Why I Left The Gospel...

I’m sure you are entering this blog post with skeptical and worried eyes. Already frantically scanning the page for glimmers of hope that the title was simply a tool to draw more readers.
Well, I’m sorry.

I have left the gospel.

Why?

Because it was ugly and hurtful.

I have grown up in church.

I accepted Christ as Savior at 7.

Got baptized at 12.

And then repeated that whole process at age 16.

I have read the Word.

I have prayed the prayers.

I have led small groups.

I have led worship.

But even in the midst of it all, I never found peace.

I frantically went on a deep search for this “peace that passes all understanding.”

I got on my hands and knees and crawled in the dark for it.

I asked and screamed for others to show it to me.

And all of a sudden. Right there. I found it.

I coddled it in my hands.

Held it tight.

I found this treasure.

It was finally mine.

But when I stopped clenching to it so tight and took a glance at it, this is what I found…

A cheap band aid.

This lie.

This cover up.

For pain.

For hurt.

For wrong.

For sin.

For death.

For addiction.

Anything.

You name it.

This gospel band-aid fits all wounds.

It covers them with words of grace.

It numbs the pain so you can’t feel the poison it is pulsating into your veins.

It never heals.

Only hides the wounds until they fester.

And don’t you dare say to someone you are worried about this wound.

You are afraid this band aid isn’t proper.

Unless you are ready for another whole packet of them to be smacked on top.

Now, here’s what you may be thinking now. “This is a lot of lingo. Symbolism. Fancy words. Where is this really coming from? What is she really saying?”

What I’m saying is this…

I have struggled with a few things in my life. 

Not to play the sad story but to give you a back story none the less.

It has involved years of self-harm, 

a continuation of depression, 

a dependence and need for alcohol,

a few suicide attempts,

a year of cancer,

being raped my freshman year of college,

 a victim of sexual assault,

 and betrayal of those I trusted most.

Tell me where this fits in to the pretty Sunday setting?

How does the gospel treat this?

This is what I hear:

You can cry.

Have your “come to Jesus moment” and be prayed over.

Accept His love.

Accept His grace.

Accept His good plan.
Move on.

My question:

But then what?

That gospel says pretty words are enough.

That gospel says if I can just look up I will be fine.

That gospel doesn’t reach deep.

It doesn’t take hold of the broken places.
It doesn't care about how you hurt or what you feel.

It just tries to get you to ignore it.

But ignorance only lasts so long.

Then one more thing happens.

The tower of band-aids, now piled high on the wound, begin to slip.

It won’t hold.

And just like that you are left trying to cup up and contain the river of blood pouring out.

. . . . .

Good news?

This isn’t the true Gospel.
This isn't the treatment for wounds.
This isn't the true treasure.

I know that now.

I know that what I had found, been told and taught,

Isn’t the Gospel after all.

Because I read just a few verses in the long forgotten Book and see a Savior who comes down into our messes. I see a God who cries over and for His people. One who rains down vengeance on those who hurt His beloved. And Someone who calls out crap for crap and rips off the filthy band-aids placed on by the confused and “holy one’s” that wear white robes on the Sabbath.

So I have ripped it off.

That old nasty thing.

I feel wounds and years of incorrect scabbing that I know will take time to treat.

But it’s a start.

I’m on the search.

For something more than a band-aid.

Something more than words.

Something more than a numbing tool or mask for excuses.

I am searching for the gospel.