A Son of The Church Replies
“I am a recovering churchaholic… I have come to accept that I always was and maybe always will be a church misfit. A square peg . I still love the church. But I love Jesus more.”
This is the last in a three-part series titled, “Letters to The Church.” It is John Fountain’s reply to a letter written an unnamed prominent pastor in response to his “No Place for Me” essay published initially in the Washington Post.
By John W. Fountain
Part I –LETTER TO A PASTOR
Dear Pastor, First, please accept my apology for taking years to respond to your kind, thoughtful letter. It arrived at a time when I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of letters in response to my essay, some not nearly as kind as yours.
Some of them, from “good” church folk, all but wished a brother to hell for my public criticism of the church. lol. So hate-filled, venomous, or downright nasty were some who wrote me that if I had been—metaphorically speaking—on the edge of a cliff, they would, without apology, have pushed me over. Thank God for grace, mercy and His everlasting love.
Sadly, a good number of the letters came from people who share my experience of “church hurt,” disillusionment and disconnection from the institutional church. We are folks who still deeply love God, still stand on our faith, still long to see the church collectively moving mightily in purpose, passion and power to affect humankind.
Thank you for your understanding, for your thoughtful, nonjudgmental words, your insight and even your transparency.
Would that “the church” could engage in dialogue over how more effectively to minister to the community and in far too many cases regain relevance in the daily lives of those who now feel abandoned, forsaken or overlooked. This even as the church on Sunday mornings basks in the glory of praise and worship ringing inside grand cathedrals and mega-churches while so many beyond its walls suffer, mourn.
I do not blame pastors. Blame is too strong a word and a judgment that I cannot afford to make as one who is but himself a man. And therein lies the other reason for my delay in responding.
Who am I to speak to pastors such as you? I am not myself a pastor but a writer—a man with his own share of struggles and demons. A man who, in the face of theologians, biblical scholars and world-renowned preachers, can offer no grand dissertation or stirring, sermonic discourse on the challenges of pastoring.
Who am I to speak to those whom the Lord himself has called to feed His sheep, a God who sent his only begotten Son to redeem man? God is the judge, not man.
“I have witnessed the love of the church wax cold, even as the world itself has grown colder—poverty rising like the morning sun, murder stealing our sons and daughters and the socio-economic gap ever widening.”
My essay was not written as a criticism but as catharsis, not initially for publication but as self-exploration. Any notion that my painful and hard-to-admit musings might resonate more largely wasn’t something I anticipated, nor sought, but merely my soul’s cry.
Your letter spoke to me similarly—as being deeply resonant of the silent cries of another group within the church, often misunderstood and traversing this journey of faith and life often painfully alone: pastors. Too many of you muted by the knowledge that revealing the chinks in your armor—your own fears, struggles, sufferings or doubts—would threaten your status as pastor, your livelihood, families and future.
As pastors, you are painfully aware that there are those among you who lie in wait to take your place, to betray you, or to cast aspersions, expose your human failings, as character assassination motivated by envy. As pastors you suffer the residue of some in the pastorate who have compromised their true calling and exchanged their integrity for celebrity status, prosperity elixirs, feel-good prophecies, holy handkerchiefs, fortune and fame—all supposedly in the name of Christ.
But what has become clear to me, Dear Pastor, is that neither you nor I can afford to lose this fight that currently finds one of us on the “inside” and the other on the “outside.”
So, on the chance that God might in any remote sense use our discourse to draw you and I—and perhaps others—closer to Him, I’ll give you my best two cents over a few dispatches, brother to brother.
But this much I’ll say now: God hasn’t called pastors to be our everything, nor our savior. Those are Christ’s shoes. And His words to pastors: “Feed my sheep…” (No excuses!)
These sheep—no matter how great in number—are not yours, not mine, but His. And He has called you not to be served but to serve.
Be encouraged, I need you too, my brother.
