Pop 89: But then, she’s Christian
By Madonna Hamel
I’m talking to one of the aides on the rehab ward where my father is recovering from a stroke. She’s telling me about another aide who has infinite patience and tenderness, even with the grouchiest of patients. “But then,” she leans in and whispers, “She’s Christian.” I don’t know if she’s trying to tell me that the nice aide is nice because her religion tells her to be. Or maybe she’s saying: those people - the real Christians- they really do believe in helping the least of their brothers and sisters. Or, she’s just not that bright. Or, she’s too uncool to know to be a badass toward irritating people.
Her remark reminds me of something Russell Moore, editor at Christianity Today and author of “Losing My Religion,” said recently in an interview: “There’s almost a valourizing of cruelty today that says abuses of power should not surprise us, and if they do, well, grow up because that’s just how life is and how people operate.” To be nice- ie: kind - is to be naive. He calls this “The Depravity Gospel,” made popular by trash-talking politicians. It’s also a play on the equally misguided Prosperity Gospel, which basically believes that Jesus came to make us rich.
Moore is a Nashville Baptist who considers himself a conservative. He’s really smart, and I love his interviews - especially his segment “Tell Me Where I’m Wrong.” I relax when I watch him because I know he’s really listening, he’s friendly, and he’s not going to say something snarky. (And his favourite authors happen to be the ones I studied to get my AmLit degree.)
In my research to get a handle on what’s happening south of the border among Christians, I stumbled on his recordings made after he left his church. In listening to him, I’ve discovered a whole new world of literate, enlightened, funny, kind Christian authors who may call themselves evangelicals but bear no resemblance to the Religious Right garnering all the attention in the media. They include historians like Tom Holland, or writers for The New York Times like David Brooks. Some are preachers highly critical of their own churches, like Tim Alberta, Shane Clairborne or David Platt.
Randall Balmer is the author of “Bad Faith," a book that makes it very clear that the Religious Right of America are not Christian. “There is nothing Christian about them,” he insists. “Sadly,” he writes, “the Religious Right were never about the advancement of biblical values. The modern, politically conservative evangelical activism we see today is a movement rooted in the perpetuation of racial segregation in the 70s.” The catalyst was a court case that denied a certain “whites only” church from claiming tax-free status. They complained loudly that the government should stay out of their business; they did not view tax exemption as a form of government subsidy.
As for the woman whispering about the Christian aide: perhaps, as a child, she had to sit through a thousand uninspired or fire-and-brimstone sermons so she can conclude: “Church is all about punishment and fear. Who needs it?” But that sounds as foolish as saying: “Hey, I had a history teacher who bored me to tears, therefore: education is a joke.” Or, “my coach was a creep. So: down with sports.” Or “I had to wait four hours to see a doctor, so: hospitals suck.”
All institutions bear constant examination and course correction. But the principles behind them still stand: Love your neighbour, learn from books, heal others, play well with others, a healthy body makes for a healthy mind, etc.
As a Catholic, I grew up going to church; I’ve sat through my share of boring sermons. Church is where I understood patience. Sitting still, any aspiring meditator will tell you, is an enviable and invaluable skill. Thankfully, I also heard inspiring sermons on the poems of the psalms and the stories of the gospels delivered with such conviction and colour, I could fathom the existence of an inexplicable powers inherent in experiences like: living in the Mystery, connecting with Heaven through ritual, and the collective beauty of congregation.
Above all, I learned the healing power of pray. Far better to pray than to worry. Prayer sends my concerns heavenward instead of worrying endlessly in a closed-loop inside my brain. In church we prayed standing, sitting, and kneeling. And we sang. My mother was the choir director. She raised us as a family choir. We sang praise and prayer without even knowing it. In my teens, I watched her sing lyric soprano as the soloist in Handel’s Messiah. She - through Handel via Isiah - convinced me of the reality of soul. At this very moment, The Messiah sits in the cd player of my father’s car. I turn it up full blast every afternoon on my way to the hospital to visit him.
Yesterday, I went looking for the hospital chapel. Back in 2013, I did an interview with the chaplain who conducted services in the chapel, so I knew where it was. But, trying the door, I found it locked. A nurse explained to me that “it’s not a chapel anymore. We have a Sacred Space now, at the other end of the hall. It’s much nicer; you’ll like it,” she promised.
The Sacred Space bore no resemblance to any religious space I’ve ever experienced- Christian, Buddhist, or otherwise. In an effort not to offend, the designers replicated what looked like the waiting room in a tire shop - a bare grey space with a TV screen at one end and a row of blue chairs at the other. I wasn’t expecting Michelangelo on the ceiling or a stained-glass window, but a candle would have been nice.
My advice to anybody offended by chapels is: don’t enter one. And here’s some more advice, born from my own misguided prejudices (and perhaps a little snarky): update your knowledge of your childhood faith. You’re not five years old anymore.