The twins were digging in the sand at the playground and I was standing nearby, sipping coffee. Behind me, two mothers were discussing a friend whose marriage was falling apart.
I helped my twins fill their buckets as the women swapped stories about all the ways their friend had screwed up her marriage.
I steadied the twins going down the mini-slide while the mommies agreed that "she was trying to keep him from leaving but it was too late." Even their husbands thought so. It was as simple as "connecting the dots."
I listened dispassionately, catching bits and pieces of their conversation as I played with my twins. I briefly wondered how the Woman Who Ruined Her Marriage would feel if she could hear her "friends" dissecting her failures like that. But then, something happened.
"So, you know," one of the women chirped cheerfully, "just keep praying for them!"
That stopped me cold. Until that moment, I thought I was overhearing your typical, playground Mommy gossip. The realization that it was actually the Christianized version, Sharing Prayer Requests, made me feel sort of sick.
Suddenly, I couldn't bear hearing another word. I started leading the twins to another area of the playground just as one of the women heaved a big sigh and asked her friend: "So, did I tell you I'm speaking at the pastors wives' retreat?"
I felt an immediate, hot flush of anger. I restrained myself from whipping around and giving them a piece of my mind. YOU CALL YOURSELVES CHRISTIANS?! FOR SHAME!
I held my tongue, but the anger surprised me. It was like an Anger Ambush.
I was angry at whatever church thought this woman was spiritually mature enough to speak at a retreat, I was angry at their casual dismissal of another woman's tragedy, I was angry at the whole, tangled mess of Christianity.
In that moment, I was ashamed to call myself a Christian because it meant sharing a name with those people.
I marched the twins to another side of the playground and began vigorously digging in the sand with them. A few sand castles later, the anger had slipped away, leaving me feeling hollow and achey with a trembly sort of sadness.
Because underneath the anger, there is pain. There is grief. That first, blazing instinct is self-protection–a lifting of the armor, a drawing of the sword. I have been so wounded by Christians that it is difficult not to see them as the enemy.
It is why even the smallest of "spiritual violations" make me wither up, withdraw, build higher, stronger walls around myself. And yet, although these walls keep me safe, they also keep out love. I can't lower my defenses. At least, not in a group setting.
This is why I'm no good at small groups or bunking up with ladies at a weekend Bible retreat. It's why I can't go to Christian writers' conferences or women's Bible Studies.
These groups are predicated upon the assumption that one will "share" during break-out sessions or during prayer time. I can fake it but I can't actually open myself up in any meaningful way.
I don't necessarily want to stay this way. I would like to be healed. But I'm just not ready for intimate church group settings. And I don't know if I ever will be.
Perhaps healing begins by realizing that my judgment of those playground moms was probably a bit unfair. I guessed at their motives based on a few snippets of conversation. I projected my own hurtful experience onto them.
I do think their manner of conversation was unkind but I also know that I am those people, too. I'm not better than they are. Not holier.
And yet, I still dare to call myself a Christian. For shame.
