Why is Church Cliquey? Part 3

A couple months ago I was praying and the story of Zacchaeus came to mind. So I found the story of Zacchaeus in Luke and read it. If you haven't read it, it's extremely short. It didn't particularly resonate with me, but I was like, cool, whatever. There's a short dude who is also a hated tax collector. He climbs a tree to see Jesus. Jesus singles him out and invites himself over. They party. Zacchaeus repents of his scummy tax-collecting ways.

The next day (or soon after), I went to church. It was a Sunday morning service and I found myself weaving in and out of the people in attendance. It was bright and sunny (this is Southern California). There were couples and families and children and babies and people I knew and people I didn't.

And I did something I don't think I've ever done before.

I took a backseat in my brain and just observed what was going on in there (do NOT try this at home, kids).

It wasn't pretty.

It was dark. Judgmental. Shallow. Vile. Ugly. The worst kind of petty envy and jealousy.

And in that moment I realized: I am Zacchaeus. I am the short, ugly (?), hated tax collector and I feel so much self-loathing that I put other people down internally in order to elevate myself.

But rather than feeling only shame I felt something else--I guess you could call it pity or even compassion:

I feel more uncomfortable and unsafe and not-at-home at church than I do almost anywhere else.

That's such a strange sentence to write. And I could, if I cared to, explore the history behind that sentence--the different experiences that have led me to both love and hate church.

But right now I'm more interested in this dynamic of feeling comfortable in the discomfort, at-home in the not-at-home, safety in exclusion.

That being loved--actually loved without condition--is excruciating for me.

That being at home--not a stranger, or a guest, or a foreigner--is unthinkably painful and more than I can bear.

My church recently did one of those research surveys, conducted by an external organization that does these kinds of things, to explore our strengths and weaknesses.

The survey found that there was a significant statistical "disappointment gap" between the sense of belonging desired by the people attending and the sense of belonging experienced. I did not fill out this survey. But I can relate. 

I long for acceptance and belonging--the unconditional kind of belonging that I think most people long for. However, I attend a church where this longing goes unmet and denied. 

Just to be clear, I am not blaming the church that I attend for unconsciously or consciously (doubtful) failing to accept me or meet my needs. I'm saying I feel more comfortable living in a space of ambivalence, and so I choose to attend a church where this ambivalence grows and thrives. 

If I'm really, truly honest, I would say I feel more comfortable living in a place of rejection than of love. 

That is so painful for me to write. 

Previous posts: Why is Church Cliquey? & Why is Church Cliquey? Part 2

Next post: "Breaking up with church"

Boundaries, Shame & the Peanut Butter Defensive

I recently tried to set a new boundary with someone I used to be close to.

This was hard for me.

And he responded with some version of "Okay. By the way, I think you blew this way out of proportion."

That's the thing with boundaries. I don't expect guys to actually respect them.

. . . . . . .

When I was a young teenager (14) my family visited Nepal. I remember quite a bit about our trip--white water rafting, my sister's bout of dengue fever, the incredible oatmeal at the missionary boarding house--

And the rather sudden objectification and perceived accessibility of my body.

There was something about being 14, being a stranger in a strange land, and having men "accidentally" "bump into" me as I was walking down the street.

It was a confusing business.

I wrote to my dad about this, and in his reply he humorously suggested I coat myself in peanut butter or some other sticky substance so that the offender would get a nice little surprise as he copped a feel.

"Ha! Bet you weren't expecting to get peanut butter on you, you pervert!"

Unfortunately, I could not appreciate my dad's advice at the time.

Instead, I started crossing my arms over my chest and not making eye contact.

. . . . . . .

I was 15 and my favorite, most-worn piece of clothing was an extremely baggy, thin black sweatshirt. It managed to engulf whatever boobs I had at the time.

I'm certain one friend threatened to take it out and burn it.

I loved that thing.

. . . . . . .

I've had guys tell me, "I'm you're boyfriend. I'm supposed to push your boundaries."

I've had guys ask me out after I told them repeatedly I just wanted to be friends.

I've had grown men ignore my (polite) requests to stop harassing me via email. [Pro tip: don't use the word "please" when asking someone to stop harassing you.]

And the thing with boundaries is, they can start closing in on you, until you keep contracting inward, smaller and smaller, barely taking up any space, in a desperate attempt to hold onto whatever is still inviolate about the self.

And I wondered what about my boundaries or my self seemed so fluid, permeable, and defenseless. What about me said, "No really. I don't mean it. Go ahead and cross that line."

And my boundaries felt about as valuable and effective as smearing peanut butter on myself to prevent sexual assault. [So many questions: Crunchy or creamy? Name brand or store brand? Organic or not organic?]

When someone (or lots of someones) tramples your boundaries more times than you can count, you start internalizing the shame of "I'm not worth it."

. . . . . . .

But that's not what boundaries are for--I want boundaries that leap, and bound, and expand, and run, and fight back, and talk back, and that assert that--

YES. I am important. I am worth it. My story is worth telling. And this is MY side of the story that you don't get to control.

These are my boundaries.

This is my peanut butter defensive. Or rather peanut butter offensive--I picture myself running through the streets of Nepal, covered in peanut butter head-to-toe.

And if you don't like it, well--

I've got a jar of Skippy with your name on it.