JOHN
P.S. Some of my best friends are pastors—really. (smile)
Part I I— THE GOOD SHEPHERD
Dear Pastor, I hear you, man. …But the people perish. And yet, the clergy flourish. So many among you manicured and also wearing regal, customized preacher robes and golden crosses in the pulpit, wax eloquently Sunday after Sunday about love. And yet, daily, in loveless urban streets, often within the shadow of churches, death, poverty and hopelessness rage like a relentless, violent storm. So-called light and darkness coexisting, like good neighbors.
And I wonder how is this possible? Doesn’t the faintest presence of light dispel darkness? Where are the good shepherds?
Just the other day, I saw on a street corner in a troubled Chicago neighborhood a symbol of the state of the black church and its glaring disconnection: A proud but lifeless brick building adorned with the symbols of Christianity. It stood dark and shuttered and protected by black wrought-iron bars, even as life beyond Sunday mornings ebbed and flowed up and down the avenue—unfazed and unaffected by the church that generally remains visionless regarding effectual change for our people.
In these times, far too many pastors fill their coffers on the backs of the poor. Far too many remove themselves from the daily travails of the sheep, choosing instead to dwell on far away hills of suburban meadows where gunshots, crime and the cries of their people form not so much as a whisper as they lay their heads on peaceful pillows.
Some pastors complain the road is too hard. Some pervert the calling, preferring the glitz and glam of being a big-shot preacher boasting a large membership, which—if a pastor has political aspirations—also translates to a hearty voting base.
Too many pastors these days trot out for news cameras amid the latest neighborhood tragedy then fade to black once cameras are gone. Too many are MIA or else remain mum on matters of critical importance to the poor and downtrodden, are prone to going on retreats when the church ought to be advancing, and is prone to say what is politically expedient rather than speak the unadulterated Gospel truth.
“As for your question of which fire a pastor should put out first—the one at the White House, the one at the church house or the one at his house? That’s easy. Charity begins at home.”
Even more conspicuous is the absence of many pastors from the frontlines of any war against the ills and evil entrenched all around their churches.
In these times, sheep care for the shepherd.
I have seen pastors use the Bible to browbeat folks into giving their last dollar for “the church” then leave even faithful longtime members to fend for themselves at times of crisis, or else make them feel like beggars when asking the church for help.
But isn’t that why the church exists? Isn’t it supposed to mirror the early church in the book of Acts? Isn’t the church the body not the building?
Do bricks have souls?
And yet, the twisted focus of this American paradigm of Christianity is one that erects multi-million-dollar edifices, even in the hood, leaving congregations saddled with debt for near perpetuity. It is a model that resembles a more insidious pimpology—carried out in the name of God. It systematically takes from the poor and exchanges for their tithe, talents and time a soothing, yet milquetoast brand of Christianity that leaves them dependent on the institution of church rather than on the living Christ—without the transformative power to break generational curses.
I have witnessed the love of the church wax cold, even as the world itself has grown colder—poverty rising like the morning sun, murder stealing our sons and daughters and the socio-economic gap ever widening.
Preaching these days has become big pimping and the focus of the church insular and characterized by pastoral anniversaries, mega-faith conferences, by holy convocations and other church fare that are more about glorifying man than God.
Clearly, it’s not all pastors, but enough to make the issue pervasive, and this son of the church cry. I would be without hope were it not for the words of Jeremiah 23 that warns “shepherds who are destroying and scattering the sheep of my pasture” and assures punishment for them, but, more important to my soul, also promises that the lost sheep will be restored.
I pray, Dear Pastor, that you will be part of the promised wind of change and restoration. For the people perish.
Part III— YOUR FIRST LOVE
Dear Pastor, It’s just after 4 a.m. I write to you with tears in my eyes, depleted and heavy with the burden of feeling compelled to say publicly what so many among you will not about the church’s current state. I can’t blame them.
The church has, after all, become a sacred cow, a cash cow. And raising one’s voice can draw the ire of even loving, little old church mothers, even if motivated—less than by anger, bitterness or any disappointment over any perceived failings of the church—more by a heart that agonizes over the debilitating and deeply enslaving conditions of our people.
