Jesus Saves… Just Not Me
Lang Andrews
In the spring of 1990, two friends of mine—the Sandberg sisters—asked if I wanted to come with them to their “Young Life” meeting. I didn’t know what the hell that was, but they were funny and interesting girls (and most importantly: they actually spoke to me), so I accepted. The meeting took place at an historic Tudor mansion on top of the tallest hill in our town. Its inhabitants were the hosts and defacto leaders of our town’s branch of the organization, which turned out to be some kind of non-denominational Christian youth organization.
I was nervous. At that age I was nervous about everything, especially things that involved talking to people. But this was a freaked-out situation, and staring at the front door of that big old house certainly did nothing to quell my fears. I half expected Jacob Marley to appear on the knocker. I had no idea what I was heading into, but I had morbid curiosity and a desire to check out the interior design on my side so, before I could say “sheared mink throw,” I was standing in a vacuous oaken living room with a huge oriental rug, and French doors open to a grassy backyard. “Oh my god,” I thought to myself, “This is totally the set from Heathers.”
There were 30 or 40 other kids there. Teenagers, and most of them attractive, well-dressed, and friendly. A few exchange-student types and a smattering of what my mom called “dirtballs” rounded out the mix. And then the other “me’s”—cute, awkward guys who needed friends and oh just maybe were beginning to realize that they were gay. From this snapshot, I defy you to distill who among us were the predators and who the prey.
The evening progressed into what I can only term a “revival.” There were games: ice-breakers involving strangers binding their legs together and then racing similarly handicapped couplings to the far side of the lawn. There was guitar-playing and along-singing, and at least one skit. At the end of the evening, a “sermon” was snuck in by the tall, lean, blond leader in strategically tattered jeans and a fitted t-shirt. I can only describe this specimen as “Beckham-ey,” and I sat rapt as he filled my ears with Jesus-related rhetoric and my mind with, well, NON-Jesus-related thoughts.
My experience with all things Jesus-ey up to this point could be described as “annoyed disinterest.” I found church to be boring and religious people to be not fun or friendly and usually overly fond of sansabelt pants and poly-blends (is that redundant?). These Young Life Christians were a different (and sexier) animal. They didn’t sing “church songs,” they sang “Lean On Me” … the Indigo Girls, Cat Stevens, James Taylor. They laughed. They embraced me (albeit slightly aggressively), and they were HOT.
I continued to go to Tuesday night meetings weekly for the balance of the spring. I craved them. If in school I felt like an outsider and a pariah, at Young Life I felt like a celebrity. By the time summer came, I was a full-fledged “Youth Leader” (a title I am still not convinced had any real meaning), and it wasn’t long before we all piled onto coach busses (with TV/VCRs, of course) and were transported to the much-lauded (and presumably extremely expensive) Camp Castaway. This was truly a northern paradise, designed to appeal to every teenager’s summer camp-movie fantasy. 50-foot hot-tubs (two of them, right on the beach), sweeping grounds, beautiful facilities, and a zipline terminating in the mirrorlike lake. Jet-skis, water-skiing, and sailing both para- and non. And, best of all, quaint cabins with bunk beds and (wait for it …) gang showers to share with my virile young cabinmates.
Eveningly we gathered in the Anchor (a sort of Zen-influenced auditorium complete with floor pillows and oversized carpeted stairs for seating) for what were essentially glorified versions of our Tuesday night meetings. But the songs were better, the games funnier, and the Jesus-talk more insidious. At the tail end of each night there was a skit performed by the (sexy) camp staff, who we quickly came to idolize for their athletic prowess, charisma, morality, and tanned abs. It was similar in structure to a John Hughes-influenced Real World, complete with confessionals and broad archetypical characters: the cute jock, cute honors student, cute shy girl, cute chubby girl, and—notably—cute homo? There must have been six of them in total, because each night of our stay featured the personal story of another of them, ultimately culminating with how—through a series of cliché, Lifetime-style rapes, bullying, drug abuse, and drunk daddies—each of them had come to “give” his/her life to (wait for it …) Jesus.
It was an intense week on the quietest of days. With no idea of who I was or what my story and reputation might be, I was allowed to reinvent myself, and as a result—for the first time in my life—I was actually “popular.” Some quick teenage math led me to believe that I owed it all to Jesus. In one week, I had been transformed from awkward, gay outcast to cute, fun friend of the most popular guy in camp: Jesus.
They saved the homo for the final night of camp. Who the hell remembers what his story was—misfit, arty, “not like the other boys,” they never came right out and said it but the implication was clear (I believe he played the French horn)—all I know is that however obvious their formula was, they finally got to me. I lost it. In grand style. Like break-up lost it. The crying was legendary. Dry heaves, sobs … there were scenes, parts, and acts. It was loud, and it was earnest, and it was exactly what they had been after. I was having a breakdown and they were eating it up. I am surprised the tissues they offered me were not quilted with Jesus’ face, just for safety.
When I got home my mom was in the midst of her annual summer garage sale. I went straight to bed, still drained. In the morning she took me to Denny’s for a welcome-back breakfast and to dish about the week. I confessed to her AA-style that I had given my life to Jesus. I did the same with my father the following weekend when I went to stay with him. For the next year I participated in fund-raising car washes, pancake breakfasts, fashion shows, auctions, bake sales, fall, winter, and spring carnivals, door-to-door candy sales, talent shows, pledge drives, concerts, and art fairs. All proceeds going, of course, to “Jesus.” And this was all in addition to school, extra-curriculars, and the weekly Tuesday night meetings.
