Church Essay #3: Membership Standards

The older woman looks at the younger lady and rolls her eyes.

“It’s getting so that they’ll let anyone in the church these days.”

She adjusts her suit coat and points a bejeweled finger at the one person in Fellowship Hall who isn’t easy to miss.

The young lady’s light brown hair is nearly shaved around the sides and back of her head. In contrast, bubblegum pink highlights sprout like a fountain from the top, adding a foot to her height. Her jacket matches her hair. Her jeans show skin through the fashionable tears.

The older, respectable looking woman says, “God loves her I’m sure, but really.”

Membership standards.

Jesus had them.

Churches don’t.

For a moment, I imagine joining an Anime club. I tell the costumed fans that cartoons are for kids. I tell the cyborgs and swords-carrying wannabe ranger heroes that I think our meeting time would be better spent discussing politics.

In my mind, a blue-haired samurai escorts me to the door at the end of a katana blade.

He doesn’t simply let me walk out onto the side walk.

I don’t land on anything I particularly care to mention.

Some people can be so rude.

The older woman rolls her eyes and says, “Learn to dress yourself.” Then she points to another figure across the room. “Oh, there’s another one.”

This time, it’s a guy. His color palate ranges from dark charcoal to black. His trench coat hangs open. A knit cap covers his ears. Dark, unkempt hair peaks out under the bottom. His gloves have no fingers. His pants sag over his legs.

Membership standards.

In the corner behind me, I hear one teen from the youth group say to another, “Oh yeah? Well if you’re so righteous, tell me what Hezekiah 3:19 says.”

Having been expelled from the Anime group, I joined a model railroading club. I’ve always liked playing with toy trains.

The second teen has flipped through is Bible from cover to cover, only to start flipping through again from the beginning. His eyebrows are down in concentration.

In my mind, the model railroaders start getting annoyed with me for playing with their stuff.

They say that to be in a model railroader’s club, you have to be a model railroader.

I tell them that’s discrimination.

Moments later, I’m knocking on the front door of the hobby shop asking if I can at least come back in to get my coat.

“What are you looking for, son?”

“The Book of Hezekiah, sir,” the teen says, He seems grateful for the help.

I recognize the older man as he takes the teens Bible. He’s my deacon.

“Hezekiah. Let’s see. Sounds like it’d be in the Old Testament right?”

The second teen nods.

The first teen puts his hand over his mouth to conceal his smile.

The older woman says, “I hope Myrtle is watching her purse with shady characters like him around.”

I leave the hobby shop and decide to join an Old West Historical Recreation Society. They say their costumes are authentic; detailed replicas of what the real cowboys wore.

I arrive for our first meeting dressed as a steam-punk version of Ironman.

Even the saloon girl shoots me before they all run me out of town.

Some people have no imagination.

Another deacon joins the hunt for Hezekiah 3:19 as the older woman says. “People actually dressed up to go to church in my day. We had membership standards back then.”

I nod. Jesus had membership standards, too.

Near the sanctuary door, the head usher tells one of his subordinates, “You’ll just have to find someone to cover for me.” He holds up two tickets and says, “I gotta go. Kick off’s in an hour.”
Jesus had membership standards.

No, you may not go home and burry your father.

Follow me.

No, you may not bid farewell to your wife and kids.

Follow me.

And if you can’t sell all you have to give it to the poor, then I won’t be waiting for you at the city gate. I love you, man, but no.

The five thousand who ate off a kid’s sack lunch? They tried to make Jesus their meal ticket king. Not exactly what He was going for, so He abandoned them. The whole walking on water bit was His way of sneaking off. And when the crowd didn’t take the hint, He turned on them with a sermon He knew they couldn’t swallow.

Follow me. Not your ideal of me, but me; the Bread of Life. Nothing like hinting at cannibalism to thin out a church. That’s how they did it in Jesus’ day. That’s how they pruned off the prune-faced posers; those free-loading hangers-on waiting for Jesus to make their lives better.

Asking Jesus to fix your life is like asking a car salesman to help you to keep your old clunker on the road. The cross wasn’t about fixing lives, it was about trading them in for the new and improved model.

A true disciple would know that. Deny yourself, take up your cross daily, and follow me: the membership standard for the Official Jesus Christ Fan Club.

All others need not apply.

Yet, the unconditional surrender of discipleship now plays out like the negotiated terms of a ceasefire. Sure, Jesus may have exchanged His throne in heaven for diapers on our behalf, but asking us to give up clubhouse seats for Him? That’s a little extreme.

In the corner, six different Bibles are open in search of Hezekiah 3:19.

