Outstretched Arms: When You Wish You Didn't Jump

I still recall my smile stretching from ear to ear on my then freckled six year old face. I'm proud and honored, enjoying this rare emotion of feeling special. It's Sunday morning and towering next to me on my left is the man I would continue to look up to for fifteen years, my pastor. This was a honor, being chosen to sit in the front pew next to him until it was his time to take to the pulpit and the sermon laid upon his heart. The congregation is singing one of their favorites, Power in The Blood or Amazing Grace, maybe, and I'm struggling to find the page to the old hymn so my pastor steps in, hands me his song book and takes mine. Next to him waiting expectantly is my twin sister and he repeats the process, exchanging hymnals with a patient smile and low chuckle. We sing, join in with the familiar aspects of each service—offering, more congregational singing, greeting other worshipers, sitting quietly through any special music—and then, the preaching hour. My twin and I scoot closer, opening our red Bible cases with a child's depiction of Noah's Ark and some of the many animals on it, along with its rainbow, and pull out our KJV Bibles that we still can't fully read and sounding out the letters to Old Testament names isn't possible, let alone allowed, as we're learning in kindergarten. My tiny fingers trace the letters though and then I hear my name called. That's right, we practiced this just this morning, so quickly my sister and I jump up and go to our pastor as planned. One by one, he lifts us up onto the platform as he stands below. I study the distance from those two steps warily and feel myself waiver on my promise. Next to me, my twin has been doing the same and takes a step back. 

"Now, remember how we practiced? When I say 'jump', you jump!" Our pastor says, glancing over his shoulder to continue speaking to those in the pews, going on to set up the example we're about to create by learning to jump into our Heavenly Father's arms as any trusting child would. My twin sister's turn comes first and she shakes her head, unable to do as we practiced and backs up even farther as her young face reddens. The man of God just chuckles and says it's all right, that this actually works better as a real example because it is natural to hesitate, but it's also a sin not to obey god, he explains. 

Now, it's my turn and I'm determined to not only keep my word, but also make my pastor proud. I steal one last glance in order to judge the distance and then I jump, believing without a doubt I will be caught and I was. 

For many years after that moment and beyond, that memory has vividly lingered in the back of my mind. It became a test of sorts I would look back on—I obeyed even when afraid and my pastor caught me just as he promised. He kept his word. 

For a long time, I would look back sentimentally about that moment and it would bring me comfort. Spiritually, I felt that God was just like how I was taught a father should be and I, as a Christian, would run to Him and jump into His arms no matter the distance requested of me and regardless of the hesitancies I may have. If God were to call, I was to answer. And when it came to my pastor, I was convinced the man of God would always be there as well. In pleasing him, I would be pleasing God. 

I feel that so many people misunderstand or never truly grasp the dedication and loyalty members had towards their leaders. In my Oceania, each of my Independent Fundamental Baptist pastors were highly looked up to, even idolized by myself and others. When trying to explain this to the curious questioners, they have always pointed out that they were just human and didn't I get that? Well, yes. But to a degree. Obviously, I understood by the teachings that anyone could make mistakes, could stumble, and this also applied to these men of God. But then, there was the fact that my pastor was called with a special calling as a preacher of the Word. He was God's mouthpiece and had been anointed by Him. I knew from his own candid sermons that he took the ministry serious and was constantly striving to be "right with God" and I took his word on it. I knew how dedicated I was to being the best Christian I could be and felt every believer did the same. In fact, when he would make a mistake, our pastor would share and use it as a way to explain God's forgiveness no matter how small an infraction it was. I naively took for granted that all Christians (in our case, IFBs) took their role as Saints seriously and I never thought leaders would be exempt from this. 

But beyond not truly seeing them through the lense of a human and idilolizing them, both of my pastors of my 21 years being in the Church had a different and stronger bond that was strengthened by the fact that they, in many ways, were a sort of family. I grew up knowing that before even my grandparents got to see me when I was born my then IFB pastor held me and prayed over my sister and I in the hospital. There were holidays, birthdays and special occasions celebrated with them and their wives. They were captured in family photographs and for many years I kept dear a photo of just my twin and I as children with our former pastor. In ways, they were almost grandparents and like a proud grandchild I would talk about them to the point I even remember bein scolded by a non-IFB aunt that I had grandparents. And so I did, but my pastor and his wife knew what I knew—we were part of God's peculiar people. We were part of something so much more special than earthly familial ties. We were part of God's family and that was beyond comparison. My non-believing family could never truly grasp that, although I wanted nothing more than that at the time. 

