You've heard the trope. "I'm taking / claiming sanctuary / asylum here within the church house".
During the previous US President's administration, a number of illegal immigrants took this approach (as a last resort to being deported).
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When I was in high school, my family faithfully attended First Baptist Church Jackson. At this time (1989-1990), the church had just completed a massive Fellowship Hall / Sunday School classroom addition. This was a multi-story building (5-6 floors) which served to (architecturally) completely fill the urban city block (immediately to the east of the State Capitol Building) the church resided within in downtown Jackson.
Oftentimes, on a typical Sunday morning, I would drop my parents off at one of the church's many covered drop offs prior to parking their car (in light of us inevitably running late). We lived in Madison (in the country!) in an average-sized ranch house, therefore the drive to our downtown Jackson church was a very repetitive (boring) +/-25 minutes.
All of my peers that were also - for the most part - faithful churchgoers (11th / 12th grade Sunday morning) went to other schools than I did. And these schools weren't just different than my own, they were far better (academically superior) than my own.
I especially loathed arriving on-time to Sunday School and having to endure the dead space prior to the class starting. For everyone knew each other from their school(s), therefore in spite of their late-night grogginess, small talk came easily for them.
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At this time, I knew I wanted to pursue architecture as a college degree / career field. As such, this interest empowered me to explore buildings with an "eye for design" / out of curiosity.
Not long after the massive Sunday School / Fellowship Hall addition was occupied by the church, I took the time to explore it from stem to stern.
This afforded me the opportunity to find some "off the beaten path" one-hole restrooms that were perfectly suited to steal away to.
And this became my cathartic routine. Every Sunday morning. Prior to Sunday School.
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This was me rebelling against a situation that I felt powerless against. Having to repetitively face the uncomfortableness of Sunday morning (high school Sunday School) stood in stark contrast to my budding desire (as a new believer) to learn about God's word / be at church. For I had no doubt that I had been positioned well, particularly at that age, to reap tremendous spiritual growth via First Baptist Church Jackson.
To expound on that word powerless, let me offer up the following.
My parents were attending this church, at this particular time, due to their fierce loyalty to it. This loyalty was borne out of the love and care they experienced whilst being ushered / invited into this fold as a (very) young (not at all locally sourced) couple. From there, just a few years passed before my dad found himself as an (very young) ordained deacon. This too solidified their place amongst the Protestant throngs within this thriving '80s mega-church.
I wasn't about to complicate the situation / rock the boat by voicing my frustration related to one dumb weekly hour of Sunday School.
Yet...
each rebellious sexual-fantasy-fueled act seeded my Sabbath day conscious with immense guilt. And even though I would regularly find myself consistently tardy to my assigned high school Sunday School class (way up on the 5th floor), no one seemed to notice.
For I was Rob Turner. That effeminite-acting (gay?) kid from Madison who went to that outlier private school.
Who sincerely gave a shit about him anyway? Especially amongst the dressed-to-the-nines northeast Jackson throngs.
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Fast forward to today.
Angie and I attend Lakeside Pres. Of note, for almost four years, I facilitated an in-person Samson Society meeting there on Saturday mornings. It was a wonderful opportunity that's imbued a tremendous amount of loyalty of my own towards that church. The facilities at Lakeside Pres are lackluster. Hence, there's simply not enough church building to properly accommodate the church body (I am keenly aware of this due to my background as an architect). It's the exact opposite of what Angie and I experienced at First Baptist Church Jackson (growing up) where space was plentiful / thoughtfully designed to accommodate / serve that '80s church.
I really enjoy Bible study. Sunday School is one of my favorite ways to delve in. The class we've been attending for a few years now found its origin as an offshoot of a much larger class. Today, this class is bursting at the seams (considering the room we're assigned to). Plus, it's simply starting to feel stale / repetitive in spite of the quality teaching / friendliness of the group (Rob's blue ocean itch).
Yesterday, Angie and I agreed to take a bit of a sabbatical from Sunday School (only) in order to think through and pray about where God might lead us next relative to Sunday morning Bible study.
Within this class, we're very well known. And mostly due to how unabashed I am at providing commentary / asking questions. Therefore, it's become a very, very comfortable experience amongst very familiar friends.
But, it's important to remember that God is good and effectively orchestral.
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I workout at the Y twice weekly. The facility I frequent typically hosts middle to Medicare-aged folks (relatively speaking). Over the past few years though, there've been a handful of high school boys who've become faithful gymgoers. This generational variety has been welcomed wholeheartedly.
Presently, one young man has been very regular for close to one year.
I introduced myself to him late last year, and from there, it's been delightful to know him on a first name basis (though we rarely speak if he's there with his posse).
A month or so ago, I overheard that he was slated to move away, and I confirmed this with him last week.
My heart hurts for him. I can't imagine having had to start fresh as an 11th grader in an entirely new place / setting. Particularly where he knows no one.
I had him try on my workout gloves this past Saturday in hopes that my size would fit him too. It didn't.
I have two unboxed pairs (my size) at the house, and I'd hoped to gift him one - as a wellwisher gift.
Unfortunately, this particular glove is no longer made, therefore purchasing a smaller size - for him - is off the table.
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Powerless is a feeling that I keenly sympathize with. In fact, I'd argue it's a bit of a theme of my life that's rooted squarely in my teenage years.
Nonetheless, God is good and effectively orchestral. I believe that with all my heart.
Feeling powerless doesn't mean we necessarily are. God is good and effectively orchestral. He is always advocating on our behalf as his adopted sons.
That being said, especially whilst considering our inner child, those negative feelings can effectively disrupt / hijack our intentions if opportunity presents itself.
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