Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church

by Rachel Held Evans

  It has become cliché to talk about faith as a journey, and yet the metaphor holds. Scripture doesn’t speak of people who found God. Scripture speaks of people who walked with God. This is a keep-moving, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, who-knows-what’s-next deal, and you never exactly arrive. I don’t know if the path’s all drawn out ahead of time, or if it corkscrews with each step like in Alice’s Wonderland, or if, as some like to say, we make the road by walking, but I believe the journey is more labyrinth than maze. No step taken in faith is wasted, not by a God who makes all things new.

  “To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something,” said Walker Percy. “Not to be onto something is to be in despair.”60

  I thought about this as I emerged from Brother Joseph’s Ave Maria Grotto, threw my duffle bag in the back of the Acclaim, and headed back up Route 278 away from St. Bernard Abbey toward home. I didn’t know what was next in my search for church, but I knew I was onto something. It was either just around the next bend or a million miles away. Or maybe somewhere in between. But when the wind’s at your back, you keep moving. You press on.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Trembling Giant

  How monotonously alike all the great tyrants and conquerors have been. How gloriously different are the saints!

  —C. S. Lewis

  ONE OF THE OLDEST LIVING THINGS IN THE WORLD IS A clonal colony of quaking aspen in Fish Lake, Utah, called Pando. Estimated to be around eighty thousand years old (though no one knows the exact age for certain), Pando is a favorite October entry for wall calendars, as no photographer can resist those stark white trunks and shimmering golden leaves set against the shocking sapphire of a cloudless autumn sky. But Pando can be deceptive, for as artist Rachel Sussman puts it, “what looks like a forest is, in a sense, a single tree.”61 In truth, Pando comprises a massive underground root system and each of its forty-seven thousand trees are but stems springing from that system, making Pando one enormous, genetically identical organism. And a male one at that. He’s nicknamed the Trembling Giant.

  At last count, there are nearly as many denominations in Christianity as there are trees growing from Pando. Each one looks different—beautiful and broken in its own way—but we all share the same DNA.

  We tend to lament this seemingly endless parceling of Christianity (which, let’s face it, can indeed get out of hand), but I’m not convinced the pursuit of greater unity means rejecting denominationalism altogether. A worldwide movement of more than two billion people reaching every continent and spanning thousands of cultures for over two thousand years can’t expect homogeneity. And the notion that a single tradition owns the lockbox on truth is laughable, especially when the truth we’re talking is God.

  We might instead think of the various Christians traditions as different facets of a diamond refracting the same light, or as workers tending to a shared garden but with unique tasks, or as a single body made of many interconnected parts (1 Corinthians 12). Our differences can be cause for celebration when we believe the same Spirit that sings through a pipe organ can sing through an electric guitar, a Gregorian chant, or a gospel choir—though perhaps not at the same time!—and that we each hear the Spirit best at a different pitch.

  In his book Manifold Witness, John R. Franke writes, “The many parts of the church are called to participate together in a unity characterized by interdependent particularity. Each is a part, and only a part, of the embodied witness to truth of the gospel made known in Jesus Christ. Each plays its part by bearing faithful witness to Jesus Christ in all the fullness of its cultural, social, and historical particularity in order that the world may know that the God of love has been revealed in Jesus Christ and that through him God is reconciling the world and announcing good news to all people.”62

  In other words, unity does not require uniformity.

  Jesus said his Father’s house has many rooms. In this metaphor, I like to imagine the Presbyterians hanging out in the library, the Baptists running the kitchen, the Anglicans setting the table, the Anabaptists washing feet with the hose in the backyard, the Lutherans making liturgy for the laundry, the Methodists stoking the fire in the hearth, the Catholics keeping the family history, the Pentecostals throwing open all the windows and doors to let more people in.

  This is not to minimize the significance of our differences, of course. There are denominations of which I cannot in good conscience be a part because they ban women from the pulpit and gay and lesbian people from the table. Historically, churches have split over important issues like corruption, slavery, and civil rights. Doctrinal disputes may, in some cases, be negligible, but in others worth contesting. We’re a family, after all, and so we fight like one.

  Perhaps, when the Master Cobbler makes all things new, every good gift from each tradition will be melded together into one, all the impurities refined away. But in the meantime, our various traditions seem a sweet and necessary grace. And when we check our pride long enough to pay attention to the presence of the Spirit gusting across the globe, we catch glimpses of a God who defies our categories and expectations, a God who both inhabits and transcends our worship, art, theology, culture, experiences, and ideas.

