Anderson South Carolina
Great joy in alcoholic childhood came from rare journeys to the vast LAX airport with its ultra modern satellite restaurant on Saturday afternoon; watching jets come and go. The airport seemed iconic of possibilities life held, if I could but get away from the prison of alcoholism and drug addiction I lived in. Alas, I never got on planes in childhood to visit wondrous places, but I could fantasize. There was no concept of security; I wandered freely in the terminals, occasionally being allowed onto flight decks of airplanes. In high school we boarded and flew in a wondrous variety of Air Force refuelers, bombers, troop carriers, and an old DC3. Life was not yet cloaked in security paranoia. I even wandered in NORAD facilities and atomic labs at Los Alamos.
Francis Schaefer, a beloved Christian writer wrote a small imperative years ago called The Mark of the Christian. In his concise and compelling work he said Christians have essentially no credentials to authenticate their faith besides their love one for another. Creeds, beliefs, and religious behavior are not compelling in proving the veracity of Christian hope and experience. For decades I’ve wondered why Schafer’s imperative doesn’t seem to translate into widespread practice.
Many hundreds of imperatives throughout scripture charge us to let go of fear and trust God, leaving the driving to Him. The entire foundation of two hundred species of recovery programs rests on the idea that life works when we admit our powerlessness over the affairs of life and turn our lives over to the care of God as we understand him. Perhaps the most compelling of scriptural imperatives is “Let not your hearts be troubled, for in my father’s house are many rooms, I go to prepare a place for you, if it were not so I would have told you.” For those believing in the truth of scripture, we are compelled in no uncertain terms to cease and desist from worry and let Him direct the course of our lives.
In recovery we embrace the idea there are no mistakes in God’s world and things are exactly as they are supposed to be. “I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, or thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God’s world by mistake.” This belief proves fertile ground for the wondrous gifts of peace and serenity. For those coming out of the tortures of alcoholism and addiction, these are the Holy Grail. We are inspired to live in the dynamics of God’s Kingdom rather than the fear-driven madness of mankind’s world. As our recovery literature states, “It works, it really does.”
For decades, countless self help books have been written on overcoming fear in its myriad forms. Finding freedom from fear, anxiety and panic became the stuff of short-lived bestsellers. In 1939 a bestseller was written describing fear as “an evil corroding thread; the fabric of our existence was shot through with it. It set in motion trains of circumstances which brought us misfortune we felt we didn’t deserve. But did not we, ourselves, set the ball rolling? Sometimes we think fear ought to be classed with stealing. It seems to cause more trouble.” To this day this post-depression classic remains a bestseller, every year millions of copies provide experience, strength, and hope to those who have plenty to feel insecure about. Alas, anxiolytic drugs, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, and mood stabilizers continue as runaway bestsellers.
While attending a Christian medical school at Oral Robert’s City of Faith we medical students were required to live in a gated housing compound on campus, fenced with ribbon wire. Speculation was the gate attendants were armed. Tulsa was yet a benign user friendly city as the Oklahoma City bombings down the road hadn’t yet occurred. Cameras, locked doors, underground tunnels, two way glass, and security personnel were the stuff of local campus legend. For one living in the openness of great teaching hospitals of Chicago, the strictures of a fear-driven environment were stupefying.
Years ago I was in a dark night of the soul, not yet knowing medications given to me by a physician were driving me into some of the greatest torments known to man. Seeking assistance of my priest, I presented myself at the locked door of my church one sunny afternoon for a scheduled counseling appointment. Because of the church’s rampant fear of sexual predators, I was turned away. The priest cited insurance regulations about not allowing male church members to seek counsel with female priests without the requisite chaperones. “Wasn’t I the guy just serving at the altar with you Sunday for the umpteenth time?” I left utterly dismayed. My theological training, licenses; my paperwork and experience weren’t enough to gain admittance into my church at a time of crisis.
