Am I Too Cynical for This?: Evangelicalism

Thirty pounds ago, I sat in a 10 by 10 foot cabin painted flat black perched on studs that held it from tumbling down a mountain just outside of the Giant Forest. Shots of vodka passed the room until two farm kids from the central valley of California passed out. I left, and stood on the 3 by 7 foot balcony, as my coworkers partook in the herbal produce of California. I did not partake. My friends understood. They knew I was here as a servant of Jesus Christ: I was there leading worship services and trying to show love to those around me, trying to free us from our demons.

Most of all I remember the moths. The summer night was one of a few in my lifetime far enough from the city that the moon’s phase actually matters. And next to me, the light of the cabin drew moths to it, more moths than you can imagine sitting at a computer, and more beautifully sublime moths, huddled around the burning filament scattering on the ancient and massive trees.

Something about that place healed me from the suburbs. It never rained, and when it did, hail bounced across the paths. The mule deer hid under our cabins. We, a group of about fifty from about a dozen countries, watched from under awnings as the hail bounced down the mountain into the valley.

I was twenty-one, one year married, two semesters from a Bachelor’s of Arts degree in English Literature, two years from a Master’s degree in Teaching. Wheaton College, the bastion for evangelicalism, had bought our apartment, and asked us to leave at the end of our lease. It was simple enough to join a ministry, and drive to California with 500 dollars from student loans, a promise of a summer job, and a 96’ Bonneville filled with clothes and books.

90 days later, I emerged from the trees, and the whisky, and the camp fires. I emerged from preaching sermons about light on a dark path and Wendell Berry poems. I emerged from the closest and most broken community I had known to the entitlement of an elite liberal arts college.

I sat at an all-school communion service and listened to young Christians sing worship songs that all started with the word “I” and all viewed Christ as buddy. There was no mystery, no power, nothing more than a thousand people trying to show that they were excited about their faith.

I sat down. My wife stood next to me. I buried my head in my hands (seems dramatic, but I did). Then I asked myself a simple question: Am I too cynical for this?

I knew it all. I was the king of my youth group, the king of Awana. I led worship (despite my voice). I taught Bible studies at my school. I planned on seminary. I went to a Christian college. I studied the Bible. I read the right books, and now I had seen all that my world had to offer, and wondered why the God who spoke the Universe into existence was so small. I wasn’t cynical of the church politics that had torn apart one church of mine. I wasn’t cynical of the way my wife’s church talked about money, or the increasing Christian leaders caught in scandals, or of the professors who left over theological differences, or of the anti-intellectualism of so many evangelicals. I wasn’t cynical over those family issues that, despite disagreeing with, I could resolve. I was cynical because I wasn’t sure that the God that was being worshipped (in between so many songs and verses about ourselves) could send the universe spinning and become man and die and be raised again. The God I kept hearing about was too weak.

And so, I decided, that Wheaton College—the place that represented the faith that I loved, and in turn, the place I loved more than anywhere (other than maybe Camp Awana)—ironically was 2000 miles from where I wanted to meet God.

Many young Christians (and some old, I’m sure) face this juncture. We believe in God, but we don’t see him in the lights of the PowerPoints on a Sunday morning. Oftentimes, intellectual concerns or cultural concerns are blamed. Despite understanding these concerns, leaving the church because of what the church has done seemed intellectually and spiritually lazy. Hanging on to a thread of Christ’s robe, while denouncing his posse (his body really) and saying that I had it figured out more than them wasn’t for me. Neither was picking and choosing what I believed each Sunday morning as pastors spouted nonsense about literature or art that they had not really studied. After all, I had learned enough in my education to know that I didn’t know much about texts and text criticism and trends of thought or of the mind of God. I also learned that a lot of the sermons were from men who knew more, but not as much more as they pretended to.  

Two Options Arose:

1- Stop going to church. Read the books that suit me on faith. Talk with my friends about my faith and hobby of theology, but get away from the organized crap. This is the option that is statistically preferred.

2 - Find a church I could love, despite flaws, and work within the system while fighting my cynicism.

I chose option two. I committed to the church and Christ healed me. I didn’t know how, at the time, but I knew I was being healed. The sermons were good, but it wasn’t that. The Anglican liturgy was new to me and beautiful, and as a student of words this helped, but I think there was something more. The prayers were Trinitarian and theologically based: I could no longer handle all of the prayers that went like this “Lord you are just the best. We just delight in how you just love us.” Grammatical and syntactical problems aside, I did not want to be cynical of my upbringing, and I know that it wasn’t simply a different order of services that was healing me.

I grew up in a church culture that valued the Lord’s Supper and Baptism but seldom discussed it and monthly took the bread and wine. Communion and Baptism were touted as intellectual exercises. I remember once getting a nail in a megachurch service, while a gruesome image of Christ’s passion stared at me from the front. We were told that when we took communion we were to think about how we drove the nails in Christ. I tried my hardest, but inevitably an intellectual exercise ends with more abstract guilt than grace.

I was healed because I learned that the church is a place for healing and brokenness. It is partially a place to engage intellectually, but we are also called to gather physically, to partake from physical elements that God uses to give us grace through faith. One of the five words I remember from three semesters of Greek lets me know that Eucharist is thanksgiving. It is a physical acknowledgement that, “Yes, Jesus is Lord, and yes he is saving me.” It remains part of me even as I drive out of the parking lot and am focused on the road more than the PowerPoint presentation of the pastor.

When I learned that the church should be about God giving us grace (not just intellectual, musical, and emotional exercises), I realized that that was something that no one else could do. There is no substitution for it.  I can’t get it in a book or screen or drive-thru or conversation. The church gave me Christ’s grace, and I began to love her for that reason.

Now, every week, I visit my church, I confess, I proclaim my faith, I eat a feast with my family, I receive the gift of Christ’s sacrifice thankfully and cheerfully. The sermon engages my mind and heart, but the Eucharist engages my body and soul in a way that nothing outside of the church can. For that, I am thankful.

Of the images that remain the most lucid in my mind from my time in California’s mountains an evening that we spent on Beetle Rock stands out the most. A week before, Marta and I had a picnic and a bear walked about fifteen feet away from us. We knew we should yell at him, but he just looked and sauntered away. This night, though, we met without bears or picnic baskets. Five of us stood in a circle, and the visiting head of our ministry tore bread and spoke the words of Christ, “This is my body which is broken for you.”

The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.

Then he poured some merlot that we bought at the bar in a cup and passed it around saying, “This is my blood which is shed for you.”

The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation.

The sun had set and the lights in the valley of ten thousand farms and houses and movie theaters and restaurants flew to us. Over us the stars peaked down at the cosmic celebration that had taken place. Then I went back to the cabin, and back home, and back to school, and back to my church. I learned to love her. For that, I am thankful.

Al Cedeno is an English teacher at one of the nations top High Schools. He is a graduate of Wheaton College. Follow him @reypescador