by Trish Ryan
I was impressed by this church, but wary. I’d heard so many other great promises of how more was possible in life if I did this or that or some other thing. I decided to stay detached, to proceed carefully rather than jumping in. But some part of me surged ahead, hopeful that this Jesus-ey church—and maybe even Jesus himself—could make good on all these claims.
Chapter Thirteen
One New Sheep, Grayish Black in Color
Other than Jesus, what Vineyard people talked about most was small groups. I had no idea what a small group was—I imagined little pockets of people gathering in secret to dissect the Bible, judge one another, and perhaps engage in a bit of self-mortification. I’d seen the word “accountability” bandied about in my perusal of popular Christian books—it made me think of the indoctrination groups the Chinese used during the Cultural Revolution to make sure everyone engaged in Chairman Mao’s version of “right thinking.” For all I knew, small groups were the place where trained church leaders oversaw our Jesus indoctrination, ensuring that our behavior synched up with the Golden Rule and the Ten Commandments.
Bizarrely, I loved this idea. I longed to be part of a secret spiritual movement, shepherding wayward souls toward God like Harriet Tubman moving slaves to freedom along the Underground Railroad. That I was a passenger on this freedom train wasn’t lost on me; I wanted to learn the rules of this Jesus thing so I could be sure to do it right (I didn’t want to lose out on my husband due to a technicality). And I still had a fair amount of anthropological “come see the Christians live in their natural habitat” fascination going on, which made it all seem like a grand adventure. I couldn’t believe I had the list of all their secret meeting places right there in my hot little hand.
MY FIRST EXPERIENCE with a Vineyard small group was, to use a favorite word from my feng shui days, “inauspicious.” I walked into the living room of a first-floor apartment to find a random assortment of people eating spaghetti and talking about the Red Sox.
So these are the Christians, I thought, surreptitiously glancing around to take it all in. They were, I noticed, an unusually attractive assortment of humanity—lots of cute guys, pretty girls. We looked like a casting call for an Old Navy ad, all earnest and multicultural. There was a noticeable absence of identifying Christian paraphernalia: no Jesus tattoos, no black T-shirts with a cross outlined in front of a huge wall of fire, declaring “This is the only thing standing between you and hell!” like I’d seen at other churches. It didn’t even look like people brought their own Bibles. They’re too normal, I thought. I’m not sure what I expected—special costumes, a mandatory password, perhaps. I tried to hide my disappointment as I walked in and found an open spot on the couch.
A few minutes later, after people had scraped their plates and poured themselves fresh cups of Diet Coke and ginger ale, a tall woman in a MIT sweatshirt called the group to order and announced the agenda for the evening. We were, she said, going to spend the next two hours in confession, admitting our sins to one another and nailing them to the Cross.
Man, they get right to it. Despite my vague awareness of the Christian fondness for accountability, I was unprepared for this. At the very least, I assumed we’d get to know each other a little bit before the contrition started. I’d thought these groups were for outing one another—a place where you were confronted by your brothers and sisters for wearing a short skirt on a dinner date or taking the name of the Lord in vain. I never imagined that we were supposed to fess up to our own wrongdoings when we gathered, or that Christian living meant laying our status as heathen miscreants right out there in the middle of the living room in front of a bunch of strangers. I glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone was as uneasy with this idea as I was. No one seemed troubled by this plan; they all looked fine—happy, even. Apparently, this was an enjoyable way to spend a Wednesday night in the Christian world, far better than sitting at home on the couch watching West Wing or Dawson’s Creek like the rest of the country.
As everyone started to move into little groups, I froze, paralyzed by a flashback from my Catholic childhood. Confession, I knew, was not for me. I’d tried to be contrite and penitent as I searched for God as a little girl—I’d approached my sacramental first confession with great anticipation, certain that entering that little booth for a tête-à-tête with one of God’s priestly servants must have some sort of special power (I’d watched enough Superman cartoons to recognize that exciting transformations take place when normal people duck into little booths). But when I got in there on the big day, there was no special energy or secret power; it was just angry Father McNamara going through his script in an absentminded fashion. I don’t know if I was overcome by stage fright or disappointment, but from that day on, the confessional booth was one of the few places that left me speechless. I knew I wasn’t perfect, that I had some things to confess. But when that door closed behind me and I faced Father McNamara’s scowling silhouette through the fleur-de-lis screen, I could never remember what those things were.
As a coping mechanism, I always (and by “always” I mean every time I confessed between the ages of seven and fourteen) resorted to my safety sins, the two obvious slipups I knew I must have committed at some point since my last visit to the booth.
“Father, I confess that I hit my little sister and I lied to my mother.”
“Again?” he’d respond. Sometimes I could even hear him sigh.
“Yes, Father,” I’d respond, “again.”
Whatever doubts he had about the completeness of my confession, Father McNamara always pronounced me forgiven. I suspect it was the only option in his instruction manual. Two Hail Marys, four Our Fathers, and a Glory Be and I was out of there, absolved from my hitting and lying, free until the next time our Sunday school teachers sent home a parental reminder about the importance of the confessional sacrament.
