The Power Of Inclusion (The 2nd of 5)

Vikki and I left the church of my youth. Don’t think it was easy. It wasn’t.

For people who have worked on a musical or played a season in any sport… remember the morning after it ended. The first day there was no rehearsal after spending three months of every waking moment singing and dancing. The first realization there are no more practices after preparing and competing together. It’s over.

Now – multiply that indefinable moment of recognition 30 times. If you haven’t lived it, comprehension is an impossibility.

Parents console. Friends commiserate. Directors stop and breathe. Coaches look to the next season.

The rest of us are left to balance fond memories with the ache of solitary confinement. Self-inflicted or not, it’s hard.

So, we left. I had no desire to go anywhere. I was done. My wife felt differently. We visited. Here. There. Everywhere. Over the course of twelve months, we visited nearly 100 churches. Sunday morning. (Twice.) Sunday evening. Wednesday night. The occasional Saturday. Offerings during Monday lunch and Thursday afternoon. Every denomination. Big. Small. In-between. Traditional. Contemporary. Blended.

Mrs. Griffin liked a few. I liked none. We finally found a place I thought I could tolerate. We returned for the Sunday night service. A well-intended usher stopped me at the door. “You’re welcome to stay, but, so long as you know, tonight’s service is for people 35 and younger.”

I smiled. “Got it. Thank you.” I took Vikki’s hand and we proceeded to walk in.

The usher followed us. “I mean, you might be uncomfortable. It’s a service for young people.”

I could feel Vikki’s grip tighten as I spoke, “Just so you know… God doesn’t have an age requirement. Nor a dress code. He likes everybody.” I thought my illustration was clear. Apparently, it was not.

“Well, like I said, you’re welcome to stay, but it really is for people younger than you.”

Well. Damn. I looked at my wife and apologized. We headed for the door. Another, more seasoned church member chased us down in the parking lot.

The second effort was commendable, but the damage had been done. “We gone.”

I was officially done with church. I’d had it.

A dear friend suggested we bring Sophia to the Harvest Celebration at Center Grove Baptist Church in Clemmons. Lewisville. Somewhere in between. Out there.

It was cool. Lots of people. Tons of candy. Food and drinks. They invited us to return on Sunday. We went.

I loved the choir. David Newman, one my mother’s all-time favorites, sang a solo. The preacher could preach. We kept going.

Lifegroups are big at Center Grove. For the uninformed, lifegroups are the latest reincarnation of Sunday School classes. I’m not a Sunday School person. I enjoyed Ruby Cocklin’s 5^th/6^th grade class at Maple Springs, but everything that followed was, well, less than scintillating.

We found a lifegroup. We made friends. Dinners on Wednesday nights. We decorated our car for Trunk-Or-Treat at the next Harvest Celebration. We wore ugly sweaters at the lifegroup Christmas party.

I’ve always felt enormous pity for folks that spend their life going from church-to-church, always finding a reason to complain and never fully investing in the life of the church.

Church is not a noun. Church is a verb. Vikki. Sophia. Miles. Jeffrey. All in. Our church home.

As unlikely as it sounds, Center Grove did not have a music ministry for children. I was astonished. I was pretty vocal about my belief that children should absolutely, positively, without a doubt, be involved in a church choir as early and as often as possible.

They scheduled a meeting. I went to the music store and got several demo packs of children’s Christmas programs. “We could do this or that or… I really like this one! Or we could write our own.”

The church leadership decided we should do a children’s Christmas program. I was delighted. I offered to help. I mean, really, I’m not a stranger to Christmas programs. Especially children’s programs.

I got the first notice… “Jeffrey, we appreciate your willingness to serve, but you cannot help in the children’s ministry until you are baptized. In Jesus’ name…”

“I’ve been baptized.”

“Sprinkled or immersion?”

“I was sprinkled.”

“The church doesn’t recognize the baptism unless you go under.”

“So, I have to get dunked to teach songs to children?”

“There is more to it than that, but, yes.”

