The first time I ever walked out of a church service, I was 15 years old.

It was the Fourth of July and the minister- a kindhearted, moderate soul who had been heading this particular church for over a decade- suddenly began sermonizing about the U.S. vs the Godless Communists.

I couldn’t believe it.

I sat and listened and thought to myself: We’re supposed to have separation of church and state in this country.  This is wrong.

Then I got up and walked out, leaving the rest of my family in the pew.

To their credit, my parents never gave me any flak about it.  When the service was over (they stayed on till the end) and we met up in the parking lot, my mother asked if I was sick.  I proceeded to explain (in the heated, haughty way that only teenagers can) my objections to the sermon.

They shrugged and said, ok, that’s your right. 

Then we all went home and had lunch. 

Maybe it just runs in my family.  Years after I grew up and left home, that particular minister (who, it must be said, never ventured into politicking again) left and the church hired a new minister.

Things immediately began going awry.  I followed the situation from a distance in telephone conversations with my mother.

The new pastor was far more flamboyant and charismatic.  He quickly gathered a group of acolytes around him- a kind of ‘inner circle’ almost.  Decisions about the future of the church and its finances became- opaque.

One Sunday, the minister declared from the pulpit that the faith of himself, his family and some others was so strong, that when they prayed could actually levitate.

He began inviting select worshippers- mostly women- to special “prayer sessions” where they could learn this trick.

The story goes that one afternoon the church cleaning lady was passing by the minister’s office and opened the door to go in and empty the wastebaskets.  When she poked her head in, the lights were out and there were several women lying on their backs on the floor with their eyes closed.

“Come in!” roared the pastor.  “Come in and be with the Lord!”

The cleaning lady gazed at the scene.

“I don’t think the Lord is in here,” she said quietly, and closed the door.

Eventually the “inner circle” decided that the church should start its own parochial school.  Those who tried to ask where the money would come from were shushed.  When the school opened, only about half a dozen students registered.

The rumblings from the congregation grew louder.

Eventually, the minister was forced into calling a special church meeting to discuss the finances and future of the church.  Attending worshippers were handed a printed “budget” that was barely 6 lines long and concealed more than it revealed.  Questions received non-answers.

That was enough.  My parents, along with a small group of other members, left the church.

They could have split up and drifted around town, trying one church after another in a Goldilocks quest to find something “just right.”  They could have simply given up churchgoing altogether and wallowed in their sense of alienation.

They did neither.  They passed the hat and started a new church.

They met wherever they could get a space while they raised funds to put up a building.  They invited travelling guest preachers rather than immediately hiring a new minister, carefully testing out each one.  Eventually, the group was able to buy a piece of land and put up a modest building.  No great, imposing architecture; just a big, barn-like structure- the literal expression of the “big tent” they all wanted.  And after much testing and sifting, they found a permanent preacher as well.

Today the place is quietly  thriving.

I said earlier that the first time I ever walked out on a service, I was a teenager.

I was forced to do it again in middle age.

I had not been a churchgoer for many years.  As kind and loving as it was, the version of Christianity I had been raised with had become too conservative for me in adulthood.  It simply did not speak to the world that I knew.  Then a controversy began brewing in my community.  A little church was making the papers for deciding to perform a gay marriage and then ordain a gay minister.  I listened to the controversy unfold in radio reports and read about it in the news.  I also began listening the the sermons broadcast on the radio from this church on weekends. 

It soon became clear that the people of this church were not mere publicity-seekers or trend-setters.  They had discussed this issue among themselves and it had already cost them a large portion of their congregation, who left in protest.  Religious organizations on both the national and local level began striking the church from their membership roles.  And through it all, the message from the acting pastor at that time was as simple as it was sad, and brave:  We are sorry to cause such trouble, but we have to do as our conscience commands.  There is no other way, if we are to worship honestly.

That was enough for me.  I put on a dress, my husband put on a tie, and we began going every Sunday. 

For a long time we were quite content there.  The sermons were intellectually gripping as well as morally challenging and we walked away nearly every Sunday feeling we had learned something new and interesting.

Then the minister decided to retire.

As part of the retirement process he began asking the assistant minister to deliver the sermon more and more often. 

And this was the beginning of the end, for me.

Previously it had not been an overtly political church.  While the minister sometimes used recent headlines as a “hook” for his message, he was always careful to criticize the hypocrisy of politicians both left and right, always emphasizing that their flaws were human, above all.

With the gradual elevation of the new minister, all that fell away.

Rather than current events being a hook for scripture, scripture became a hook for current events.  The message became ever more strident from week to week: far left politics was Christ-driven; far right politics was worldly hypocrisy.  Sermon after sermon revolved not around scripture, but condemnation of the current administration in Washington. 

The end for me finally came in a long sermon attempting to tie the Tower of Babel to open borders for immigration.  To my astonishment, the minister began strongly implying from the pulpit that U.S. soldiers had been sent to the border with “shoot to kill” orders.  This was not spelled out in so many words- it could not have been because there would be no supporting evidence- but the message was clear.

I realized I was looking at a minister willing to twist the truth from the pulpit in the service of politics.

For the second time in my life, I stood up and walked out.  I have never returned.

I refuse to place community above conscience. 

Much has been written about mosques in this country falling under extremist control.  Investigations have exposed hate literature being distributed in some places, pamphlets and books calling Jews apes and pigs and saying that uncovered women are whores.   

How can we expect peace-loving, moderate American Muslims to openly reject such teachings if we do not require the same thing of ourselves?  Those raising the complaint should set the example.  We must make a safe place in the public square for the believing, but unchurched.  Or unmosqued.

America has been called a “symphony of faith,” but it is more than that.  It is a place of rebirth and reinvention.  The freedom to examine and re-examine one’s conscience and then strike out on a new path is the foundation of that symphony.  It’s words are sung by thousands of plaintive, seeking voices- finding faith, changing faith, abadoning faith altogether.  Together they keep our nation’s conscience strong and questing and alive.

And to that I say: AMEN!

Cross-posted at Deafening Silence