Fredrick Buechner, my favorite author, writes his memoirs with words, which like large, fatherly, generous hands graciously hand his memories to you as if they were your own to begin with. In his book Now and Then, he shares one of his most memorable seminary professors, James Muilenburg.
He was a fool in the sense that he didn’t or wouldn’t or couldn’t resolve, intellectualize, evade, the tensions of his faith but lived those tensions out, torn almost in two by them at times. His faith was not a seamless garment but a ragged garment with the seams showing, the tears showing, a garment that he clutched about him like a man in a storm.
God I wish I had known men like Muilenburg in my early life. Instead, I grew up under the blinding spotlight of American Christian Evangelicalism, at times in its beam, at times in the shadows it cast off me, never feeling really at peace with any of it. Today, I go to a straight up Evangelical church which prides itself on its few non-Evangelical qualities but still, my connection with the Church has been and always will be people over convention. I’ve shared enough of my life with people I love that I don’t have to agree with every detail about faith and I don’t have to trouble them with my troubles.
There’s a time in my life I fondly call my Existential Crisis. It was a beginning more than a period of time that had an end. I’d say it was as painful as a new birth could be for a soul. People often use the word “reborn” with a sense of euphoria. I don’t know about you but when I point to my greatest moment of rebirth, it holds more pain, confusion, and doubt than any other event in my life. And, however less painful, it continues today. Ironically, it happened when I was in a Christian band with songs in the Top-10 Christian Alternative charts in the 90s. That’s another story though.
I avoid writing about it much because it’s too long to tell in one sitting and to tell fragments leaves my story, beliefs and personal philosophies looking half-baked. One day I will tell it but for now, suffice it to say, I know I’m not unique for having experienced it.
You know who you are. You’re involved in church, probably an artist, musician, or poet and your name is rarely spoken in a question like, “Hey so-and-so, will you pray for us before we get started?” When it is, you might resent it for reasons you can’t explain. Early on you heard about the Emergent Church movement and thought, “damn, that’s me!” only to see it chewed up and swallowed by Christian pop culture over a decade and all they left you with was shit for theology. Oh, and on that note, you have little tolerance for people who are offended by words like “shit” though you tread carefully because it’s just polite not to offend people on purpose. Few can twist matters of common courtesy into spiritual matters of black-and-white sin-and-righteousness like Evangelicals. You don’t pray like others because you have an internal monologue with God every minute of the day that sounds more like the ramblings of a drunken sailor than a believer. Occasionally you’re surprised with and transformed by shining moments the monologue turns into a dialogue. Your prayers sound like WTF more than PTL but they usually end in a poetic PTL anyway. Silently, with all your being, you say to God, “Please take me – all of me,” and to the Church in the thin layer of air on this big planet, “You will never have me.” I could go on but I think you get it already.
Maybe I’m just projecting my feelings onto a remnant that I’m making up in my head so I don’t feel alone. I’ve been obsessed lately with an idea that one of our greatest human fears is that we are uniquely alone in the universe; that to be known and understood, if even if by a faraway stranger, might be our greatest need.
In any case, if you are like me you can relate to Muilenburg as Buechner describes him, and even to Buechner himself because he wouldn’t have described anyone so well whom he did not resonate with deeply. We wear our faith like garments with seams and tears showing, like a man clutching them in a storm. We are put off by people who wear their faith like clean, pressed, royal robes because we understand their blindness in ways they’ll never see.
A verse from Leonard Cohen’s If It Be Your Will comes to mind as recorded by the Lost Dogs on their album The Green Room Serenade.
By the way, if you are a fan of modern Christian music you might not know how much you owe the Lost Dogs. You see, the members of the Lost Dogs were a few of the pioneers of Christian music in the 80s and 90s who endured the blunt force of scorn from Western Christendom to cut the way for the modern Christian music most people enjoy now. They were Mike Roe from The 77s, Derri Daugherty from The Choir, and Terry Taylor from The Daniel Amos Band and the late Gene Eugene from Adam Again. These men, unashamed in their rags of faith, deserve great respect. There are few memories I treasure more than having played bass for them on that tour. I stood behind them every show night as this song soaked in deeply.
It’s more than appropriate that Gene sang the last verse,
And draw us near and bind us tight,
All your children here in their rags of light,
In our rags of light all dressed to kill,
And end this night, if it be your will
In our rags of light.
Dressed to kill.
The last words on our lips, “If it be your will.”
{ 10 comments… read them below or add one }
Sam, this is great stuff. Thanks for writing it. You and I need to talk soon. I’m going through some pretty deep struggles with my faith and it sounds to me like we’re both on the same page. Thanks for the Dogs kudos — that tour was a blast and your bass playing was terrific! I hope you got a copy of the live Green Room Serenade Part Tour CD ‘cuz you’re all over it like a cheap suit ~~ : *
Like a man in a storm, you write with economy and purpose. Since being self-exiled to London after the destruction of my marriage/family/business, I would give anything to be back at Sherlock Holmes pub with Derry and Steve and Ben. They reminded me there was room at the table for those on the margins, and so have you. Thanks.