Two decades later, I realized that if I couldn’t negotiate the pressure of confession in a private booth, I had no interest in trying it again in front of this random bunch of strangers. Besides the obvious normal people don’t do this factor, I still had no idea what I would say. I hadn’t hit my sister within recent memory (something I never thought I’d be sorry about as an adult) and while I certainly fibbed to my mother at various points between the ages of fourteen and thirty-three, I wasn’t prepared to uncork that bottle here. So I sat there, silent and baffled, trying not to listen to the private things these people shared with God, each other, and (unfortunately) me. That was the end of my first small group. As I said, inauspicious.
THE NEXT WEEK, buoyed along by some inexplicable surge of persistence, I took my Bible and my superhero fantasy to another group. At first, the scene was familiar: another living room, another multicultural group of pretty people eating spaghetti and talking about the Red Sox. I declined a plate and settled into the only spot left on the floor, in the back of the room near the fireplace.
The conversation turned from baseball to summer travel, and I learned that the group leaders were just back from their honeymoon. Their names were Paul and Pascha, and they had met at the Vineyard. I took this as a confirmation that men and women in this church found each other somehow, that there was precedent for negotiating the perilous waters of sex-free, Jesus-ey dating and getting to the other side. Already, this group seemed more like what I was looking for in terms of exposure to the details and nuances of Christian living.
Paul called us to attention. He opened with an icebreaker, and we went around the room sharing our names and our favorite flavors of ice cream. This struck me as a much better getting-to-know-you technique than confessing our sins. Subtler, somehow. I relaxed and leaned back against the wall. I was pleasantly surprised to see Gwen—the auburn-haired woman I’d met that second week in church, walk in and sit down next to the door.
“Hi Gwen!” Paul said. “You’re just in time—you get to go first,”
“Hi everyone, I’m Gwen,” she said, smiling. “I like Rocky Road.”
“I’m Amanda,” offered the pretty Asian girl next to me. “And, oh my gosh—I love pistachio ice cream more than any other food on the planet.” She was so thin I couldn’t imagine she’d eaten more than an ounce of dessert in any form in her life.
“I’m Trish,” I said when my turn came. “My favorite ice cream is Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby.”
“Ooo, that stuff is so good!” a brunette named Liz exclaimed, eyes wide as she nodded her agreement. I smiled at her, amazed at how even this small connection felt important, like I’d passed the first admission test for acceptance into Jesusville.
At the end of the circle, Paul introduced himself and Pascha, who sat on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs. He played with her hair absent-mindedly while he talked, occasionally rubbing her shoulders. They were connected somehow, I realized. They had that intangible thing I’d seen between the guitarist and his wife, and then between Dave and Grace. I stared at their wedding bands, mesmerized. The circles of new platinum gleamed back at me, catching the evening sun shining through the window behind them. Over the course of the night I watched each of them playing with their new rings, twisting them with their thumbs as if they were thinking about each other right there in front of us all. I looked down at my own hand—bare and in need of a manicure. Jealousy and longing wrapped around my chest.
When the icebreaker was done, Paul pulled out a guitar and asked us to stand for worship. I tried not to stare. Was he going to sing one of those Jesus-ey songs here? Everyone rose and spread out across the back of the room, transitioning effortlessly from debating the merits of jimmies versus sprinkles to singing to Jesus like this was the most normal thing in the world. Facing the window where a buzzing machine projected song lyrics onto a white vinyl shade, everyone chimed in, “Jesus, you love my soul . . . Jesus, I won’t let you go . . .”
I shifted from foot to foot, not sure what to do. This was a little weird, singing in the middle of someone’s living room with the windows wide open for the whole neighborhood to hear. I wasn’t sure what the song meant, or what this whole worship thing was, for that matter. How could you let go of Jesus? Wasn’t he always sort of there? Was the God of the Bible co-dependent?
We sang three songs about Jesus—his extravagant love, his wonderful Cross, and the unwarranted forgiveness of our sins. I was okay for the first song. By the end of the second, I was rocking and twitching, and by the third I wanted to bolt from the room. It felt strange, standing there singing to Jesus, with people all around me bursting into tears, swaying from side to side, smiling at the ceiling, eyes all glassy. One girl lay prostrate on the floor, mumbling something I couldn’t make out, and a guy by the couch sat down, burying his anguish-racked face in his hands. I considered kneeling for a bit to break up the monotony, but was afraid they’d somehow know that it wasn’t virtue or remorse driving me to my knees.
The final song broke through my discomfort. It was different—less about how pathetic we are without Jesus, more about why it might be worthwhile to believe: “This is the day of the coming Lord. All the lost years He now restores. He has changed my mourning to laughter; what He has freed, is free ever after. . . .”
That didn’t sound too bad. Where, exactly, is this happening? I wondered.
“Thank you, God.” Paul said when the song ended, interrupting my train of thought. “We ask that you be here with us tonight, and bless us. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” He lowered his guitar back into the case, and we made our way back to our makeshift seats and perches. Pascha passed out photocopies of a Bible passage, while Paul described one of Jesus’ famous speeches, called the Sermon on the Mount. I’d heard of it, but had no idea what it said. “Take a few minutes and read it through,” Paul instructed, “and then we’ll sort it out a bit and try and get at what Jesus is saying.”
