled something about her having the wrong person and stumbled towards the automatic door, which wisely slid out of my way. I was stunned. That’s what the “Girl’s Gathering” sells in this town? Rifles? God knows what the “Boy’s Bonanza” has in mind. Howitzers?

This was just another “howdy-do, neighbor,” courtesy of Pagosa Springs, Colorado. For the last forty-two years Kevin and I had built our lives together in another western Colorado valley, and I pretty much expected the same kind of society here. This was only the first of many surprises we encountered in our Wild West reality show/semi-retirement adventure. Some of these surprises were reactions to my previously-held assumptions. Here are some examples of times I’ve fallen into that trap:

1. Small towns on the western slope of the Continental Divide in the state of Colorado are very much alike.

2. Because we had a lot of snow last winter, we’ll be buried by December.

3. All Evangelical Christians have read the Gospels, believe that Jesus meant what He said, so they won’t fall for the lies of Donald Trump.

The first two sound ridiculous. The one about Evangelicals made perfect sense and pretty much gutted me when I discovered it wasn’t true.

Granted, that last one was a biggie, and it’s fair to say I’ve always been pretty naïve. But finding out that Evangelical Christians are a diverse lot really surprised me. After coming to know Jesus in the embrace of born-again believers, their seeming unity was one of the greatest draws for joining the family. Never in my wildest dreams could I have conjured up a religion supposedly centered on a savior that placed politics before theology.

Assumptions and Generalizations

The problem with my assumptions is that they can spring from  generalizations. Recently a former Facebook friend posted a meme comparing Republicans with Democrats. The generalizations were ridiculous as well as insulting, but I realized that I might have posted something similar, albeit in reverse, in my angriest moments during Trump’s tenure. When my beliefs- the tenets I hold most dear- are disproven, my world temporarily falls apart.

My exit from the church was hardly a “bon voyage”; it was more like being tossed into the open maw of an automatic car wash without a vehicle to protect me. After thrashing around, bouncing off the bumpers, being soaped up and hosed down, whirling around the big blue brushes and ducking under those flaps at the end, I was unceremoniously bounced out the exit, much the worse for wear.

Guess who I found out there?

The New Community

The rest of us. Ex-vangelicals, Post-Evangelicals, Recovering Evangelicals, Deconstructionists, Reconstructionists, and proponents of social justice. I may have missed a couple. Our names are many, and all are valid. I’m not the only one thrown from the spin cycle, sputtering and spitting soap and trying to get my bearings. We are all trying to make sense of what we’ve been through, and what we’re learning.

Welcome to the Wild West of the Christian faith.

So who are we, and what are we doing now that we’re here?

An internet search using any of the above-mentioned names for broken-hearted Christians will reveal an expansive new world of heartache and love, of rejection and acceptance, of understanding, of service, and of ministry. We were wired to serve God; we were wired to live together in community; we were wired to express our love for Jesus in outreach to the world. We still yearn to worship and connect. We’re still looking for answers.

As difficult as this continues to be, all of these are very good things.

There’s just one teeny fly in the ointment. It’s like the rifle revelation I had in front of the local Walmart. I still suffer from the tendency to generalize and react without examining my assumptions before I speak.

Pagosa Springs is a town with a rich history of hunting. While I’m certain there are tourists who come simply to shoot at animals, brag about it, and take a selfie, there are hundreds of local folks who hunt for the meat they will eat all winter. Yes, it’s a sport, and no, I’m not a proponent of guns. But I do eat meat, and thankfully someone killed it before it showed up on my plate. My sanctimonious opinion of the local “Girl’s Gathering” was a knee-jerk reaction to a society that has, at least in part, depended on hunting for survival since long before I was born. Someone was kind enough to donate this hunting rifle to help the young ladies finance their activities. It’s not the “Girl’s Gathering” I knew, and certainly this was an unusual choice. But I’m SLOWLY learning to open my mind before I open my mouth.

Oh, the process is arduous. But as I move further into the post-Evangelical world, I’m seeing the need for more compassion on my part. Not only do I need to respect the efforts and opinions of those I agree with, the faith in Jesus I still hold dear demands I do so even for those whose choices blew my world apart.

Which brings me to a book I read recently that speaks to these very issues. I have to confess, I’ve gone back and forth on recommending it because the author’s journey of evolving faith doesn’t exactly mirror my own. But John Pavlovitz’s If God is Love, Don’t Be a Jerk * is worth the read. The title grabbed my attention and the content wrestled me down to the mat. Instead of days, I spent weeks digesting it, praying about it, and digging through it. I offer my endorsement with a caveat: Readers, I challenge you to really think this through. Rather than just accepting his conclusions, draw your own. With that being said, I believe he offers sound advice on how to obey the adage that graces the back cover of the book:

“Thou Shalt Not Be Horrible.”

I can just see Jesus laughing. With the exception of loving God, this pretty much sums up everything he told us to do. How can I not at least crack open a book that might instruct me on how not to be a jerk? Although the author touches on a plethora of relevant issues, all of them eventually lead up to these crucial commands:

Love your neighbor

Love your enemy

Love God

And the gospel as paraphrased by John Pavlovitz: “ DON’T BE A JERK.”

Welcome to the New Wild West.

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

*Click on the blue link above to order the book through your Amazon account.