I met with multiple church leaders to share my testimony and convince them of my heart for service. I went to class. Four classes, actually. The day arrived and, with Sophia and Miles watching, the preacher put me under in a hot tub on the front lawn at Center Grove Baptist.

Praise the Lord. It was fine. I don’t think it hurts to be baptized twice but I was, and remain, convicted on the premise that once is enough.

The second notice arrived…

“Jeffrey, congratulations on your baptism! We are happy for you and we’ll be praying for you. Again, we appreciate your willingness to serve in the children’s ministry, but we have a church member that is familiar with how-to-do a children’s program and we think it would be best if you watched this time around, so you can learn how to do a program. In Jesus’ name…”

I wasn’t thrilled. Leave it at that.

Vikki got dunked as a kid, so she was immediately eligible to work on Wednesday nights. They put her right to work. Sound and lights.

The first Wednesday night. The person who was supposed to “lead” didn’t show up. I was sitting in the corner. About 200 kids looking around, on the verge of going bat-crazy. My wife started walking in my direction with “that” look.

“Jeffrey, get up and teach those children.”

“Nope.”

“Jeffrey! Stand up and teach those children. Sophia and Miles are out there. You wanted this. I don’t know how to do it. Don’t be difficult.”

“No. They told me I’m supposed to watch so I can ‘learn how to do a program.’ It’s not my problem. Call somebody else.”

Vikki Griffin isn’t often angry. With anybody. Especially me.

I hollered after her as she stomped back to her sound board, “And I don’t have the music.”

A music book promptly sailed past my head.

60 minutes later, we had learned four measures. I was hot. The children were roaring. My wife was speaking and we were on our way to a Christmas program that saw about 250 kids leading in worship.

I wanted to continue. I made the plea. “Children’s choir every Wednesday night. We have the momentum. We should do it now. Don’t wait. The kids are excited.”

For the record, I firmly believe when a kid grows up singing JESUS LOVES ME and DO LORD and WHO BUILT THE ARK, that is the bedrock of faith that will sustain them when they are faced with the opportunities to buy a nickel bag or bully the new kid or face-down depression in the darkened corner of a dorm room.

This – THIS – is what the church should be teaching our children. Jesus loves you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

A third notice…

“Jeffrey, thank you for your assistance helping lead our children in worship during the Christmas season. We have decided to continue our Wednesday nights for kids with an emphasis on service and missions. There will not be any additional music rehearsals. In Jesus’ name…”

Alright. It was nice while it lasted. One and done. It wasn’t right, but I was not going to be “that guy,” always finding something about which to complain.

Our lifegroup was good. Good people. Great people, but a change was blowin’ in the wind. The leader of our lifegroup succumbed to brain cancer. We sat together at the funeral. A sad day. We prayed. We sang. We prayed some more.

Eventually, I started helping lead the lifegroup. Prayer time. Teaching. The group kept growing. New folks joined. I was concerned we were losing some of the “old folks.” (As in… some of the lifegroup members that had been around for a while and were uncharacteristically absent far too often.)

Monday morning, one of the church leaders called my cell phone. The conversation would inevitably be good or bad. Might as well find out now.

“Jeffrey, it has come to our attention that you used an inappropriate word while teaching the lifegroup yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I guess it’s possible. I might have said something I should not have said. What did I say?”

“You used the word, ‘boobs.’”

I had to stifle my laughter. “Boobs? When did I say ‘boobs?’ That’s right, I did. I absolutely said ‘boobs.’ I don’t understand the fuss. Everybody’s got ‘em. We’ve all seen ‘em. God made ‘em.”

In hindsight, I should have said less in that conversation.

I vividly recall the moment. The lifegroup was talking about gender and church leadership. I made the statement: “If Sophia Griffin came home and said, ‘Daddy, I want to be a preacher,’ it would be a terrible thing to look at her and say, ‘I’m sorry, baby, you can’t be a preacher because you have boobs.’”

Somebody was offended. Oh well. Somebody is always offended. I’m offended that they’re offended. How offensive.

It was the last time I was asked to teach the lifegroup. I didn’t receive official notification, but it felt like a formal suspension.

