It was 1980, and I had just married my second husband, who happened to be an atheist. I was attending a church in town and had enrolled my eight-year old son into their school. It was an enrollment requirement that at least one of the parents attend the church. And in the beginning, I was happy to comply.
The senior minister was very charismatic, and had done a stellar job of filling the pews, so much so they were on their third church. He had two junior ministers who shared the responsibilities and helped with tending the flock, both of whom had their own special talents.
I attended regularly, and always looked forward to lunch after service. I found many wonderful people in this church, which wasn’t a big surprise. This had happened before too. Some of these people made me feel jealous as they seemed to silently float through their lives never hurt or scathed by life. I wondered what their special formula was. My sister was a member of this church too, and this was one of the few times we both lived in the same town and could continue to build our sisterly bond.
Sunday was a day to look forward to, at least for a while. Just as so often happened though, the good times wouldn’t last for long. Eventually that little empty space inside of me was starting to take over again. It was as if someone was always at my back, gently nudging me forward toward something, its identity I could only guess. And this time it would be Ann, my sister, who would urge me off track. She had connected with the Baha’i faith, and the next thing I know I’m attending a Fireside.
I started learning about the faith and I liked the idea they didn’t believe anyone needed to preach. They put forth that knowing God was an intimate and personal experience. That fit. They also believed that all religions, and in particular the major nine, were all teaching the same thing: love. That fit too.
Their faith spoke to my heart. I didn’t have to wonder about what others were doing or thinking, and I only needed to focus on my own relationship with God. Alas, my new-found speck of inner happiness, like everything else in my life, would be short lived. I was called into the junior minister’s office, and I was guessing it would be to account for my absence on Sundays.
I found myself asking God for assistance as the idea of an inquisition was daunting. We greeted each other with pleasantries and then he got down to business.
“I am placed as a shepherd of the flock, you see…” he began. “It is my duty to make sure the people of the church are safe.” He raised an eyebrow for emphasis.
“And I am safe, pastor. I am safe in the Light of God,” I responded kindly.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it doesn’t fair well for someone when they are tempted by otherworldly endeavours. It is important to stay close to the shepherds who look out for you.”
“Well, I am certain God is grateful to you for your work, and that you’re doing a fine job.” I gave him nothing…and he clearly was beginning to struggle. It was as if an angel was filling my mouth with gentle words to counter his agenda. It wasn’t long before he ended our session, clearly feeling defeated.
I returned to the congregation the next Sunday because of my son and school, and not because I felt I needed protection. The eyes of this junior minister seemed to be on me as he delivered the sermon. “The shepherd tended to his flock of sheep every day. He would sit upon a small hill so he could watch them closely for it was told there was a beast about the village.”
“One of the little lambs kept running away from the flock however, and the shepherd would make his way down the hill to retrieve her. Each time he went after the lamb, he realized he was leaving the others in jeopardy. This lamb however kept running away as if the grass was greener somewhere else. And each time, the shepherd left the flock to bring her back.” The Minister paused for emphasis, and then looked directly at me.
“So, the shepherd had to come up with something to keep the flock safe. He decided he would break the leg of the little lamb so it could no longer run away.”
I never went back to that church, and shortly thereafter I removed my son from their tutelage as well, and we moved away. This would be the last church that would ever feel obligated to keep me safe. This is but one example of how at least five different denominations managed to taint my experiences of God…and His shepherds. Still that little empty place in the center of my chest remained.
…to be continued.
Photo Credits
Me and Jan, 1979 – By Faye Thornton – All Rights Reserved
Shepherd – designpics @ 123rf Stock Photos
Jesus – Lane Erickson @ 123rf Stock Photos
Wedding Feature Image – By Faye Thornton – All Rights Reserved
Recent Faye Thornton Articles:
- A Journey To Spirit #24: Divine Messages
- A Journey to Spirit #23: The Big C
- A Journey to Spirit #22: And Now It Was Done
- A Journey to Spirit # 21: And So It Began…
- A Journey to Spirit #20: Breathless Heart
OMG…how creepy is that? So scary, I would have run away too.
Thank you for your comment, and yes, even as I wrote this piece, I was reminded of how it took me totally by surprise and actually chased me further away as I never did return. As the story continues, you will begin to understand more about how the Spirit within me had been guiding me all along.
Thank you for reading,
Blessings,
Faye