A Joyful Noise and Angry Silence

Church started with the sound of drums.  Joyful noise shot through the bar.  Lifeline Church's worship pastor, Mike, played his guitar and sang; his skinny body barely containing his enthusiasm.  He seemed the kind of man who would be most comfortable exploding on stage with lights and eyes witnessing his spectacle.  Between songs he nervously ran his hand through his dark hair, lead a prayer, and set the next song in motion.

Mike’s passion and energy was contagious.  I watched in awe as the congregation followed his lead, hopping to their feet, clapping and singing along.  A large man standing next to me mumbled along, only to belt out the one line he knew well enough to sing clearly.  “Raising our hands high!” he’d shout, weirdly raising his hands overhead, palms turned up.  “Raising our hands high!”  I watched him out of the corner of my eye, as looking at him full on might seem judgmental.  And I wasn’t judging him.  I just thought it was weird.  Not judging.

The songs were of faith, praising God, affirming how He alone was worthy, making me salt and light, blah, blah, blah.  Was I the only one not clapping?  It seemed everyone had their eyes closed, or shook their heads in agreement that all that mattered was God, or had their hands raised, or sang along to the lyrics that flashed on the projection screen behind Mike.  I didn’t get it.  Didn’t get the music.  Didn’t get these people.  Didn’t get why I was there.

A joyful noise.  Spreading joy and love throughout the room.  Joy and love for exactly what and why only overwhelmed me with anger.  Where Mike was singing from was further away from anything I could ever feel.  Further from anything I believed.  The folks around me with their hands lifted…I didn’t understand them.  My heart raced in the pit of my stomach and I trembled.  I didn’t know what I was looking for, but this clearly wasn’t it.  I grabbed my coat, ready to leave, when a gentle voice nudged me.

“Be patient,” it said.

It was the same voice that used to guide me in life; the same voice that I was convinced had steered me down some painful detours; the same voice I no longer trusted; and the same voice I hadn’t heard in a long while.

“Be patient,” it repeated.  The internal dialogue set itself up to get ugly.  Like a hurt and defiant child, I told the voice to screw off.  But the song ended, Pastor Dave took the microphone and began his sermon.  He talked about living in God’s will, and how life gets messy when there’s conflict between His will and our will. That message certainly spoke to , even if I didn’t agree with the message itself.  I could listen to this.

As Dave continued, I took in his message and thought, overwhelmed and surprised at the level of anger I felt.  “It’s not about me,” Dave said.  “It’s all about you, God.”  I couldn’t agree with it, but to disagree seemed infantile and selfish.  But really, why couldn’t it be about me?  Didn’t my hopes and dreams matter?  Shouldn’t I count?  Why couldn’t it be about me…at least a little bit?

By the time I got back home, my wife was awake and half a coffee deep into her Sunday paper.  “How was the gym?” she asked.

“Didn’t go to the gym,” I said.  “Went to church.”

“Really?”  She looked up from the paper, incredulous.  My going to church trumped the BOGO store inserts.  Her eyebrows arched up as she asked in a slightly sing-songy voice, “How’s Jesus?”

I shrugged; hadn’t really had much to say.  But I had a ton to think about.  My mind wouldn’t stop thinking on the swirling emotions all week.  Why was I so sad? Why was I so angry and frustrated?  Why did this God thing hit me so hard?  Why couldn’t I just shrug it away?  As the days passed, I felt more “of wanting” to do something, but what it was felt absurd.  Ridiculous.  Impossible even.

It wasn’t mere semantics keeping me from “of wanting” to actually “wanting.” Intellectually, I knew what I needed to do, but in my heart I didn’t feel anything other than a need to do something to get this search for God started.  I finally tracked down Pastor Dave on Facebook and sent him a quick note.  I said I realized it was unfair to ask what I needed to ask in a Facebook message, but I needed his insight; that I was down; stuck on something I couldn’t quite shake.  The question itself seemed kind of ridiculous, but the feeling behind it had grown rather intense.  I paused on the question, my hands trembling, wondering if I would actually click Send.  Emotion gripped at my throat as I finally typed:

How does someone forgive God?