  For many, a confirmation ceremony marks the moment when they identify one of these Christian traditions as their own. I have not yet been confirmed, but I have taken joy in seeing friends and family find their way from one expression of the church to another, and in so doing, encounter their faith afresh, as if for the first time. I’m happy for my friend Rachel who found in the Orthodox tradition a connection to the ancient, historic church that she missed growing up evangelical, and for Sarah, who found in the contemporary music of evangelical worship a passion and energy she missed being raised Anglican. I’m happy for Elizabeth, who found healing from her patriarchal, fundamentalist upbringing in connecting with Mary through the Catholic church, and for Robert, who found at a Presbyterian church in New York City the first intellectually rigorous engagement of his questions as an agnostic. None of these friends report perfect or painless experiences, even in their new church homes. As my friend Ed puts it: “When you join a church you’re just picking which hot mess is your favorite.” That sounds about right to me.

  “Our lives are like islands in the sea,” wrote William James, “or like trees in the forest. The maple and the pine may whisper to each other with their leaves . . . But the trees also commingle their roots in the darkness underground, and the islands also hang together through the ocean’s bottom. Just so there is a continuum of cosmic consciousness, against which our individuality builds but accidental fences, and into which our several minds plunge as into a mother-sea or reservoir.”63

  Our differences matter, but ultimately, the boundaries we build between one another are but accidental fences in the endless continuum of God’s grace. We are both a forest and a single tree—one big Trembling Giant, stirred by an invisible breeze.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Easter Doubt

  I talk to God but the sky is empty.

  —Sylvia Plath

  IT WILL BOTHER YOU OFF AND ON, LIKE A ROCK IN YOUR shoe.

  Or startle you, like the first crash of thunder in a summer storm.

  Or lodge itself beneath your skin like a splinter.

  Or show up again—the uninvited guest whose heavy footsteps you’d recognize anywhere, appearing at your front door with a suitcase in hand at the worst possible time.

  Doubt will pull you farther out to sea like riptide.

  Or hold your head under as you drown—triggered by an image, a question, something the pastor said, something that doesn’t add up, the unlikelihood of it all, the too-good-to-be-trueness of it, the way the lady in the thick perfume behind you sings “Up from the grave he arose!” with more confidence in the single line of a song than you’ve managed to muster in the past two years.

  Has it really been that long?

  And you’ll be sitting there in the dress you pulled out from the bac
k of your closet, swallowing down the bread and wine, not believing a word of it.

  Not a word.

  So you’ll fumble through those back-pocket prayers—help me in my unbelief!—while everyone around you moves on to verse two, verse three, verse four without you. You will feel their eyes on you, and you will recognize the concern behind their cheery greetings: “We haven’t seen you here in a while! So good to have you back.”

  And you will know they are thinking exactly what you used to think about Easter Sunday Christians:

  Nominal.

  Lukewarm.

  Indifferent.

  But you won’t know how to explain that there is nothing nominal or lukewarm or indifferent about standing in this hurricane of questions every day and staring each one down until you’ve mustered all the bravery and fortitude and trust it takes to whisper just one of them out loud on the car ride home:

  “What if we made this up because we’re afraid of death?”

  And you won’t know how to explain why, in that moment when the whisper rose out of your mouth like Jesus from the grave, you felt more alive and awake and resurrected than you have in ages because at least it was out, at least it was said, at least it wasn’t buried in your chest anymore, clawing for freedom.

  And, if you’re lucky, someone in the car will recognize the bravery of the act. If you’re lucky, there will be a moment of holy silence before someone wonders out loud if such a question might put a damper on Easter brunch.

  But if you’re not—if the question gets answered too quickly or if the silence goes on too long—please know you are not alone.

  There are other people singing words to hymns they’re not sure they believe today, other people digging out dresses from the backs of their closets today, other people ruining Easter brunch today, other people just showing up today.

  And sometimes, just showing up, burial spices in hand, is all it takes to witness a miracle.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  With God’s Help

  I come down to the water to cool my eyes. But everywhere I look I see fire; that which isn’t flint is tinder, and the whole world sparks and flames.

  —Annie Dillard

  MY MOTHER ALWAYS SAID YOU DON’T HAVE TO BELIEVE much to be an Episcopalian.

  Indeed, when it comes to a unifying doctrine, the Anglican tradition doesn’t get too specific but defers to the central affirmations of the historic Christian creeds: that there is a good and almighty God who is the creative force behind all things seen and unseen; that this God is One, yet exists as three persons; that God loved the world enough to become flesh in the person of Jesus Christ, who lived, taught, fed, healed, and suffered among us as both fully God and fully man; that Jesus was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of a virgin; that Jesus was crucified on a Roman cross and buried in the ground; that after three days dead, Jesus came back to life; that Jesus ascended into heaven and reigns with God; that Jesus will return to bring justice and restoration; that God continues to work in the world through the Holy Spirit, the church, and God’s people; that forgiveness is possible; that resurrection is possible; that eternal life is possible.

  You know, not much.

