I am a hypocrite

Why nobody should listen to a thing I say about faith, and what "church" looks like for me now.

Driving along this morning in my top-down convertible, soaking in the beauty of a warm, summer, sunny Indiana day, I was thinking about what to write for my next Substack. Immediately, I started feeling like a complete and total hypocrite. Who am I to offer any guidance when it comes to faith or politics, or even to provide food for thought? I am a total imposter. In the past month, for example, how many times have I…

Read the Bible? Zero.

Gone to church? Not at all, but I did watch parts of two different online services.

Written in my journal/prayer journal? Zip.

Called my representatives or attended a protest? None.

Prayed? Well, depends on your definition of “prayer time,” but maybe every other day? And often I fall asleep before I even get started.

Read spiritual/inspirational books? I read one this month. I actually finished it. Woo hoo!

See? Who am I to try to offer anything to you?

But I immediately started justifying myself. I listen to Christian music about half the time because if I’m going to have lyrics stuck in my brain on repeat, I’d rather them be something hopeful. And I read dozens and dozens of articles, Substacks, and email newsletters by writers who are people of faith. At least four or five a day, I’d say. A friend sends me a daily prayer by email. I gather twice a month with a group consisting mostly of Christians who are disillusioned with today’s political and social climate, creating a safe space in which to talk about our concerns and ways to help change things. I have coffee and lunch with friends and we go deep in our discussions, whether they’re about faith or our adult children or where to buy the best sandals.

By some people’s standards, I have “backslid.” Walked away from my faith. I’ve fallen prey to the concerns of the world and not those of heaven.

But on the other hand, I don’t have it in me to feel (too) guilty for these changes.

I wish I enjoyed going to church more. I like my church, love my pastor and the people I know there—but I don’t like going by myself, since my husband still attends my former church. Some of my needs for “community” are met outside the church through interactions with like-minded groups of people who are trying to find their way through this landscape where politics and church have become hopelessly intertwined. Some are met by a small writers group full of thoughtful, generous, lovely people that I am fortunate to be part of. Some of them are met here, with the feedback and encouragement I get from some of you.

I am self-aware enough to recognize that some of my reluctance is an act of self-preservation. If I don’t fully engage, I can’t be hurt as deeply. If I don’t fully yield to God, I won’t risk being disappointed. If I don’t open the Bible, I don’t risk a full-fledged, hyperventilating panic attack, like the one I had several months ago when confronted with all my notes written in the margins from different sermons. If I don’t surround myself with traditional Christian communities, I won’t be triggered by the judgment and rules I’m expected to follow.

In my evangelical circles, I was taught (usually in regards to raising up my children in the ways they should go) that all we can do is plant the seeds of faith and then we have to trust God to be faithful, to love them and lead them and not leave them. In my case, the seeds are in there. God has lodged himself deep in my soul, and I still feel connected to him. I truly believe God is patient with me, that God knows my heart, and that he will never abandon me. I still want the nature and character of God, the teachings of Jesus, to be my compass in everything I do.

And yes, I still want to think about matters of faith, to write about my experiences of God, to hear other people’s stories. Starting this Substack has given me new life in the sense that I was able to stop pretending I didn’t want to be a writer of faith. I have never wanted to lose what I have found with God. I only want to shed the things that are problematic, the beliefs that are hypocritical, the baggage I can’t quite let go of that makes me feel like I’m not enough. I want to talk about God. Question God. Try to get to the heart of what it all means. Try to understand how to apply the teachings of Jesus to life, today, in the here and now. I want to learn how to love people more expansively, how to give more generously, how to think less about me and more about others.

Throughout the past decade (plus) of writing about God and prayer and matters of faith, I have continuously held myself up as an example of God working through imperfect people. The ONLY thing I may have gotten “right” (and I’m not taking credit for it, nor do I believe right and wrong are as clear-cut as I used to) is that I keep going back. My practices have changed, but God continues to draw me to him. I continue to find fulfillment and hope from my faith.

And a still, small voice whispers in my soul: maybe all of these things, combined, have become a new way of having church.

Thoughtful, considered Substacks have become my sermons.

The sunshine has become my sanctuary, holy moments of beauty and gratitude found all around. These moments feel like prayer.

My “worship time” is full-blast music playing while I drive back roads in my convertible.

My community doesn’t always gather inside the four walls of a church, but we find ways to share and serve and love one another. We help carry each other’s burdens and fears, and we look for ways to help.

Rather than hearing Sunday morning testimonies, my days are filled with reading and watching forwarded messages and reels from other women who are seeking God in their daily life.

Communion may sometimes look like shining glasses of red wine served around a charcuterie tray, ordinary moments made sacred by an awareness of goodness.

I guess what I’m saying is this: Don’t beat yourself up, no matter where you are right now. Our God is a God of grace. God doesn’t manipulate or guilt us into things; the manipulation happens when we’re met with charismatic leaders who claim to speak for God and tell us what to do. We may disagree with how some Christians are acting, we may not like the direction the overall Church is taking, and we may carry trauma even if nobody intentionally harmed us. And our way of doing church or prayer or serving God might have changed.

But that doesn’t mean we’re lost.

It doesn’t mean we’re not loved.

It doesn’t mean our relationship with God has failed us, nor that it is over.

It just means we’re human. We’re thinkers. We adapt. We’re people who long for beauty and compassion, who hold God and ourselves and the world to high standards. We’re people who believe there is something more, that there is a deeper meaning to be found in all things, that the incredible beauty to be found in this world has to be connected to something larger, greater, kinder, better.

It means we don’t have to settle for any less than what we need.