Not My Circus

 When I was a Christian, it felt like I had to be God's defense lawyer and PR person. For reasons unknown to me, a mere mortal, it was my responsibility to represent the all-knowing, all-powerful deity to whom I owed my worship. Why couldn't he just appear to the world and say, "Those people don't speak for me," I wasn't sure. We weren't supposed to test God. But all I knew was that I had to be a good witness, to always be ready to give a reason for the hope that I had, and in general to live in such a way that the gospel was shared and Jesus was glorified. 

This was a big responsibility, and it shaped the way I interacted with people who were not believers. I couldn't ever be fully and completely myself—I was representing God! I had to be on the lookout for opportunities to share about God, to talk about how peaceful and joyful I was, and to distinguish myself from others. Not by mere behavior or following rules, of course. We weren't legalistic like the Catholics! (Who, ironically, always seemed to be having more fun.) I had to be set apart by something indefinable. A "joy that surpasses understanding." But at the same time, I couldn't glorify myself, so I had to be honest about my sin and failings and struggles, because that allowed me to point to the gospel and Jesus as the only person who could help me be any better. (Side note: did he ever help me get any better? Not that I can tell! Time and growing emotional maturity helped form my character way more than he ever did.) 

So if you can follow all of that: I had to be more peaceful and joyful than non-believers, while also being more real and vulnerable and down-to-earth, and none of it could glorify me, it all had to point back to Jesus. Whew. No wonder shame followed me around like a slobbery dog. I sat through a worship service recently where the pastor spent 30 minutes going on about how Christians were more joyful, more truly themselves, more confident in their identities, than anyone else. Then he spent the last 10 minutes doing an emotional altar call for Christians who were struggling or sad or insecure, because "no one is perfect and we all need help! Every single one of us should be putting our hand up right now!" So...which is it, preach? It seems like you're telling me that you have it, and then begging Jesus to give it to you. 

What was worse, though, and where I really felt the weight of my "God's defense lawyer" title, was when other Christians screwed up. When I'd go online and read some horrible news story about people doing something horrendous in the name of God, or see Christians supporting Trump and hating gay people, and on and on. I felt like I had to scramble and shout it from the rooftops: "That's not Jesus!! That's not MY Jesus!! I promise he's better than that!" Except I always had a little voice inside going, "Is he? Then why isn't he sticking up for himself?" George R. R. Martin may hole himself up in the mountains and refuse to respond to the controversy around his books and the show adaptation and when he will FINALLY FINISH the series, but at least he descends from time to time to give us a few crumbs. Jesus, apparently, can't be bothered. 

Nowadays, when I read about the exploits of Christians—particularly white evangelical conservative American Christians—it still causes strong emotions to rise in me. I still get angry, I'm still disgusted, I still shake my head and wonder if they realize what a stench they are putting around the gospel. I still hate the negative impact they're having on so many people. But the difference is that now, I can shake my head, feel my feelings, and then walk away. Not my circus, not my monkeys. Let the more moderate or progressive Christians scramble to get up on the stand and solve Christianity's PR nightmare. It's not my job anymore.