I have talked a lot about how hurt and rejected I felt by my church growing up. I have been trying to figure out why it has felt like this to me in my memory. To explain, I would call that church legalistic, but talking to someone who grew up in John MacArthur’s church, I realize that may be an overstatement on the stage of American religion. I would call it judgemental, but talking to so many in small Pentecostal churches, led by a cult of personality in the pulpit, who dictated every small action within the congregation, again, this is probably an overstatement. I would say it had strange nationalistic theology that led away from peace and into calling for war, but that has become the mainstream of American Protestantism. But there is something about that recipe of just enough legalism, just enough judgment, and just enough quasi-warmongering nationalism that, when put in a blender, it created a milkshake of theological pain for me.
But that doesn’t say enough about the why. Plenty of people grew up in my church and have no sense of the pain that I feel. Many would even say that the judgment they felt was warranted - they needed to be better and the church, like iron sharpens iron, judged (discerned?) the behavior out of them. I wonder if it isn’t compounded for me because the pastor of my church was my dad. Every correction, criticism, and conflict in the home was a theological battle, a chance to feel not a parental concern, but one in which God was at the center.
This series is part of Lenten practice and most will remain unfinished. I may or may not pick up the stories or themes for later posts.