UnMediated: Simple Faith. Pure Love. Spiritual Growth without the Interference of Christianity

In our swimming pool, the beetles in our backyard hang on for dear life. Each the size of a mini-chocolate chip, I find little congregations of them, clustered and hanging on with their spikey little arms to anything that floats – a twig, dropped by wind into the pool, or to a sponge ball, left behind by my grandkids.

We are beginning to feel this way. As every new day brings more waves of change and chaos, we are trying to hang on. We feel desperation.

I know many people who have spent their lifetimes clustered for refuge in a church (Reformed, Christian Reformed, Evangelical-Whatever). Now they refuse to do so and would rather paddle off into whatever the future brings without it. They tell of feeling bereft, anxious, and guilty. They are grieving.

I wrote a book for them, because I know what that kind of lostness, that kind of pushing away, and that kind of spiritual refusal feels like. My message is that it is possible, even at times necessary, to seek and experience God without The Church. I write about my own loss of faith and suggest how to process that loss. I tell of how sometimes I experience touches of God, small holy moments, here in the open sea, away from my former ideas about faith and church. Those touches and moments are now the core content of my faith. I share these stories to provide hope.

I confess that many of the things I wrote in this book would no longer qualify as Reformed; other faith concepts I share are purposefully not even “Christian.”  Yet the foundational teaching I was given by my Reformed faith heritage has formed convictions in me I cannot deny. The Reformed Journal community has given me abundant grace as I have written about and explored these convictions. I want to thank RJ for yet more grace for allowing me space to offer a few excerpts of the book here (with edits in brackets):

You are Not Alone

Jack, a friend of a friend, texted me. He said, “Lynn and I are currently not part of a church. It has been a bit of a struggle. We just had a baby, though. We still want to do a dedication for our son. Would this be something you are willing to do? Just a small ceremony, with family, in our backyard.”

Lynn and Jack were born and raised in The {Christian Reformed} Church. As adults they have been committed members. The “bit of a struggle,” however, is that the era of Covid and of Religious Trumpism revealed The Church’s heart. The Church’s rejection of gay or trans persons revealed its heart, too. Lynn and Jack have weighed and measured The Church and concluded that it lacks credibility about God, humanity, and life. They don’t want to raise their child in it.

Or consider my friend Art. He is smart, funny, and has been a committed Christian and leader in his {CRC} congregation for his whole adult life. Every week for twenty years he has met with a group of men from his church for theological discussion. Most of the men in the group have become Trump supporters. Art texted me to say: “I told the group that if I wasn’t already a Christian, I doubt if I would become one in light of who and what I see them prioritizing. It got quiet. No excommunication yet.”

My friend Laurie, a lifelong {CRC} Christian and committed churchgoer, texted: “I struggle the most with family and friends who continue to profess to be Christians but spout the hate and violence which are so indicative of Trump. When I see church signs and hear Christian music, it makes my blood pressure go up. I need to concentrate to remember that not all the people who grace those buildings or listen to that type of music are bad people.”

If you get online and type the question, “Are people leaving The Church?” you will find varying statistics, but any way you cut it, it’s a lot of people. While you are searching through the articles, you will find many opinions as to why.

Lynn and Jack, Art, and Laurie – and many others I have met – have sensed the lameness and the danger of The Church in our day.

That’s why.

If you have sensed this too, know this: You are not alone.

The Confounding Mystery of Jason’s Faith

Many people have far greater cause to lose faith than I have.

For example, I visit Jason, a fifty-two-year-old man who was a construction worker. He has a wife and four kids. Five years ago, Jason was in an accident. His brain swelled. He underwent a surgery which was only partially successful. Now he lives in a wheelchair, in a care facility, surrounded by people thirty years older than he who suffer dementia. Jason’s limbs don’t work well, his head cannot remain upright sometimes, and his mouth can only form intelligible words half the time. He insists on feeding himself, but the food ends up smeared all over his face and body. 

All day long, Jason listens from his phone to hyper-conservative preachers. He is trying to complete an online course from those same preachers, hoping to become one himself.

After we talk together, as I rest my hand on his shoulder to pray, Jason slowly, painstakingly forms words. He says to me, “I…have…a lifelong…disability, but… the Lord…gets me…through.”

Stricken by the beauty of him, I face the mystery: The messages of those toxic preachers sustain Jason. Their sermons mediate the strength of God to him. The religion that upholds Jason is like the religion that formed and sustained me for most of my life.

All I can say is: Now it doesn’t. When I enter Jason’s room, the words of the sermons blaring out from his phone are repulsive to me.

Messages are blaring from within my own soul, too. Those messages are the voices from my spiritual past, telling me that I am rebelling, that my heart is hard, and that I need to repent. “You just need faith!” the voices say.

You might as well say to a punctured balloon, “Inflate thyself.”

I have no defense. There is no explanation. I know this hurts and offends people I love. I cannot understand it, nor can I fix it. My previous faith is gone.  My only hope, as I will soon share: These days I meet God elsewhere.

Sacrament From A Tin Can

If I visit someone {in my role as a Hospice Chaplain}, and if I happen to show up during lunch, the overwhelmed staff is quite happy to let me assist. I drape what used to be called a bib, but now, for dignity’s sake, is called a “clothing protector,” over the front of the person. I sit next to them, fork or spoon in hand, and lift food to their mouths. I hold the green beans, which have just recently been poured out from a tin can, in front of them. I can feel the air from their nostrils as I hold the fork to their lips.

They open their mouths like birds. I say the person’s name, and as I place the food on their tongues I whisper, “The Body of Christ for you.”

These days, this is how I administer the sacrament.

Anybody can do this, simple and pure. You don’t have to wait for an ordained person or a prescribed liturgy to feed and nourish others unto eternal life.

Why I Keep Saying “Sometimes”

I may have left you the impression that I am holier than I am.

Just to be clear: Often, I don’t encounter Jesus in my visits with people. There are times when my heart is cold. Usually, on a Friday afternoon, I just want to get this visit over with and go home. On occasion, I dislike a patient with whom I am visiting. In some visits, people’s fluids and body functions just plain gross me out. There are visits in which I do not represent Jesus well at all, and in which I do not encounter him. There are days when I wonder if I imagine this whole “Jesus” thing.

Sometimes, though, I encounter Jesus. Yes, I do believe so.

“Sometimes” is saving my soul.

Writing a New Story

Earlier I mentioned to you my confession that I had wasted my life. The question still troubles me. The Midnight Library, a novel by Matt Haig, has helped me.

Haig imagines a place where all a person’s potential lives are stored, like books on a shelf. For example, you date someone, and then choose to break it off. That choice closes the book of your life to that point and all the possibilities of what might have been. That book goes on the shelf. You meet someone else and marry. Another book. Kids? Another book.

In my case, choosing to be a pastor created a book. Turning down a job offer from a church – that choice creates a book. Then I accepted the job offer from another church. That becomes another life-book.

I am learning to bow my head and thank God for acceptance and grace through all the pages of my life – what I used to think, believe, and preach. It doesn’t help me to wallow in guilt over it. The title of every chapter is love. Those old books – yes, they are mine, alright.

Now, at this writing, I am sixty-three years old. I only pray to write a new story. I want to live with a different heart, and a different approach to all things divine and human. Every page of this book, too, will be flawed. I am trusting divine grace, light, and peace, upon every paragraph, every syllable.

Think of it: Today, and every day, God offers you the holy privilege of writing a new story.

For more information about Keith’s new book, visit Keithamannes.com