Maybe it was because I was part of such a small congregation of believers that it felt we were so much closer or in the moments we weren't, it felt we should be. Ours was a small, backwoods country church in size and in doing things. A little white church on an unpainted back road of rural Virginia with fields used by local farmers to grow either peanuts, soy, corn or cotton. With actual family literally states away, our church family was like a surrogate one. The pastor, his wife and sometimes members would be substitutes in ways that the voids the lack of connection to aunts, uncles, and cousins had caused. It was they who were there for both my kindergarten years to my graduation from high school where my pastor spoke about me always serving God and being a blessing to him as my pastor. 

Some paators are villionazied and after reading many survivors' accounts I understand why. Some have been solely responsible for so much imaginable hurt that it's difficult to grasp that. But what happens when you can't see the villain, but feel the hurt? What happens when the idea of a villain doesn't match up to what you are seeing? 

Surely, I know my pastor failed me in some very difficult ways and did or didn't do things that ordinary human beings struggle to understand why—I am one of those people. There are times where it is very clear and other times where I have found it tough to reason out the whys and why nots. The people I knew seem to wear many different faces and recognizing that was hard and confusing. 

I struggled to separate the pastor who would kindly pray with me before a challenging test in elementary school with the man who would sometimes be unkind to wait staff in a restaurant. It was the contradictions like why listening to one special country song was okay in private, but the genre was then preached against soon after. There was the person who showed up to bring me a new bike "just because" and then the person who let me down as an abused kid. I couldn't make sense of the pastor who held me and my twin in either arm as we grieved the loss of our mother in that cold hospital staff meeting room from the man of God who yelled that we would burn in hell. I struggled to separate the kind, soft spoken pastor from the angry, screaming preacher. 

I remember one particular scenario that as a teenager really bothered me. There were many moments that led to trust being broken, but this one stood out for me and I believe was the beginning of truly questioning the superiority of the man of God. In the weeks leading up to special meetings such as revivals, congregants were encouraged to be "clean" with God, to make sure you were living right and that nothing stood between you and the Almighty that may prevent a spiritual revival from coming to the church. Praying and beseeching God to work, and being in God's Word with personal Bible devotions was a must. I spent this particular week trying so hard, being extra kind to others, making quick repentance for the slightest bit of unthankfulness or bad attitude. I knew how important experiencing revival was and although I wasn't really sure what that would really look like, I still begged God it would come. I knew I wasn't the only one in this; many of my peers were doing the same. Some of us got together to pray as a group before services and even over phone calls. Our pastor had pleaded with us, nothing more had to be said. 

That week was hell—figuratively, of course. I had never encountered a more discouraging series of messages where sin and the lack of salvation was the constant theme. Put it this way: the verbal, emotional, and spiritual abuse were on full display. By that week's end, I recall sitting there in my pew, defeated and so, so confused. Didn't I pray hard enough? Did God not see how hard we all tried? I was beyond disheartened at that point. It didn't take long till we were all made aware of where the problem lied. 

The guest speaker, a fellow pastor and evangelist from North Carolina who was also a role model of sorts to me (more on that some other time, maybe) slammed his Bible shut with a loud thump. I jumped in response and felt my stomach knot as I waited for what was next. "Pastor, I have tried. I have tried to listen to the Holy Spirit's leading, to bring the Word of God to these people, but I wave the white flag, I'm done. I surrender! They won't get right with God and I know, because you shared with me on the drive up here what has been going on in this church. A man of God can only do so much if God's people won't turn from their sin and find themselves in this altar, repenting!" The shouting started here. "What, you don't think I don't know even if I only show up here one week each year? Well, I know. Your pastor told me all about it. The young people in their music of the World! Hair too long on the boys; the skirts too short on the girl's! Flip-flops and low tops, and jewelry on the boys!" With this I start to scan the blouse and skirt I'm wearing and am in shock. Then the kicker, "Revival won't come, because you people won't allow it! Something happened to the young people around here since the last time I was here. I'm sorry, Pastor. I tried." The speaker finished, shaking his head and using a hankie to wipe across his sweaty face. 

In the pew behind me, I hear a teen girl cry; she was part of our group who met to pray before each service. In the corner of my eye, I notice another friend, male this time, head down and when I turn we catch stares, saying without words what we were both thinking. That was brutal. I shutter and turn to where our pastor is closing the end of the meeting. Revival never came. 