I looked down at the black-and-white sheet. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to glean from this read-through. A can of pens circulated around the room, but I didn’t have any pearls of wisdom I was in a hurry to jot down. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” I wasn’t sure what this meant. I skimmed through the rest of the passage, thinking how the Bible was just as vague and unhelpful as I’d always assumed it would be. I didn’t follow much of the discussion after that—too many opinions I had no way to sort out, too many paragraphs of blessings and admonitions to cover in an hour. I was left with a vague sense that Paul knew Jesus’ words were important, but wasn’t going to tell us why. We were supposed to work that out on our own.
When we finished, Pascha asked if anyone who was new to the group would like Newcomer Prayer. “Newcomer Prayer,” Paul explained, “is where we try out this thing the Bible calls the gift of prophecy. None of us knows you, so we’ll ask God to give us pictures, impressions, sayings, or some other type of message that He wants to communicate to you that we couldn’t know any other way. We’ll write everything down for you so you don’t have to try and remember it all. You don’t have to say anything, but if something one of us says strikes you as relevant, let us know and we will pray more into that.” It seemed like a fun party trick, like a Christian psychic game, only without the Ouija board or crystal ball. Always game for a spiritual adventure (and liking to be the center of attention in a context where I didn’t have to confess my sins), I raised my hand to volunteer.
“The Bible tells us three important characteristics of prophecy,” Paul explained, “things we look to as signs that the senses we get are, in fact, coming from God.” This struck me as odd; it hadn’t occurred to me that my senses could come from anywhere else. “Who remembers what these characteristics are?” he asked.
Gwen answered, “In First Corinthians, it says that prophecy should be strengthening, encouraging, and . . . some other very important thing I can’t remember,” she trailed off as the group giggled.
“Prophecy should be comforting,” Paul finished for her. “Good job,” he said with a smile. “Okay, so, Trish, what we’re going to do is pray, asking God to give us something for you. Take what seems right and forget about the rest. And remember, we’re all learning, so if something seems weird or off, disregard it. Okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Um—wait.” I stalled. “What should I do? I mean, should I close my eyes or pray, or what?” Suddenly, I felt very conspicuous. This whole sitting in the middle of the circle thing seemed a bit untenable.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Paul answered, confirming my worst fear. “You can close your eyes if you want to, or if you feel more comfortable seeing what goes on, that’s cool too. There’s no wrong way to do this,” he reassured me. “I’ll start us with a prayer,” he said. “Jesus, thank you that you speak to us. We ask you to come right now and give us words of strength, encouragement, and comfort for Trish . . .”
Silence.
More silence.
Maybe God won’t speak to them about me, I thought, mortification creeping up my spine. Maybe He’s telling them awful things, things they’re too polite to mention.
More silence.
They’re embarrassed, I decided. Too nice to give up and move on to someone else.
Just as I was about to call the whole thing off, a girl blurted, “I see a picture of a wheelbarrow next to a windmill.” I turned to see her squinting off into the distance, as if God were projecting this picture onto the kitchen door. “I think it means that you’re carrying a heavy load, but that you’re close to a place where things will go easier for you.”
I smiled at her, unsure of how to respond. A wheelbarrow. Okay.
The blond
guy piped up from his perch on the edge of the couch. “I keep hearing that Billy Joel song Just The Way You Are,” he said. “It seems like something Jesus would say to you; that he doesn’t need you to change before coming to him—that he wants you just the way you are.”
He’s kind of cute, I thought, nodding. A little mushy, though—Jesus singing Billy Joel? Please.
Next to him, a guy with a Russian accent spoke up. “I see a fish that’s all different colors—all of them very, very bright. It’s like you’re that fish. You’re going to attract attention everywhere you go, and you don’t know yet what to do with it. I think maybe you’re supposed to keep swimming.”
Pascha jumped in. She looked like she was going to burst with excitement; my eyes widened as I wondered what God had told her. “I’m getting this picture of a crown,” she began. “It’s a false crown, like something an evil leader or false teacher would wear, and you’re smashing it to pieces. I feel like God is going to use you to smash new age lies; that he will use you to bring people the truth about Jesus.”
Whatever, I thought. Suddenly, I was ready for this game to be over. This antispirituality stuff among the Jesus people was getting on my nerves.
Then Paul chimed in, “I’m getting a picture of you being launched out of a cannon,” he said. “It’s like right now you’re waiting to be launched, but when it happens, it’s going to be huge.” I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, this idea of sitting around waiting to be shot out into the world. I needed some sort of “launch” to get my life going, and it did feel like I was sitting around, waiting for something to happen.
After a few more moments of silence, Paul called my Newcomer Prayer to an end: “Lord, we thank you for these words. Thank you that you speak to us and through us. We ask that you protect and nurture any seeds that were planted here and we claim your best for Trish and her life. And anything that was not you, God, we ask that you wipe it away. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”