One Nation Under God, With Conformity and Complacency For All
Week 12 of 52 Churches in 52 Weeks:
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I Went to a Church with a Fort to Examine What Happened to Christian Masculinity
My adulterous addiction was under the interrogation light of a woman’s scorn, flashing the red-light district of a perverted psyche. She could peek through the peep show of my stripped-away thoughts. My mind was completely disrobed to its barest essentials. It didn’t take long for her to voyeur into my inner consciousness and unveil that I’d been prostituting an affair with a hard drive. The backlash couldn’t be wiped away with a tissue. I had nothing left to cover myself with, other than a scantily-clad apology:
“I’m sorry.”
My regret failed to dislodge the knife I had metaphorically used to stab her in the back of her heart. Instead, her wounded feelings started bleeding more resentment. She called for a recess by hanging up on me, and wouldn’t answer my callbacks or texts. The wait to hear back felt longer than watching a tortoise run the Boston Marathon through peanut butter. A text finally came in a few hours later to reestablish the prosecution.
“What r u doing right now, watching those WHORES on ur computer again”
I didn’t know what else to do. In vengeful retaliation, her scorned emotions had hopped into the operator’s seat of a giant industrial crane, ready to swing a wrecking ball at the facade of my face that was suddenly misplaced atop her fantasy Mount Rushmore along the likes of David Beckham, Ryan Gosling, and the chiseled six-pack abs of what’s his face from Twilight. As I prepared for our relationship to be demolished to cinder, my self-guilt was in bondage over my disastrous choices to place graphic twerking over our relationship.
I used it as a therapeutic agent from stress, a sad excuse for my lack of willpower in which I pathetically allowed my body to have control over my mind. Pun intended, porn had me soft. I had lost the fire inside of me, ambition was non-existent and I settled into complacency to get my fix which didn’t require me to be much of a man. Worst part was, I had to admit “Guilty” that I failed her.
I had no alibi. I had to come clean, choosing truth over lies and face accountability for my crimes against her feelings. So I resolved to mirror my character after the man I respected more than anyone else I had ever met in my life: her father. He was a Christian role model that I respected the heaven out of. I would have put myself to a lie detector test to admit it. She stopped prosecuting when I admitted it, then opted to rationalize what I was saying in the cross-examination. After hammering a number of specifics to put a Band Aid on our bruised relationship, she eventually slammed down her gavel for the first action to repair the damage I had caused:
“You need to start going to church again.”
After being sentenced to church, I lied to her about my attendance at Mt. Calvary Lutheran Church for the first Sunday after patching things up. Rather than repair our relationship by constructing new lies, I retreated to my old religious stomping grounds for proof of bulletins and re-adapt to church doctrine in a half-assed attempt to find God. I didn’t mind going, it’s just I never could get excited about it, and could never put my finger on why until recently.
Church felt like it was slowly neutering my Christian masculinity. I could sit. I could stand. I could bark hymns and roll-over to the correct page in the bulletin. Like a good boy, I obediently conformed to the religious views and consumed the messages like it was a bowl of Purina Puppy Chow, nodding my head in agreement and rationalizing that I was on the right side because my church said so. I failed to conceptualize how Jesus would reach out with my lack of Christian self-identity, choosing to domesticate my faith for behavioral modification that was on par to training a dog at your nearby PetSmart.
When I witnessed my church refusing Holy Communion to visiting believers, it set in motion my questioning of man-made religion. Too afraid to challenge the Almighty Steeple, I remained complacent and shied away to seek a different church to better align my beliefs. So instead, I came back every Sunday like a game of spiritual fetch, half-expecting a pat on the head from a pastor with a “that’s a good booooooy”.
Is this how most millennial Christians feel about church today as well?
The current perception of the typical Christian male is dull and boring, opting to seek security in the corner by blindly conforming to church rather than seeking the heart of God for himself. Was Moses reading about the modern-day Egyptian Revolution by scrolling his tablets? Was Jonah routinely going to Red Lobster for seafood every Friday night? Was David content with a 9-to-5 day job stringing a harp for his sheep? No. The Bible tells tall tales of how these men became leaders, embarking on spiritual adventures to discover not just God, but exploring who they were for themselves by becoming truly alive as men.
It’s because of this that I can’t respect my father as a spiritual leader. Sure, he remains serviceable to the church where he assists as an usher once a month and will raise his hand at church meetings when male members vote with a show of majority hands. But at home, my dad never put his faith into action, with the highest extent being resorted to saying grace at the dinner table. He conformed and got in line to religion, likely due to starting a family with the birth of me.
It wasn’t until I met Ten’s father where I first got my glimpse into how a spiritual leader should lead his family. When I first met him at a family party in which I prepared for by getting buzzed on Mike’s Hard Lemonade, he didn’t do the overly-protective military father shtick. Instead, he shook my hand and introduced himself by saying he worked in manufacturing, but more importantly, he was working harder to ensure his children would some day have a better job than he did. First thought, I considered pegging him odd for saying that and maybe to hand him a Mike’s Lemonade as well, yet I respected him immediately for his transparency. He gave me his blessing to court his daughter, the greatest gift that God had blessed him with. I was onboard to see him witness his dream.