  For me, simply reciting the Apostles’ Creed on a given Sunday means drawing from every last reserve of my faith, which is probably why I find the Episcopal Church both freeing and challenging in its elemental ecclesiology. And it’s one of the reasons why, when Dan and I go to church these days, we make the thirty-mile drive to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, a bustling little congregation in the neighboring town of Cleveland, Tennessee. I like the liturgy, the lectionary, the centrality of the Eucharist in worship, The Book of Common Prayer, those giant red doors that are open to all. Dan likes the kind people and the fact that his wife doesn’t come home from church angry anymore.

  We aren’t confirmed. We aren’t even that plugged in. Right now, we’re just showing up. And for whatever reason, the people of St. Luke’s just keep loving us for showing up.

  It took two years after the Mission folded for us to stagger back into semiregular church attendance. Our friends Chris and Tiffany found St. Luke’s, one of the oldest congregations in the area, which meets in a lovely Oxford Movement American Gothic and has seen something of a resurgence of young families in recent years. Admired for its three-story bell tower, intricate interior woodwork, and beautiful stained-glass windows, the building was constructed in 1872 as a gift from the wealthy Craigmiles family in memory of their daughter, Nina, who was killed at age seven on St. Luke’s Day when a train struck the horse and buggy carrying her. Throughout the church hide little tributes to Nina—an alcove behind the pulpit for her favorite flowers, her name etched into the corner of a stained-glass window. In the churchyard, next to the playground, stands a marble mausoleum, where the entire Craigmiles family is now buried. (The mysterious red-brown stain above the entrance has been the subject of local ghost stories for years.) Once a year, at Easter, the mausoleum is opened up, and the children of St. Luke’s lead a processional from the church to lay a wreath of flowers on the grave. Life to death. Death to life.

  Chris and Tiffany began attending shortly after we all dispersed from the Mission and, like the friend brave enough to test the depth of the swimming hole by jumping in first, took confirmation classes and reported back to us their experience. We visited on Easter and other holidays, always sitting in the back with easy egress to Lupi’s Pizza down the street should we need to escape. But the rector, Father Joel, never told us what to think about evolution or how to vote in the next election, and once Dan learned about the method of intinction—whereby one dips the Eucharist wafer in the wine rather than drinking straight from the shared chalice—his germophobic concerns were assuaged. So we stayed.

  In the spring of 2014, Chris and Tiffany invited us to attend their confirmation. The sacrament of confirmation takes a different shape depending on the tradition and circumstances of those receiving it, but in general, acknowledges the presence of the Holy Spirit in the baptized Christian’s life and confirms his or her status as a beloved child of God in the family of the church. For those baptized as infants, confirmation provides an opportunity for them to affirm the tenets of the faith as adolescents or adults. For those new to a particular denomination or congregation, it serves as a sort of initiation rite, bestowing membership. The sacrament is typically conferred by a high-ranking church official, like a bishop, with an anointing, the laying on of hands, and prayer. Catechism of the Catholic Church captures the spirit of confirmation: “Recall that you have received the spiritual seal, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of right judgment and courage, the spirit of knowledge and reverence, the spirit of holy fear in God’s presence. Guard what you have received. God the Father has marked you with his sign; Christ the Lord has confirmed you and placed his pledge, the Spirit, in your hearts.”64

  Confirmation day at St. Luke’s meant breaking out the folding metal chairs and cramming tighter in the pews, for the bishop was in town, conferring the rite at a single 10:45 a.m. service. We had to crane our necks to see Chris and Tiffany standing with about twenty other candidates near the front of the church, but found them easily once we spotted the bright hair bows of their two little girls, Early and Willa. Light streamed in through the stained glass, and as the chimes rang and the bishop joined the processional, a sense of excitement filled the room, the kids whispering about his tall hat and fancy staff, their parents gently shushing them.

  I had thought the service would focus exclusively on the candidates for confirmation, but like everything in the Episcopal Church, this event was participatory. After the candidates verbally reaffirmed their renunciation of evil and commitment to Jesus Christ, and after they had each been called by name and blessed by the bishop with his hands on their heads, the bishop turned to the congregation and asked us to stand.

  “Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support these persons in their life in Christ?�
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  “We will,” came the chorused response.

  I held in my mind Chris and Tiffany, Early and Willa, and little Walter on the way. What a beautiful life in Christ they had, and what a joyful task to support it.

  “Let us join with those who are committing themselves to Christ and renew our own baptismal covenant,” said the bishop, inviting all who were present to reaffirm their faith together.

  “Do you believe in God the Father?” the bishop asked.

  “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven earth,” I said, my voice joining Dan’s, Chris and Tiffany’s, Father Joel’s, the East Tennessee accents surrounding us, and the voices of millions of Christians from around the world.

  “Do you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God?”

  “I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,” I said, falling into the familiar cadence of the Apostles’ Creed. “He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended to the dead. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead.”

  “Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?”

  “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”

  “Will you continue in the apostles’ teachings and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?” the bishop asked.

  “I will, with God’s help,” I said, swallowing hard.

  “Will you preserve in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?”