Letter to an Athiest

While doing an image search this morning, a blog titled "Why Missionaries are Extremely Destructive" caught my eye.  It was a rant from an atheist against Christian missionaries and the indoctrination of children by the Church.  I occasionally read what people are saying on this topic because I used to spout such things, and because it challenges me to draw deeper into my understanding of faith and service. 

Here is my reply:


Dear sir,

I am sorry that you feel so betrayed by your Christian upbringing.  For any acts of unlove or judgement or hypocrisy you saw in these tender years, I apologize.  We humans fall so achingly short of God's beautiful, compelling standard.  We are to be light and salt and end up being clouds and lemons sometimes.   


You feel that what I am doing to my children is indoctrination.  I suppose I am guilty.  This faith flows from every fiber of my being, spills from my heart, leaks out through my smile, excites me so much that I have to share a verse or a story or a song with my kids because they're my favorite people in the world. 

Do you have a passion for something?  Do you share it with your children?  Do you teach them the rules of football or an appreciation of music or how to hunt a deer?   When they come of age, they will be free to choose to love or hate football or music or hunting or God.  Just like you.  In the meantime, they are with us constantly and we are bound to rally around something.

You say missionaries fly to other countries and tell people what to believe; that they shower them with gifts and then (your favorite word) indoctrinate the poor, helpless, uneducated souls.  Have you met a missionary lately?  On the whole, they are the most humble, sacrificial people I've ever met.  Long term missionaries give up almost every conceivable comfort to live as an alien in another culture, and they are promised nothing in return.  Have you felt an irresistible urge to go and do something?  Did you do it?  What kind of sacrifice did it require?

You criticize short-term missions, highlighting the one particular day they spend on recreation.  When did you use most of your vacation to visit a poor part of the world?  I've talked to many who have...I've never heard one of them describe it as a vacation.  No, their eyes glisten and their voices crack, and they will always be haunted by the need and humbled by their blessings, and I'm pretty sure their bank accounts are heavy with fingerprints of compassion.  To me, this means a lot more than writing an occasional check to United Way, as good as their work may be.

Now let's consider the "path of destruction" left by the missionaries.  A kind, energetic person from a prosperous country comes to me, offers me clothing, food, a shoebox of gifts for my kids, a Bible in my language, teaches me a song, makes me feel special, and then leaves after a couple of weeks, I would feel quite blessed, not ransacked, by the experience.  Lovely people have breezed in and out of my life and left a sweet impression.  In fact, their fragrance drew me into a faith that has changed my life.

The first part of my own life was spent being against Christians, and I would have left some encouraging comment on your blog back then.  But do you have any idea how much joy there is in being for something so big and powerful as faith in Jesus Christ?  If you could only have a fresh taste of it, a renovation in the architecture of your philosophies, I believe you would grasp and hold this Love, which is unlike any you have known.

Admittedly, I am more mystic than theologian or scholar, and I am not here to defend my theology.  I am instead compelled to speak from the heart; a heart that is broken and spilled out for people who suffer both from physical need and from spiritual desolation. 

Thank you for challenging me to evaluate my motives for serving and to recognize that we as humans are cursed with a bent toward selfish gain. I do, however, think your anger could be directed in much more productive directions, like toward warlords who deny their people available nutrition, or toward child traffickers or slave-owners, instead of people who are trying in their small way to help, based on a Spirit within them Who abhors apathy as much as hypocrisy.

Spit and Polish Veneer

I once had a piano student write her name in the dust on my piano.  That proves how much I hate to dust.  I nearly grumble at sunny days when the light presumes to cast it's filmy glow on my furniture.  My neighbor girl said our house smells like dusty perfume.  I told her, "I'm not sure about the perfume part." 

Really, dusting is so low on my priority list that it has to jump up and down and wave wildly to get done.  Or my mother-in-law has to visit.  Or I have to host a party of not-that-close friends.   

Do not blame my mother for this.  She keeps a very tidy home and did her best to teach me how to use a dust cloth.  Blame the 1000 other things I'd rather be doing.  Like blogging...or staring out the window.