A few weeks later, a member of the lifegroup criticized the Pope. I was offended. I spoke up in defense of the leader of the Catholic church. To be a protestant, I’m a very good Catholic. We spend every Christmas Eve with the Pope during the NBC broadcast of midnight mass from the Vatican.

People let details get in the way of worship. We’re on the same team.

Needless to say, that didn’t go over well. Another reprimand.

The dynamic of the lifegroup was changing. It was less and less about sharing life. From where I sat, it was becoming a group that acted in accordance with whatever social activities were calendared by those in charge.

I was not allowed to bring Sophia and Miles to a children’s outing for lifegroup families because “it really is a time for the kids to play while the mothers get together. You would be uncomfortable.”

The men in the group seemed destined to spend time together only if it had something to do with shooting or racing or camping. I don’t shoot things. I know even less about racing. And camping? Hahahahahahahaha.

Vikki flies most weekends. She repeatedly asked if we could get together and do something on a weeknight. One of the newest-self-proclaimed lifegroup leaders responded, “Vikki, this is convenient for most of us. If your schedule changes, let us know.”

My wife cried. I was angry. The last straw. (Almost.)

The same lifegroup member that incorrectly diagnosed my comfort level during the children’s outing and subsequently told my wife to “let us know” approached us Sunday morning.

“Vikki, Jeffrey, we’re planning a bowling party for the group and we were thinking that y’all could introduce us like Pat Sajak and Vanna White on WHEEL OF FORTUNE! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Vikki looked stricken. I said, “No. We don’t work for free and you probably can’t afford us.”

“Oh. We thought it would be neat to be introduced…”

In the weeks that followed, we said little, if anything, during lifegroup. It had become painfully obvious we didn’t belong. We didn’t fit in. Sophia and Miles sensed something was not quite right, but they didn’t know what questions to ask.

One of the best, if not the best, developments of our adventure at Center Grove is my friendship with Emmett. My best friend. I love Emmett. He is irreverently outspoken. Ridiculously smart. Wildly funny. He is passionate about two things: Jesus and family. The man will do whatever needs to be done. He is one of the heroes of my life.

Emmett and I talked about the lifegroup. A lot. The next best step was obvious. We met with the church leadership. We asked for permission to create a new lifegroup. We said nothing negative about the current group. Not a word. There was no reason to whine or complain.

“The church is growing. We think another lifegroup would be helpful. It is becoming increasingly difficult to stay connected with individuals due to the sheer size of the class roster.”

One of Emmett’s jobs is teaching. The man has a master’s degree. He’s an ordained minister.

Then, of course, you have me. I am what I am. Husband. Father. Teacher. Musician. Worship leader. User of inappropriate words.

A saint and a sinner.

Together, we’re actually pretty good.

We submitted the required paperwork. The church leadership said our request would be reviewed and they would “be in touch.”

Emmett and I felt good. We were excited. We went to dinner and argued over hush puppies.

A few days later… An email arrived.

“Emmett, Jeffrey, thank you for your willingness to serve in a lifegroup but, after prayerful consideration, the church cannot grant your request to establish and lead a new lifegroup. In Jesus’ name…”

I quit reading. Emmett reached out, “Why?”

“Well, Emmett, we feel it would be inappropriate for two men to lead a lifegroup if their wives cannot be present.”

“So… Jeffrey’s wife is a flight attendant and works weekends. My wife teaches in the children’s ministry. And because they are working and volunteering, we can’t lead a lifegroup?”

“Correct.”

We talked. Emmett and I chose to remain quiet. We don’t believe in arguing in church.

“They became so angry that they got up and threw him out of town. They dragged him to the edge of the cliff on which the town was built, because they wanted to throw him down from there. But Jesus slipped through the crowd and got away.” – Luke 4:29-30

There is nothing quite like being out of the club. I never went back. Vikki, Sophia and Miles finished the school year. We slipped away, unnoticed.

Out is one thing, but we weren’t even missed. Guess I’ll stay at home and watch Pat and Vanna. That’ll be fun…