This is the Church, This is the Steeple...

2/22/2010 4:03PM EST:

Left Photo of 10:15AM service at Riverland Hills Baptist Church on 2/21/2010.

Yesterday, at the request of my parents, I attended the worship service at their Southern Baptist church. I did this to be a good son, knowing that it meant far more to them than it would to me. I grew up in this church, although as a child, the location was different, the building was much smaller, and I lacked perspective. These days, their church probably has more attendees on a Sunday than a typical large state university would have on any given day. It now has a full orchestra and a choir that surpasses 100 people. There are three full worship services. Hymns, messages, and camera angles are displayed on mega-screens.

The message of the service was "love" and the "the greatest of these is love." The odd thing was, the entire message was an awkward ramble through abstract sentiment. The message was that love is the most powerful thing, and while faith, communication, and a million other feel-good words were good, they weren't the best feel-good word. The pastor's message was spiritually flat. There was no challenge, no direction to help us nudge ourselves into better living. Just a fortune cookie message to take home with us.

While I was attentive and able to absorb the full message (that didn't require a great deal of concentration), I couldn't help but look around and notice so many things I resented in this institution. I wish I were spiritually mature in times like these. I entered into this exercise of going back to this church with the thought: "I'm sure like any religion, there are wonderful messages I can take, treasure, and use in my own personal growth." Unfortunately, it's tough to find this good when you walk back into a bell closet of spiritual baggage.

Instead, I recognized this place for what it was: spiritual violence. I reverted back immediately to what this place has done to my own life. This church was filled with middle and upper class white suburban families. One black family sat in a rear pew not too far from us. People glanced over their shoulders - they were not welcome. It didn't need to be said. I looked at the preacher, dispensing justification to his flock like a heavy handed pharmacist with a fistful of oxycontin. This church made me hate myself for the first two decades of my life. This church made me view my own life with shame and embarassment. This church estranged me from my mother, my father, and my brother. Our relationships will never be whole again based on the rhetoric this church propogates, which my family continues to embrace. This church makes people believe in forgiveness, not judging, and unending love - but dares people to actually take up these practices. This church made me unhappy through most of my childhood.

Sitting in this building for an hour was an interesting exercise. I recognized that despite the oppression of this institution, I was strong enough to make a life for myself. I would never have thought this was possible as a child that sat there in shame over 20 years ago. I also acknowledged and sat among the people that my own children will struggle against. These are the people who think that global warming is leftist nonsense, that women have no reproductive freedom, that sexual minorities are not entitled to equal rights, that only the priveleged should have health care, that the state should execute criminals, and that someone like me should never have children. These are the institutions and people that will now act as adversaries to my own children's happiness. I never thought I would get so much out of attending a Protestant service again.