Christ said of the Pharisees in Matthew 23,

They talk a good line, but they don't live it. They don't take it into their hearts and live it out in their behavior. It's all spit-and-polish veneer. 

For some reason, reading this makes me think of dust.  More accurately, how my dusty house reperesents a change in me. 

I spent the first part of my life with a spit and polish veneer.  If I got straight As, if people could see how talented I was,  if I could get everything just right, I would feel worthy.  I was loud about my victories and quiet about my vices.  Actually, I tried to pretend my vices weren't there, or didn't matter.  "Sin" was an antiquated, religious word that just ladened people with unneccessary baggage.


When I accepted the truth of Christ in college, it wasn't because I suddenly became aware of my sin.  For me, believing in God answered deep-seated questions. I understood on a theoretical level that the gap between God and me existed because of sin, and that Christ bridged the gap, but I had not truly embraced my own contribution to that gap.


Scour the insides, and the gleaming surface will mean something. -Jesus' plea to the Pharisees, Matthew 23 


Years of God's grip on my heart has squeezed out the truth.  I am dust.  I am the "chief of sinners."  Well, Paul called himself that, and so did John Bunyan, but I beg to differ.  It is I. 


God has a beautiful, compelling standard for pure loving and righteous living, and I fall woefully short. 

Example 1:  Yesterday, one of my piano students was accompanied by her grandma, who had never been to my home, and all I could think was, "Oh no, my house is a mess.  What will she think?"  I was relieved when she didn't come inside.   


Examples 2-4:  I say nice things to people even while my mind is judging them.  Christ called those kind of words a "clashing cymbal." 


I pray that God uses me as an instrument of His love and then fret over some note I played wrong on the piano at a concert. 


I ask God for wisdom in parenting and then let the kids watch 3 hours of T.V. 

Examples 5-a million:  meet me for coffee and we'll talk.


The funny thing is...and this faith is full of strange twists...that the more I face and confess, rather than preen and polish, the more usable I am in God's kingdom; the more His power can scour. 

Thankfully, grace, that thing we call amazing, is a transparent covering over all our foibles and faults... not unlike a layer of dust.

Change of Scenery

In the course of a few hours, I traveled from curt wink and “you betcha” to slow smile and “how y'all doin'." The difference between Minnesota nice and North Carolina southern hospitality is wide as the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the comfort I find in being courteous-friendly at home suddenly feels “aloof” when compared to the “never-met-a-stranger” mentality of the south.

At home, I would never stop a stranger on the street to tell him it's my birthday and wouldn't he like to know who all is here visiting me? In North Carolina, my Great Uncle Wilburn told anyone who caught his eye that he just turned 90 and all these nice people standing here looking slightly uncomfortable on the sidewalk are here from Minnesota and Florida, and by golly, they kept the visit a surprise!

In Minnesota, our stories are fairly short, we drop details here and there, too worried we might bore our company. At least I do. After 3 days in NC, I know all about Second Cousin Linda's local friends and a lot about the ones from Texas. The stories were served with piles of wonderful food, steaming cups of coffee, good-natured teasing, and lots of drawl. No one was in a hurry, and it reminded me that the only time God was in a hurry was when He was portrayed as the prodigal's father, running to meet his long-lost son at the end of the lane.

I loved this time with my Southern kin. It wore me out and filled me up all at once. At home, there is a lot of space to go our separate directions, but here, in a little country cabin, squeezed together in the way that fosters community, we enjoyed familial love, the kind Dolly Parton used to sing about with banjo and fiddle and a side of grits.

I imagine Jesus would approve of this style of fellowship...up close, loving, interested. It was like He was there in the room with us, chewing a caramel by the fire and nodding as Cousin Linda gave him credit for healing the mass on her pancreas, and winking affirmation that yes, indeed, He made sure He answered her prayers for parking spots when we went downtown. I felt Him close as I took an early morning run through the autumn-tinted hills, and I saw His light shine through Great Aunt Betsy's eyes when she touched my arm and said, “Now, Jill, you are doin' an excellent job raisin' those children a yours.”

I'm home now. Monday morning. With new recipes and some stories to tell.  Thanks, y'all.