One of them flips past the parable of the Ten Virgins.

Another goes over the passage about hating your mother and father, sister and brother, wife and children…

No one wants to read the sermon they can’t stomach.

Joshua clearing out the promised land.

Jesus clearing out the temple.

The pretence and subsequent deaths of Ananias and Sapphira.

The Apostle Paul telling the church at Corinth to expel the immoral brother.

None of these can be found in Hezekiah 3:19.

An elder reviews the table of contents and says, “Well, it’s not in the Old Testament. I’ve checked the list twice.”

The first teen starts to laugh and walks away.

In my mind, I’m at a Star Wars Convention telling everyone to live long and prosper.

Those plastic light sabers hurt.

One of the Bibles flips passed the second letter the Thessalonians, telling them to remove disobedient members from the fellowship. They were strict back then. They really took this walking with Jesus stuff seriously.

Fanatical zealots. Not like today. Today, the church welcomes anyone in the hope of them hearing the word, and being saved.

One of the Bibles flips passed the Great Commission, telling the church to go into the world. It says nothing about bringing people into the church. No one seems to notice. Again, it’s not Hezekiah 3:19.

In my mind, I get a job at a soup kitchen so I can throw buttered rolls at the unwashed masses of lazy bums. The supervisor tells me to cut it out. I tell her that soup kitchens are supposed to welcome anyone in need. She points to the line of filthy, freshly-buttered coats and tells me I’m on the wrong side of the counter for that.

It would appear the bums can start a food fight if they want, but employees cannot. I try to point out the double standard, but I lose my job anyway.

Some people just don’t understand church logic. I’m guessing that’s a good thing.

I imagine a military base during wartime, where enemies are allowed to waltz in through the front gate where they’re issued a uniform and treated as defectors seeking asylum. Throw in a little tolerant understanding. Throw in a little patriotism to a different flag. In time, that outpost would fall without a single shot being fired.

I think of the church.

The Trekkies are amongst the Jedi.

The bums are in the kitchen.

The atheists are teaching Sunday School so they can complain about all the hypocrites. And of course, none would be un-Christ-like as to point them out as chief contributors to the problem.

“Shameful,” the older woman says, shaking her head. “They’ll let anyone in the church these days.”

I nod, and when I speak, I’m not looking at the guy in the trench coat. I’m not thinking of the bubblegum fountain on the other side of the room.

From the corner someone says, “What? Hezekiah?” He laughs. “That’s a joke. There’s no such book.”

And my deacon says, “Are you sure?”

“You’re absolutely right,” I say to the older woman. “Clearly, the membership standards of the church need to be addressed.”

Fair Trade

In the movie adaptation of Frank Miller’s Sin City a cop on the verge of retirement goes after a high profile pedophile in the hopes of saving a little girl. His partner tries to talk him out of it, telling him his adversary is more than his match, that he’s not as young as he used to be. He’s earned his retirement, why not just let this guy go and enjoy it?

Later in the scene, after the big showdown, he doesn’t regret ignoring his partner’s advice. Heroes never do. The would-be victim stands beside him as he lies bleeding on the dock. The pedophile is in no condition to hurt her now, and police sirens are closing in the distance. In the voice over, this cop says the incredibly beautiful line, “An old man dies. A young girl lives. Fair trade.”

The other heroes in fiction would no doubt agree. Ask Luke Skywalker if overthrowing the Empire and confronting the dark side of the force was worth losing a hand, and I’m sure he’d say yes. Was the emotionally tramatic, soul scaring, body mangling trip into Mordor an experience Frodo is proud to call his story?

A hobbit loses a finger. A dark evil is vanquished in Middle Earth. Fair trade.

These are the stories we tell to our children’s children’s children. These are the knights who risk it all in the face of impossible odds to slay the dragon. These are the people we want to be… from our comfortable stadium seats at the local multiplex. But try to face those impossible odds in the real world, and the popcorn flies.

This is particularly true in the church where the warfare is a spiritual struggle against the hordes of hell. We sing our songs of victory and talk about the armor of God. And we do so from the safety of the castles keep while our enemy ravages the land. It rather pisses me off, to be honest.

I’d rather stand in defiance to the prince of this world, even though it comes at a price.

Jill, my beautiful wife, has recently been called on to help the friend of a friend deal with her daughter’s supposed imaginary playmate. But three-year-olds don’t retain imaginary friends for eight months. Nor are children inclined to spend the night on the couch to avoid said companion. The mother can’t research her daughter’s imaginary friend because every time she tries, her computer wigs out. She can’t talk about it over the phone, because static fills the line so she can’t hear what the other person is saying. Imaginary friends don’t behave like this. But demons do.

