And then the elders showed up...

I was 16 when I developed a fear of elders. My father was a pastor, who had just moved our family once again. I was corresponding with friends back in Oregon and Dad pulled my unsent letter out of the mailbox before the mailman came, opened it and read it. My sin was writing, "I miss all you bitchin' guys" in my missive. Hey, it was the 60's!

At any rate, I arrived home from school and was confronted by my parents. Dad threatened to take me before the elders in our church. I was horrified, even though I wasn't entirely sure what that entailed. I was planning to run away but his threat never came to fruition.

What did happen, however, was much worse. I had collected letters over the years from my early childhood from friends that I had met at church camp. My mother made me burn them all. I can still see the box stuffed with precious memories of friends now lost in the many moves we had made. After that I had great difficulty writing anything down.

Interestingly enough, those same elders confronted my father a few months later and fired Dad for heresy. He was devastated and I remember that he went to stay with his sister, Martha for a while.

Some years later when I was 25 the elders did show up. I had just become a new believer. My sister and I were living together and every weekend we invited a different family from our church over for dinner. Our dinners were legendary. We were baking fresh bread in those days, making our own butter, etc. Heavenly feasts. As I recall, we were only invited back once. The pastors family did have us over but we didn't think that counted. When dinner was over, we were directed to clean up the kitchen, then he pushed back his chair and left the room.

We did not own a car in those days but we did have bicycles. We rode or walked everywhere in that small town in Montana. It was a time of watching the grass grow and in some ways of being a kid again. We used to walk downtown on weekends where there was usually a band playing in the local watering hole. Friends from a local church would often join us for beers and dancing. As I recall, one of those friends was a deacon. It was a time of innocent fun.

Some months later I learned that one of the women in our church, who worked in the local bank was watching the checks written to the local watering places. She had reported me to the pastor of the church and one day he showed up at my home... with the elders. I was lectured sternly as to the error of my ways and told that I needed to move back home with my parents until I learned to behave.

My Dad, who was also an elder in this church, was out of town at the time. When he returned, I told him what happened and offered to comply with the directive. He said that it was not necessary. The next Sunday Dad stood up in the service and gave a speech about how he needed to step down from his role as an elder to let a younger man take his place. We left the church after that and to my knowledge he never spoke to that pastor again. That pastor had been his best friend for many years.

I ran into that woman at a Bill Gothard seminar many years later. She apologized for her betrayal and I forgave her. So much damage; so much heartache. So unnecessary.

Many times over the years I have run smack into Christian disapproval and righteous indignation. Each time has been soul scarring to me. In 2005 when my story was published, waves of disapproval hit me, first from my family, then from Christians. By that time, I had begun to discover the covering of God's grace. I felt God's voice speaking to me, saying, "I approve, I approve".

Years ago I had occasion to apologize to one of my father's sisters for the many years of bad behavior. She must had been in her 80's at that time. She listened to what I had to say and then she asked me if I had learned anything from my mistakes. Just that simple question spoke volumes to me.

My mama's sister has taught me the most about grace and about loving someone into a better place by modeling that behavior for me. I remember once she gave me a piercing look and then smiled at me. "I love you", she said. And that was all it took. I am learning to do that with my loved ones.

When I watched the movie, "Passion of the Christ", the scene that stood out the most was when the woman was being stoned for adultery. Jesus came upon the scene and without saying a word, began writing in the dirt. One by one, stones were dropped and the crowd diminished until Jesus was left alone with the woman. This poor bleeding woman crawled forward until she was touching the feet of Jesus with her bloodied hand. In my mind those people with stones were the elders. Righteous in their indignation. Disapproving.

That is how I pray sometimes. On my face, bloodied, reaching out for the feet of Jesus, who continues to give me grace over and over again.