Preacher's Stew Was Too Hard to Swallow

Published in the Albany Times-Union, October 12, 2008

One Friday night in 1980, when other teenagers were playing in video arcades, going to dances and going out on dates, I was sitting at my kitchen table listening to my Dad and our preacher talk about the evils of rock and roll, boys with long hair and the disgraceful uniforms that the cheerleaders at the high school wore. Although I did have some interest in the last topic, I mostly moped and examined the big, ugly horseradish root that Preacher Rogers had brought with him. At the previous Wednesday Prayer Meeting, Rogers had caught me off guard. I was sitting quietly in my pew, mentally composing a prayer, just in case I was called on to close the service. Rogers called people at random to do this; since I was a male and over 12, I knew that I was eligible and that my turn would come. I realized he was looking right at me, but he didn't ask me to pray.

Instead he said, "I know we don't have many young people, but we've got a start. And I'd rather have one fine young man who truly loves the Lord, like Matthew there, than a whole bus full of worldly teenagers!" He was exaggerating when he said that we didn't have many young people. We didn't have any young people. Out of a church of about 30 people, I was the only person under 20. Rogers had hopes, though. He had been a leader of a medium-sized youth group at a church in Kentucky years earlier, and believed he could duplicate that success by transplanting some of their fun yet wholesome activities to the fertile soil of our small Ohio town. One of these was the stew party. A stew party required each guest to bring a different stew ingredient, without knowing what the other guests were bringing. All of the ingredients were to be cooked together, and then everyone had to have some of the stew, no matter how outrageous it ended up. He had everyone invite their teen relatives. I was supposed to invite people from school. I was not enthusiastic about this. I had few friends and didn't want to risk losing those; the stew party didn't sound like the sort of thing that would generate excitement in my school. Even worse, the invitations were printed on the back of Gospel tracts that explained that the reader was bound for hell and that the only way out was to accept Jesus. I spent most of the day with the tracts stuffed in my pockets, feeling guilty for damning all these kids by not sharing God's love with them.

The stew party may have gone over in Kentucky, but on our side of the river, it was a bust. My dad had offered our house for the party, so of course I was there. Rogers showed up with a big smile on his face; and with a magician's flourish he produced his big horseradish root. The only other person who came was a twenty-something named Gwen who lived with her widowed mother in the town's only trailer park. Since she was the church's lone adult single, she didn't have much of a peer group either. Rogers tried to be upbeat, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. Finally he said, "Well, I guess we just didn't pick a good night." Gwen nodded in agreement, excused herself and left.

Later that night, I heard my parents talking about the failed party.
My Mom's voice: "I think Matthew needs to be in a church with more young people."
Dad's answer: "Rogers needs us. There aren't many preachers who'll really preach the Word anymore. We're not giving up on him."

And so we stayed. But Rogers was wrong about me. I wasn't spiritual -- I was just afraid. I was afraid of rebelling. I was afraid of going to Hell. I was afraid of missing the Rapture. Although I told myself that my peers were mindless, shallow and sinful, they seemed happy. Happier than me. I envied their freedom. Those foolish kids, their minds distracted with proms and dances and dates and other frivolities while eternity's maw was opening beneath them. How I envied their shortsightedness, their ignorance. They looked forward into a unwritten future, a future where anything could happen, where they could hope to grow and love and find themselves.

In my world the future was preordained; disaster and calamity, with the only hope a secret rapture into a sterile heaven. And if the Lord tarried, my years were to be spent converting others and cultivating disdain for the world and its vain amusements, stewing in righteous indignation and wondering why the people sitting in darkness were disregarding such a great light.

Now, over thirty years have gone by, and as far as I can tell, the elect have not been raptured, and the world has not gone up in flames. I left fundamentalism long ago, traded the clarity of an artificial light for an uncertain twilight, struggling with fear and doubt and nearly drowning in toxic excess before coming to the conclusion that I will never have the absolute certainty that I was promised in my youth. Instead of certainty, I have faith. Not in a God who thunders commands from the mountain, or a God who holds the future hostage to ancient visions. I have faith in a God who speaks softly from within, and who dwells in mystery. Who inspires but does not wrest control of our destiny; who sets us free to create our own future.