The mother has a copy of my book, Ripper Grimm, but every time she tries to read it, her daughter flips out and she has to put the book down. (Interesting that the book starts with a warning against this very type of occurrence.)

I’ve asked a lot of people to pray for Jill and against this entity. Most of them understood the importance of the task and the seriousness of the situation. One man even thanked me for bringing him into this.

But another—a dear lady whom I’ve relied on as a prayer warrior for years—replied with, “Nathan, I warned you this would happen if you starting writing what you’re writing. Please, write something else. Please, leave this alone.” I get this from my parents a lot, too. I get it from people who mean well, because they don’t want to see me come to harm. I understand this. I just don’t agree with the world view it represents.

We’re not meant to play it safe, which is why those great stories resonate so deeply. I looked into this dear woman’s eyes as she pleaded with me to write something else. Write a story about puppy dogs and butterflies. Write anything, except your stories that challenge the darkness. Stop rustling the wings of the dragons in hell.

But how could I? I can’t walk away from where God has called me to be any more than that cop could leave that little girl. I can’t walk away anymore than Frodo or Luke could abandon their world to darkness. I said, as I’ve said to so many others, “I’d rather get to heaven with my armor beat to hell, than to stand before my King with the tag still hanging from my shield.” I said, “We have to take a stand against this sort of thing, because if we don’t, then we’re allowing it to advance unchallenged.”

Imagine being Bruce Wayne. Imagine Alfred pleading with you to abandon your silly bat costume and just enjoy your father’s money. That’s what it felt like. Have we learned nothing from the great stories?

An old man goes home and eats steak.

A young girl gets butchered by a sick degenerate because no one else will stand up to him.

Not a fair trade. Not by half.

Batman doesn’t play it safe, and we love him for it. Buffy the Vampire slayer didn’t play it safe. Neither did Indiana Jones. Neither did Flash Gordon Neither did Buck Rodgers. Neither did the Lone Ranger. Neither did Zorro. I could list those who did play it safe, but you wouldn’t recognize any of the names. Those aren’t the stories we pass through the generations. Those aren’t the people we dream about being.

My father asked if I might be under spiritual attack because I’m writing books like Ripper Grimm, and my current project, Burlesque. Absolutely! I’ve been dealing with chronic fatigue over the last five years. I’m hit with depression on a regular basis. That feeling that I’m wasting my time, that I’m writing garbage, which no publisher would ever want, which no reader would ever want to read? Welcome to my world. And of course I’m snipped with the urge to hang myself several times a week—a momentary impulse, not a planned or contemplated course of action. Most normals freak out when they hear about this.

Sometimes calling people out of the darkness means going in after them. This is me not playing it safe, and yes, it’s coming at a price. Sure, I could save myself a lot of mental instability by abandoning my quest. The latest temptation has been to lose myself in the world of roll playing games. It would be easier. It would be much more fun, not to mention more pleasant. That, and I certainly wouldn’t be putting my wife and child in the cross hairs of a dragon’s rage.

But when I get to the end of my life and look back over what I’ve done, will I be proud of myself for taking the easier road? I doubt it. I’ve already spent too much time rolling dice for imaginary heroes who’ve shed imaginary blood to accomplish nothing. Fun times, but I don’t look back at them with pride. I’m much more pleased with the songs I’ve written that changed peoples lives, or the puppet scripts and characters I’ve brought to a world who loved them. I’m pleased with the years I’ve spent as a puppet team director investing in the lives of youth. I’m pleased with taking the road less traveled.

And now that I’m hacking my way through a danger infested jungle, creating my own road, I can honestly say I’m proud of Ripper Grimm. I’m proud of the unpublished novel I wrote about cutting, even though I spent a month feeling very suicidal and self destructive. A year from now, when Burlesque is finished—a book about dealing with our disappointments when God says no, a book about adult entertainment as an industry of human sacrifice, a book that has dragged me through the dark shadow of my soul for months on end (and no, I’m not being dramatic)—I believe I’ll be just as pleased. After all, if demonic imaginary friends don’t want my work read, I must be doing something right. And given the trouble I’ve had in writing Burlesque, my friend might be right when he says it might be the most important work I’ve ever done.

This is a rocky road, and I’m certainly feeling banged up for being on it. But I want to look back on my life the way the heroes do in those stories. And when I look back, I want to see a thousand souls who worship Christ because I lived. Give me that when all is said and done, and I’ll limp through the Pearly Gates in duct taped battle regalia, whispering through smiling lips, “Fair trade.”