An Open Letter to Mike Linch, Sr. Pastor at NorthStar

Rumor has it that my great grandmother renounced Judaism out of fear. She became Lutheran, apparently. Quite a jump, right?

As a result, my mother was raised in the Lutheran church, but in the ELC (Evangelical Lutheran Church) synod. As children, she and her brother were told by a Lutheran priest of the WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran) Synod that they were going to Hell because, while they were Lutheran, they belonged to the wrong (lesser quality?) synod.

Wait. What?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my father was being raised Catholic. While at Catholic schools, he was periodically punished (with a wooden ruler) for:

1) Being left-handed, which was considered ‘The Hand of  The Devil’ in those days.

2) Outwardly questioning the concept of indulgences (because why wouldn’t we all be able to just buy our way into Heaven? Sweet!).

3) Frequently pointing out, during class time, the corruption of The Papacy (Pope, politician, whatever).

If you ever met Dad, you would quickly ascertain he was punished a lot. (He’s an ordained button-pusher.)

Dad was quick to leave the Catholic Church to marry Mom, and they lived happily ever after in the Lutheran Church (but, of course, among the Hell-bound ELC synod folks).

Fast forward to the birth of my brother and me. While we were both baptized into the Lutheran Church, we never actually attended church. Mom and Dad had enough of church "values" (aka hypocrisy) crammed down their throats, so they mutually decided not to cram it down our throats.

Growing up, I always wanted to attend church on a regular basis. It seemed so beautiful and structured. To me, structure equaled love, not that I’m Type A or anything (yes I am). I would go to church with my Catholic grandmother. Man! I loved the pomp and circumstance of those services. Sure, I had no idea what the Priest was saying, but who did? Just being there rocked! And that incense? I would inhale deeply when they’d walk by, swinging that lantern-thing on the chain, smoke billowing from within.  I didn’t know what its significance was, but I told myself it was all part of The Salvation Experience.

Next up, Communion! Bring it! The Priest called us up, pew-by-pew, to receive the "piece of Christ" (or was it supposed to be peace of Christ? Say, was that intended to be a double entendre?) and the "blood of Christ." But as I stepped out to get in line, Gram stopped me, “No, dear. You cannot take Communion. You’ll go to Hell because you’re not Catholic.”

Wait. What?

I became very disenchanted with The Church and religion as a whole (or should I say "hole"?) on that day. Nobody could seem to get their story straight. Mind you, I still believed in God. But religion? Whatever!

Fast forward to my adult years. El Jefe and I are newly married and trying to have a baby. Trying. Trying. Trying. Each year, my faith in even God waned. And then I had ectopic pregnancy number one on my 30th birthday. Ectopic pregnancy number two occurred on Matt’s 31st birthday. Was I being punished? Is this because I never went to Church? Is this because I wasn’t Catholic? Maybe because I wasn’t WELS Lutheran or Jewish? Is this because I lied, that one time, about having horses in my backyard (in inner-city Milwaukee) when I was in kindergarten? Yes,  I told lies in my past. Other than that, I was a pretty good person, God! What gives?!

Let me state for the record, seven years of infertility is hard. It’s hard on a soul, it’s hard on a marriage, it’s hard on one’s faith in God.

Eventually, I became bitter and dark. I still believed in God, sort of, barely, but certainly not The Church. Not any church. El Jefe would try to get me to go to churches with him. Reluctantly, sometimes I would; but I would hate every moment of it, scoffing at the sermon. Yeah, yeah. God loves me. All I have to do is pray. Blah, blah, blah. I’ll put that on my to-do list. I would think to myself, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Priest! I have prayed! I prayed hard! You think I didn’t pray for a baby? And look where I am after all that praying. No baby and I’m down one ovary. Thanks. Thanks for the advice, dumb... (well, I’m sure you can guess how that rant ended).

My bitterness drove a wedge between El Jefe and me. We nearly divorced because of the darkness in my heart and soul. Somehow, we eventually yanked our heads out of our butts and got back on track.

And then (wait for it), we became pregnant with Her Royal Highness (HRH). The conception was a bit miraculous, if I do say so, myself. Without boring you with medical details, suffice it to say the chances of conception in my circumstance were very slim. But here we are, today, with a 7-year-old royal spitfire daughter!

While my distrust in God, religion, and The Church eased over time, it was not resolved.

Then some friends (Dina and Neil) lured us to under the guise of some sort of couples night out event the church was hosting.  El Jefe was hooked.  We began attending services, occasionally. I still dug in my heels on the mornings he’d announce we would be attending. “Am I gonna have to sing? I’m not singing.  Rock band at church! Seriously?” (Remember, what little church exposure I had was quite formal.)

Here’s the thing: I really liked the feel, the message, and that I knew a whole slew of people that already attended. But most of all, I liked you, Mike. You spoke to us like we weren't on the fast-track to Hell, and you demystified passages in the Bible.

Wait. What?

Sure, I still scoffed and questioned and thought, “Yeah, but that doesn't even make sense and is even contradictory,” and I certainly did not sing; but I was hooked on your talks. That singing-to-a-rock-band-at-church-thing, though? No.  Just. No.

Now we attend almost every Sunday, El Jefe is involved in church groups, and we are, for the first time ever, attending church events as a couple (the retreat and a couples group). What is happening to me?

But wait! There’s more!

Recently, we attended NorthStar’s 15th anniversary service. As mandated, we brought HRH (Her Royal Highness). As expected, she was bored out of her mind.  But when we stood up to sing, I looked down and she was singing along. She was unabashedly, open-heartedly singing with (God help me) The Rock Band! And do you know what happened next?

I. Sang. True Story.

-B(Sting)

P.S.

I’ve regressed a little. Singing along still doesn’t happen very much. But I do tap my toes.