I was on fire with Jesus.
That summer two things were on the radar: Frontier Ranch—Young Life’s posh summer camp in the Colorado Rockies and my 16th birthday. The American 16th birthday is a serious rite of passage no matter who you are, what with the driver’s license, high school, and increased independence (I think my curfew actually got bumped to 11:30). I was also reaping the benefits of a deepening intellect and maturing sensibility. At 14 I was awkward and easily persuaded, not knowing who I was or what I wanted. But as adolescence wore on and my skin thickened (and cleared-up: NOT mutually exclusive), I discovered wit and intelligence that I hadn’t realized before, not to mention several new friends who had experienced similar revelations. Simply put, I was smarter and more aware of myself, and getting more so.
Interestingly, as this phenomenon continued, I also became less and less focused on Young Life … and Jesus. I did make it to Frontier Ranch, but I was just phoning it in by then. I was no longer charmed by the overly friendly staff and had even grown immune to the neverending renditions of “Lean On Me.” In the following months I found less and less time to participate and my appearances at meetings grew further and further apart and, eventually, petered out all together.
The fire, it seemed, had fizzled.
Ludwig Feuerbach and Sigmund Freud say that “God” and other religious beliefs are human inventions, created to fulfill various psychological and emotional wants and needs. We’re lonely, lost, sad, so we turn to “God.” This is also the Buddhist view. Karl Marx believed that people turn to religion in order to dull the pain caused by the reality of social situations. (Especially prophetic considering that Marx never had to set foot in an American junior high school.) He was also the one who said “[Religion] is the opium of the people.” I can only define myself, from ages 14-16, as a user.
The more confidence (and intelligence) I gained, the less interest I had in all things Christian. I even went to parties. Had a drink. Took a drag off a joint. Oops. I had “fun.”
Statistics also suggest that there is a correlation indicating that religious conviction diminishes with education level. Marx (again) suggested that religion was used by the state as a means of oppressing the uneducated and uncritical masses. Only 7% of members of the National Academy of Science believe in a personal “God” (as compared to more than 85% of the general US population). And fundamentalist Christians—especially women—tend to acquire fewer years of education than others do.
At this point in my life—two degrees and innumerable educational life experiences later—I can profess that I no longer sustain any belief whatsoever in a higher power. And I don’t believe myself to be any the worse for wear because of it. Quite the contrary: I actually find myself suspicious of the religious and equally confused and untrusting of the “spiritual.” I wonder what they’re after and—worse—how they are going to try to get a hold of my money under the guise of some altruistic-ish “cause.”
I do not deny anyone’s right to do whatever it is that makes them feel better and helps them tolerate what can often be a cruel world. But neither do I endorse it. And I do reserve the right to criticize their choices in the same manner I give my brother a hard time for never attaining a college degree: it just doesn’t make good sense. And I can’t convince myself that someone who donates time and money to—say—the Catholic Church, the most wealthy institution in the world, is on an equal intellectual level or that they are not perhaps mildly challenged. Or running for office. And worse—shame on them!—that they should dare to ask for my time or money and suggest that I am morally inferior when I refuse to give it. My morals are strong—perhaps more so for the sake of my having to learn and develop them for myself rather than reading them in James’ version of Peter’s interpretation of what the Gospel might have been according to Mark after translation and interpretation from the original Aramaic [ck] into Latin into Italian into English and then revised over the course of the pursuant 2007 and 5/6 years. The morals I follow serve what I believe to be right, based on my experience and those of the people I admire. I live according to them because it is what I believe is right and true, and because I want to contribute to the betterment of the world I live in—for my own benefit as much as anyone else’s—and not because of what teachings I can only term “ghost stories” suggest might happen to my “soul” when I die or because I don’t want to “disappoint” some magical father figure who apparently looks like Gandalf and lives on a cloud.
Likewise, I simply cannot convince myself to believe that intelligent and honest people truly believe that an omniscient, omnipotent, and omni-benevolent “God” is ok with a world in which cruelty and suffering thrive to the extent that they do today. Epicurus said “Is [God] willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then is he not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is not malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Whence then is evil?”
Whence indeed.
I understand there is an argument to that thinking which insists that “God” allows mankind to suffer for its own betterment … so that he may evolve. To dispute that claim, which I perceive as the dying wail of the desperate, I believe one need look no further than Lower Manhattan.
Maybe you think that’s a cheap shot, and you might be right. But that doesn’t make it any less evident. I consider preying (“praying?”) on the insecurities of a lost teenage gay guy to be a pretty cheap shot as well, and the Christian church, therefore, is in my estimation no more noble than a cult. What can I say? If it walks like a duck ….
Friends have often lost patience with me in conversations about “God” and religion, and I expect more than one reader might have a similar reaction to this article. They offer endless arguments for the possible existence of “God,” they highlight church’s positive role in the “community,” and they suggest that I just haven’t found the right “fit.” And I remind them that I am not the one trying to convince them of anything. My atheism is passive and I am loathe to evangelize. These are simply my views. Conversations like these usually terminate with some declaration of the distress I am causing the soul of the person with whom I am speaking. And for that I apologize, and remind them how thankful they must be to have “God” to ease their pain.