Great article. You are not alone!!
Shawn Young
Department of Visual & Performing Arts
Clayton State University
Great post, Sam. A lot of this had me nodding in agreement. These two sentences, however, were the kickers for me.
Silently, with all your being, you say to God, “Please take me – all of me,” and to the Church in the thin layer of air on this big planet, “You will never have me.”
…to be known and understood, if even if by a faraway stranger, might be our greatest need.
There’s something in me that both repels and deeply desires to be known fully–and I struggle in that tug-of-war constantly as I try to figure out what “community” means.
Thanks for articulating this so well.
Although I’ve admired Leonard Cohen’s work for over 30 years, I first heard, “If it be Your Will”, on a Lost Dogs album (I’ve also admired the work of the guys in that band for a very long time).
I love that song. I recently shared it with my older sister, and she was so touched by it that she plans to use it in a healing/prayer session she will be having with an Episcopal priest, later this month. I’m not sure what all this has to do with your thoughts above, but I felt like sharing it.
God cares about everything and everyone. No problem too big or too small.
You’ve expressed so beautifully thoughts that I’ve long been unable to put into words. And, we share Mr. Buechner as our favorite author. Something tells me I’ll be enjoying your blog for as long as you write it. Thank you, sir, for your your transparency within a culture that is often suspect of such honesty. Grace to you.
Thanks for all of your kind, rich comments. It’s good to hear from kindred spirits.
Steve’s reminder that, there is “room at the table for those in the margins” is especially thought-provoking.
Staci’s observation of the tension between our need for community and, candidly, our feeling more comfortable in the margins is a brilliant one.
Mike, I forgot about those recordings! I’m going to look up the live record for sure. And yes, I’d love to share some pondering time. Hit me up on FB.
Thank you. For affirming that there are probably many of us in this place, that we are not alone. And for the beautiful song. The music of Christian bands that weren’t/aren’t afraid to sing about doubt, fear, questioning, failure and the need for grace – this music was a huge part of what gave me hope through the times in my life when I felt like I had no place among all the shiny, happy, certain people.
Marvelous stuff, Sam. I’ve had the incredible honor of spending a lot of time with Buechner over the past 5 years. I’ve recorded him reading 5 of his books. Heavy stuff. We should talk.
peace,
Tom
Thank you so much for the thoughtful post. As with all good spiritual writing (didn’t know you were doing a devotional, perhaps?) it provokes one to become a bit myopic. At least, this one it does. My “Oh, yes, I’ve felt like that” / “proof that you are marginal” checklist:
1. Live in a Christian commune (bring that up in most circles and watch the others’ eyes with their cool, appraising, glances that quickly sort you into a ‘not quite proper’ bin).
2. Angry at the Church sometimes, heartbroken by her at other times, still love her, but (repeat cycle).
3. Existential crisis? No, not really… rather, a series of small explosions internally, small not-quite-crises but for sure a necessary shedding of skin too small to wear anymore. What’s left? The Gospel Story, the historicity of that story, the belief that a mere man walking around was actually Incarnate Deity and so Love Personified one can sometimes hardly breathe for the bone-shaking need of Him.
4. Slight divergence on the *sh*t* word and other such — hehe, I do say ‘crap’ though.
5. Yes, so disappointed by the Emergent/Emerging thing… hanging onto the only word that still works for me, despite it practically becoming a swear word (for good reason) among those outside the camp: Evangelical. Good News bearer. But then, am I? Most of my writing these days seems political, and among Evangelicals my politics are definitely *bad* news. Sometimes I’m just a hobo conundrum trying to catch the meaning train and ending up (again) walking in my self-important shoes… the ones with no bottoms in ‘em. Jesus does find me wildly funny and loveable at those moments, for no reason I can discern. Signs of growth, though, as sometimes I’m not even offended any more.
6. Buechner and his prof’s ragged garment. Yes, and no. It might have been a garment once. But at some point — and this is not a little bit frightening to be honest — faith in Jesus stops being a garment and becomes who a person is. Don’t misunderstand, please… I am not “all that” or some sort of super-saint. Know me and laughter would greet such an idea. But a garment can be easily taken off. I am not one who believes the infamous phrase “once saved always saved,” but rather speak existentially here. Everything I am, think, understand, “know” (what a slippery term *that* is!), is built upon and rooted in the Reality of Jesus Christ as my Lord and God… my Servant (scandalous)… my Beloved Friend. No doctrine says I am somehow irresistibly forced to remain in the faith. But what holds me is the voice of Jesus in the Garden, crying out to the disciples to simply be with him in his one true dark hour of doubt. They would not. They slept. Three times he came to them, and they would not be a comfort to him in his sorrow and struggle. The very sadness I feel about the church, about the world, is a tiny element of His sorrow that night. And for that reason, I pray and hope and beg for the Grace to remain with Him in his continuing hour of abandonment. That’s how I believe… it may not be theologically correct, but it is all I have.
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