I can’t sleep this morning. Honestly, I felt like buying a bottle of rum to anesthetize my pain—the pain of saying what I feel about something I love as dearly as the church; the haunting pain of having seen as a ghetto child, as journalist, as man, the destruction of black folks, far too many of whom stagger like zombies on hyper-segregated islands dotted with liquor stores, drug dealers, poverty and also too many impotent churches.
It is the pain of being a writer with a love for God’s people and the sense of obligation passed through generations to help our brothers and sisters—a sense that unless we all “make it,” none of us truly ever makes it, and that in the words of the gospel song, “If I can help someone as I pass along, then my living will not be in vain.”
I believe nothing holds greater transformative promise than the church of Jesus Christ—a healthy church, moving, living, empowering. And yet, in so many communities, the church is no more effective than a bottle of rum in healing what ails us.
Know this, dear pastor: I am not your enemy.
But some apparently believe I am the enemy, at least one of the devil’s minions. Recently, at an event where I was master of ceremonies and standing just off stage, a pastor remarked in passing that my writing about the church was bound to make more people become atheists. And I thought, “How so, when my doubt is only with man, not with Christ?”
Since I began writing these letters to you, while I sat one day recently minding my own business in a café, a pastor whom I barely know asked with a twisted expression on his face, “What qualifies you to speak on the church?”
I might have asked him the same about being a pastor.
For theology degrees and ordination certificates, clergy collars or gold crosses don’t equip someone to love, or to serve. And one need not be draped in church pedigree, have apostolic authorization or bear the clergy-certified stamp of approval to think aloud for themselves, feel, cry—only a heart, a brain, a soul, a voice and knowledge of the Gospel truth.
Dear pastor, I understand how difficult and unpopular it can be to speak truth, especially to power and especially when we are ourselves imperfect, fallible. How tempting it can be to say only those things that tickle people’s ears. I once heard a preacher say before a large audience that he knows his calling: “To preach the kingdom of God.” Then he added, “But if I do that, I’ll have to look for another job.”
“I will not debate what I have written here. Nor will I defend it. Truth is my defense. And the Lord alone is my judge and my Redeemer.”
But don’t callings supersede mere jobs? Isn’t the sustenance of every believer truly greater than any of our momentary earthly resources or treasures? And if the Gospel, pastors and also preachers are compromised by the materialistic infection we now see spreading like cancer, what is the hope of the poor, the widowed, the downtrodden and all those whom the Gospel can redeem?
That is why I choose to not remain silent, even at the expense of being labeled the enemy. It's like fire shut up in my bones.
Never am I more contemplative, cautious, careful—prayerful—than when writing about matters concerning the church. It is a church I see through the eyes of a black man with a foot in each world—one black, the other white; one secular, the other spiritual—and through the duo lens of having been both insider and outsider.
And what I have come to see regarding the current state of the church is simply this: We have left our first love.
Returning to it—to Him—is the first step to healing our homes, our neighborhoods, our lives, our souls. We’ll need good pastors in our sojourn, shepherds connected, committed and clear on their purpose, priorities and passion.
As for your question of which fire a pastor should put out first—the one at the White House, the one at the church house or the one at his house? That’s easy. Charity begins at home.
As for buying a Rolex or other earthly treasures to compensate for “not having a life,” I say, “Take some time to enjoy life, brother” and also, “What profit a man to gain the world and yet lose His soul?”
Good pastors get weary. There is always work to do, always someone who wants something from you, the hours long, the job sometimes thankless, and the folks you help the most sometimes the least grateful. I get it.
But there is no greater calling. And He who has called you says, “…be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee a crown of life.”
The same bible exhorts me, especially in times like these, to be sober—even if sometimes in pain—and to cry aloud. So I write, understanding that the answer lies neither in liquor nor in my silence. I write.
Keep me in your prayers. Your brother, John.
EPILOGUE
I am a recovering churchaholic. Mine has been an unenviable journey, even if it has led me to a newfound freedom on a still unfolding, nonlinear walk of faith as I seek to work out my soul’s salvation with fear and trembling. But mostly I seek to walk in the awareness of God’s infinite love for mankind—for me—through the great gift of redemption by the blood of His Son Jesus.