That moment embedded deep doubts within my heart and mind. For one, for years we heard over and over again from our pastor he would never share anything he felt needed to be preached on during an upcoming revival meeting with the visiting preacher, stating he believed God would show the speaker what we needed. I was left with the fact that he was dishonest about that and at least then, certainly did say something to that particular evangelist. That was enough to plant questions there of how many times that was the case? Then, it went beyond just my pastor and started the much deeper and imperative questions of how could God get it so wrong and what about the evangelist? How could he be so convinced that us young people were at fault for the evasion of a spiritual reviving? Every young person in that building knew we weren't culpable and only tried our darndest. Spiritually speaking, it was like quicksand from then on. I became skeptical and suspicious of so much and started asking off limits questions such as, Does the man of God really have some special connection at all? 

I find so many people underestimate the deeply conflicting emotions that the possibility of leaving conjures up even when there are doubts present. It's not leaving a church, your leaving your church. The place where so many milestones were marked. Many family's have the tradition of measuring a child's height by a threshold, taking a pencil and stenciling in a mark and date. In my church, kids would stand along the edge of the pews and listen to adults marvel on how fast they were growing; the pastor and his wife were just like the extended family we didn't always get to visit witness these milestones. I remember so clearly growing up, slowly being able to peek over the back of the pew in front of me and can still feel the cool wood my little girl chin rested on. As a second generation IFB, born and raised, I wonder if maybe that is the reason behind the sentimental ties that held me there so long. 

In the end, leaving was like leaving family. Knowing I was breaking my pastor's heart, regardless of everything, broke mine too. I felt worried for his health and how he would handle the dissapointment, and even felt bad how it would negatively impact his ministry. It made me feel disloyal. I found myself unable to jump, because I no longer trusted he would catch me if I did. Truth was, I knew he wouldn't. 

I found that trust between myself and the man of God was broken, forever changed, and even pointless. Ironically, it reminded me of an old Independent Baptist teaching of relying on man, not God and how that was a sin. And yet, for years I and others made exceptions for pastors and preachers, Sunday school teachers and members alike. I wanted my heroes to stand tall and be there to always look up to, just like we were taught. I wanted to feel sure and work past the doubts to be just like six year old me and jump with full assurance I would be caught.

Hitting the ground is a hard awakening. It leaves you bruised, hurt and shocked. It was something I found I had to grieve. Just acknowledging you feel failed isn't easy, but making peace with it is hard. I find overtime it gets better. Am I more skeptical now? Maybe. Am I more cautious? Yes, although that's always been a part of who I am. Do I feel all pastors will fail their flocks? No. I'm comforted to know there are those that don't, but still am sad to see how many do.

I guess more than anything, I wish I never jumped at six years old even if it really wasn't up to me. More than that, I regret how long it sometimes takes to wake up and allow yourself to feel the hurt. Although I obviously can't, if I could somehow spontaneously go back and defy space and time, I would pull my little girl self aside and say, "Hey, you have doubts? That's ok. It's reasonable and human to be afraid to make that leap. Maybe you should and maybe you shouldn't. I'm not here to change your mind. But even if you don't make this leap, know that some are good for you. Some jumps are better and you don't always have a hard landing. Some steps out into doubt end up being paths to answers. Some people are not worthy of your trust and some will be able to earn it. Do not base so much on one moment if it keeps you stuck. Being stuck is not the same as being grounded." That advice is what I would give myself twenty years ago and many times over since then, along with the fact that no one should get a free pass to spiritually abuse you. It doesn't matter if they shame or guilt you, gaslight you into believing somehow the pain and hurt you are feeling is not that bad, that you are being too sensitive—you fill-in-the-blank with the excuse. Bottom line: a pastor that preaches in love brings no agenda, because real love has no such agenda. 

And I think that right there is what diving into all this was really about. It took me some time to recognize this very thing and I cannot lie, it did hurt just trying to come to terms with it. I felt betrayed and that so much of my life and the people in it were part of a lie. That possibility kept me shaking and in limbo for so long. But upon seeing that, it was like a light turning on and I stared to find freedom in breaking away. I was finding my independence to finally walk away after I technically already had. 

One, it's only natural to trust people you look up to. It was what you had always known and in some ways even groomed to do. And second, it's not your fault. It's not the sheep who are meant to spot an incompetent shepherd, but thankfully, some do wander from them and leave the fold altogether for safer pastures. 

As simple and even ridiculous as it sounds, it all came down to asking myself this one question that helped break the spell that also held my loyalty for what felt like so long...If I were the shepherd would I treat my sheep in the same way? That answer was easy. You treat human beings as humans, not as animals.


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