When his wife was diagnosed with cancer, he was like Samson with a crewcut, strongly holding his family together when it was faced with its roughest times. Christ swam in his veins with his blood mixed of camouflage. He was proud of his God and country. While he served as an elder of the church, I can remember when I visited his family’s church and I stayed back while only Lutheran Missouri Synod members received Holy Communion. After the service, he was perturbed of my exclusion and challenged the doctrine to the pastor in a respectful, yet pointed manner: “We need to fix that.”
He didn’t need to say much, but he knew how to preach the gospel when words were necessary.
The term “spiritual adventure” sprung to mind as I made a three-hour drive to visit the nondenominational Fort Snelling Memorial Chapel in the Minneapolis metropolitan for week 12 of 52 Churches in 52 Weeks. Built in 1927, it originated from a request of Sunday school children who wished to worship in a chapel building.
It was deactivated a few years after World War II concluded, and remained unused until it was scheduled for demolition to make way for a new highway system in the ‘60's. It narrowly escaped the wrecking ball due to some last minute attempts to preserve the area. Eventually, the chapel was given new life with what it is today.
December 28, 2014–11:00 am Worship Service: Fort Snelling Veterans Memorial Chapel in Minneapolis, Minnesota (“Where the Veteran is Remembered”)
My car navigated through the pegboard-like roads of Historic Fort Snelling like it was Plinko. The chapel was unique with its protruding turret vertically extending from the chapel’s fortification, which overlooked a parking lot with the most handicap parking signs I had ever seen. When I walked in, a prelude was in progress as a maestro veteran exhibited his harmonica talents to the delight of the congregation, which deservedly received a round of applause followed by a fair share of arthritis flare-ups. Despite the majority of the congregation being well into their Social Security funds, the church energy was amazing. And it also smelled like potpourri. My nose was curious during the entire service where it was originating from…
Aesthetically, the chapel was steeped in history. The interior was decorated by colorful overhanging military flags to proudly represent Minnesotan units, glass-stained windows honored pioneer military leaders, and memorials adorned the sanctuary in remembrance of those who served. The service began with the lighting of two candles, one for the altar and a second was the POW/MIA candle. From the lectern, one of the chaplains outfitted in a black gown greeted everyone by charmingly stating, “Welcome to the Beautiful and Historic Fort Snelling” with a voice made for afternoon baseball. He inaugurated the service with the Ringing of the Ship Bell.
The second chaplain was the polar opposite in demeanor, looking like the long-lost twin of Rod Roddy from The Price is Right. He was energetically animated, choosing to wear a brightly-colored doctoral gown with his eyeglasses, and it didn’t help that he shouted “Come on doooooown!” when he called for the (grand)children’s message. It gave me hope that Bob Barker would pop out of the pulpit to begin bidding on the potpourri.
The sermon theme was titled “The Praise of the Wise”, examining the mindset of the Three Wise Men. They were prominent, influential men of society, kings who had no trouble getting attention. So why would they bother going on a journey to worship a baby, in which scholars estimated would have taken two years to accomplish? And here I was restless for driving three hours.
Roddy’s reason was the Magi were students of the Old Testament prophecies, having reached the mindset of two lovers who act like they are hopelessly in love. “It’s nauseating” he joked. They re-read their letters, or texts nowadays, and can’t wait to see each other in person. The Three Wise Men were in a similar state of mind in their pursuit of seeing Jesus based on the prophesies. Roddy summed it up with something that perfectly resonated with my views on current-day religious mentality, especially when it comes to Christian masculinity.
“I have a question for you. Have you heard of King Jesus? How many have come to seek Him here today? Who is doing more than just showing up? (The Three Wise Men) didn’t see Him, then go their merry way. Some who show up… see Him… then leave. Some just check off the time block. Others just feel the need to be religious.”
In the past, my religious mentality may not have wanted to answer that question. But the crazy thing is, during this spiritual adventure to reform my own Christian masculinity and break from the conformed restrictions of religion, my faith felt like it was on fire this day. Going on some crazy trek to a church service at a military fort served to remind myself that I create the path I want to make for myself and my beliefs. I have an adventure with a story to tell, without the same old religious routine that is practiced today in our society. As I tour different churches in my pursuit of Christ, I’m becoming something more within myself.
This congregation of military veterans proudly wore squadron jackets with patches decorated on their sleeves, showing a semblance of pride for the many adventures they had in defending our freedom, and thus upholding their own Christian values for One Nation Under God. When this service started and I witnessed the lighting of the POW/MIA candle, this service reminded me of the wise man that earned my respect more than anyone else I’ve met, someone who was brave enough to challenge complacency and put his faith into action. Though I may never speak with him again due to surrounding circumstances, he showed me what Christian masculinity should look like in a household.
In living out his American Dream, he raised two flags in his front yard which was surrounded by white picket fences. The top flag displayed the proud colors of Old Glory, and the second was a black flag for Prisoners of War/Missing In Action (POW/MIA). Every day he did this. It was his way of paying respect to those who made a difference, those who sacrificed to make our lives better, and those we may never meet again. The flag featured a motto:
“You are not Forgotten”