Several years ago I invited a woman in recovery to join me at the mega church I was then attending. Driving 250 miles from the coast we made it to the church with seconds to spare. As I was exhorting my friend to hurry across the lobby, the ushers pulled the still-open auditorium doors from my hand and closed them. We were never admitted. Policy states people are not allowed to enter after the preacher starts talking. We left, utterly bewildered, knowing entry into the vast half-filled auditorium would never be noticed by anyone. We never went back.
Yesterday afternoon I was called by a friend in extreme duress. Her recovery has been solid but all of us in recovery have our moments. I invited her to that same mega church, hoping leadership had matured; figuring out the nature of Christian hospitality. We arrived twenty minutes early so there would be no question about late entry. Policy had not changed over the years. At the door an usher gave me a quizzical look, not quite sure of himself. He proceeded to inform me it would be necessary to search my belongings before entering the church or leave them in the outer lobby. Was this a TSA officer? Was I really being asked to submit to a search to enter a church? I wasn’t even challenged when I entered the Mosque of Omar. Why would I, wearing a herringbone tweed jacket, a fine processional cross and tab-collared dress shirt, carrying my small computer case be subject to search while thousands of women with equally sized handbags were unnoticed? Profiling? In bewilderment I refused to submit to inspection of myself or my belongings. We left. I wonder what kind of message this sent to my struggling friend in recovery who is trying to find experience, strength, and hope in the Christian church. I know what kind of message it sends me.
Two tiny Episcopal churches in North Carolina gained international attention because of the creation and installation of Ben Long’s epic frescoes. Despite being in isolated places with no security whatever, these churches have been open 24/7 for thirty years. The priceless art work is quite intact and a generous spirit of hospitality is still found there.
Here in my southern town a cozy Presbyterian church leaves a fine chapel open 24/7. It contains a room with wheelchairs, walkers, crutches, bedside commodes freely available to whoever has need of them. I have often found exceptional hospitality in this church. A small nearby Lutheran in a marginal neighborhood never locks its sanctuary. To the best of my knowledge it’s never had a problem by doing so.
It’s difficult to not wonder what happens in the evolution of churches as they gain size and stature. Tiny churches with the most to lose have not yet embraced profiling, screening, searches, locks, cameras, ribbon wire, chaperones, and draconian policy to secure their borders. It seems they embrace the admonitions to love one another and not let their hearts be troubled.
For people in recovery, stories abound of those who already had the gun cocked, who had their lives spared because messages of hope came to them through the hand of Christian hospitality, at the last minute. They found hope in the veracity of Christian experience rather than a violent solution at their own hands. They live today. Fortunately, my two friends who went with me to that mega-church are not at such risk, but for three others among us, two weeks ago the message of Christian hope was somehow lost in clouds of fear. Fear had the last word. They were admitted to church after all, feet first, at their own hands.
Crime rates increase as population density increases. Bureaucracy proliferates as organizations increase in size. Increasing crime and fear provoke protective regulation. The recent bombing of Moscow’s airport may well make airports all but inaccessible. Increasing rules and procedures may make flying untenable to all but the hardest of us. Saturday afternoons at the airport are but distant wisps of fading memory. Perhaps those wondrous days when we could enter churches and mosques without screening and chaperones will soon recede into discolored memory as well.
We have seen up close what fear did to destroy the most prosperous manufacturing city on earth; where fear infected the masses and they fled to the illusion of suburban safety. Do we want to follow the example of Detroit or do we want to seek a different way? Do we want to put our airports, schools, churches, and lives on lock down? Do we want to extirpate open Christian hospitality out of fear? Can small hospitable churches sustain themselves in a rising tide of fear?
It’s no accident scriptures contain at least five hundred admonitions to let go of fear and let God? It’s no accident Franklin D. Roosevelt in his March, 1933 inaugural address admonished the nation in the depths of the depression, “that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself - nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”
We will leave the light on and the door’s always open.
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.
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