Speaking of Jesus

For whatever reason, Joe’s last post reminded me of an experience I once had that I hadn’t thought of for a while. Several years ago I became friends with a newly converted Christian. She had several friends who were also Christian, though more forcefully than herself. And, at the time, she was dating someone who was also a very devout Christian.

Given the Christian theme among my new friends I decided to attend church with them on a semi-regular basis just to see what the experience was like. Overall, my church experience was a mixture of boring ceremonial procedures, insightful commentary on humanity, not so insightful commentary on humanity, deeply moving music (sound more than lyrics) and an invigorating sense of connection among people.

But what I remember most vividly was the end of church, wherein we were told to hold hands with our neighbor and simultaneously recite 5 things to each other at the cue of the pastor. I only remember one of the lines, which was, “I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord Savior,” or something close to that. I always held their hands, but never spoke the lines. I couldn’t because I didn’t believe them, much less understand what they meant specifically. The expression on some of my partners’ faces was one of shock as I looked them in the eye and remained silent after each of the cues, leaving them the sole participant in a one-way interaction. After the recitations they almost always drew me closer to them, usually putting an arm around me, and would ask in a concerned tone, “Why weren’t you speaking?”. Then came the hard part. I had to be honest, so I told them, somewhat timidly, that I don’t believe that Jesus is my savior and that I don’t really understand Christianity. Then their jaws would drop, they’d pull me even closer to a full-on hug, and would tell me in a very consoling tone that it was okay not to understand. My belief will come in time and that they’ll be praying for me. One woman even cried.

I went to church for a majority of the Sundays that summer. Looking back, they were a strangely intense set of experiences through which I learned more about the emotional effect of ideological isolation than about how to be a good person.