And I have come to accept that I always was and maybe always will be a church misfit. A square peg not meant to fit into a round hole, though I am completely open to the possibility of someday returning to the institutional church. May God’s will be done. But whether that day ever comes or not, I seek to be forever wed to the Church that is the body of Christ. For in Him we live, and move, and have our being.” (Acts 17: 28)
I still stand after all this time with my faith intact and having discovered no better place for worship than in His presence—wherever that may be, in a church or not. I still believe. And what I have come to believe—to know—is that there is a place for me. That there always was and always will be, although it took years of heartache, soul-searching and heartbreak.
The deepest hurt along this journey occurred not from outside the walls of the church but within them—among my Christian brothers and sisters. And yet, I am no longer angry at anyone, not even at one soul. I am not bitter. Not spiteful. Not vengeful. For I believe fully that “all things work together for good to them that love God, to them that are the called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28). I believe that God willed it all so. That in so doing, He has proven Himself to me. Proven that He is greater than my circumstances, bigger than my situations, larger than my issues, grander than any of my problems and doubts. And that the blood of Jesus is still the cleansing pool that washes away my multitude of sins.
My journey with Him has helped me to see that He has called me to trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not unto my own understanding. And that He has called some of us to endure certain hardships, to plod by faith beyond the beaten path—not for our own sake alone but for the good of others. For His glory.
Some who read my words will no doubt hear only anger instead of my pain. They will choose to see in my words, “hate” for the church rather than the deep love for the church ingrained in my bones. Some will, no doubt, label me a whiner, a complainer with an axe to grind. For the record, I have no axe to grind. Only a cross to bear.
That cross, in part, includes sharing my experiences within the institution in which I have known some of my greatest joys and also my greatest pain. To be a vessel—if it is the case that He can use something as imperfect and unworthy as this mound of clay that I am. To speak to the wind of this generation—of the matchless grace and mercy of God who sent his son Jesus Christ to redeem unto himself the world, and of His desire to use to His glory the body of believers He has called to be the church, even in times like these.
To declare that Jesus is the Lord. That Jesus is Savior. King of Kings. Lord of Lords. And that there is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved. To declare unflinchingly that Jesus is the way.
To declare that alas I have found my way—albeit through a circular journey of sorts—at least back to the place for me. It is a place of refuge. A place that knows no bounds. A place of peace, serenity even. A place where He will meet me, embrace me, love me just where and just the way I am. Just the way He made me. And that place is at the cross, at the feet of Jesus. My place. In His presence.
This project has taken twelve years to complete. In that time, life and death ensued, my mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s and ultimately having to bury both of my parents. At times, I was almost completely discouraged over my inability to finish No Place For Me. And yet, I could hear Him whispering to my soul, “In time…”
And I realize now that it took a lot of time to unpack my church pain, years to pen my thoughts, feelings and experiences—my testimony. But piece by piece, letter by letter, tear by tear, and by His mercy, grace and a measure of healing and peace—finally, after 12 years—this work is done.
I will not debate what I have written here. Nor will I defend it. Truth is my defense. And the Lord alone is my judge and my Redeemer.
I am a sinner. I stand with one foot in each world, one called sin, the other called grace. I stand in the midst of sins I have committed today and yesterday, and those I will inevitably commit tomorrow. Whatever my sins—and they are many—none of them are greater than His grace that by the blood of His Son Jesus Christ can wash me—us—in the words of a Gospel hymn, “whiter than snow.”
I stand because of Jesus our Lord and Savior, the Christ—He who remembers when others forget and also forgets when others remember.
I stand with a heart to strive to be a better man today than I was on yesterday. I stand. On blessed assurance that is not dependent on my mother’s faith or my grandmother’s, or my grandfather’s. I stand humbled by the faithfulness of a God who hears—and answers—the cries of even a ghetto boy. And without Him, I can do nothing.
Thank you, Father. I still love the church. But dear Lord Jesus, I love you more. To God be glory. All the mistakes are mine. Your son, JOHN
#JusticeforJelaniDay
#50CentAWord
Email: Author@johnwfountain.com
