“Sweet-hearted, funny, and honest, Churched had me reminiscing
about the little boy searching for God that I once was…”
—Dan Merchant, writerdirector of Lord, Save Us From Your
Followers
Churched details an American boy’s experiences growing up
in a culture where men weren’t allowed to let their hair grow to
touch their ears “an abomination!”, women wouldn’t have been
caught dead in a pair of pants unless swimming, and the pastor
couldn’t preach a sermon without a healthy dose of hellfir
內容簡介：
Churched details an American boy’s experiences
來源：香港大書城megBookStore,http://www.megbook.com.hk growing up in a culture where men weren’t allowed to let their hair
grow to touch their ears “an abomination!”, women wouldn’t have
been caught dead in a pair of pants unless swimming, and the
pastor couldn’t preach a sermon without a healthy dose of hellfire
and brimstone.
In 1978, when Matthew Paul Turner was five, his family
became sold-out members of an independent Baptist church, joining
without any firsthand knowledge of Christian fundamentalism, only
his parents’ sincere desire to follow God. In Churched, with
wit and careful observation, he reveals the tenderness and grace
that managed to seep through the cracks and a young man who, amidst
the chaotic mess of religion, falls in love with Jesus.
關於作者：
Matthew Paul Turneris a blogger, speaker, and
author of Hear No Evil, The Coffeehouse
Gospel,the What You Didn’t Learn from Your Parents About…
series, and several other popular books.Matthew,his
wife, Jessica, andhis son, Elias, live in Nashville,
Tennessee. He can be found online at
www.matthewpaulturner.com.
內容試閱：
Prelude
The man’s shoulder was inked with a tattoo of Jesus breathing
fire out of his mouth, which I concluded to mean one of two things:
the man was going to offer me the opportunity to be born again in
the hot fumes of a firebreathing Messiah or he planned to kill me
and make it necessary for me to be born again.
Like any “good” American, I had already been born again–since
childhood I’d pretty much been on shuffle and repeat–but I still
feared either scenario. I couldn’t stop looking at the man’s
shoulder. His Jesus was green and faded, and because of a small
mole, it appeared as though my Lord and Savior had a foreign object
dangling from one nostril. Then the man looked at me from the
opposite end of the sauna, tightened the towel around his waist,
and said, “How are you, man? My name is Jim.”
I didn’t say anything at first. His question sort of paralyzed
me. Would he pull a small Gideons Bible from somewhere underneath
that towel, look up a bunch of frightful verses in Romans, and then
ask me to get down on my hands and knees and repeat after him? I
wouldn’t do it. Not in a sauna. Not just wearing a towel. Besides,
I had sworn off being born again again in this decade.
“Hello.” I spoke carefully, still not ready to trust a person who
had a flaming-tongue Messiah on an appendage. “My name is
Matthew.”
“Good to meet you, Matthew. Man, I don’t know about you, but I
have had the craziest day.” Jim stared at me as he talked. I think
he was making sure I paid attention. “I didn’t even work out today.
I just came right to the sauna.” He stretched his arms and then
massaged his left shoulder, pinching Jesus’s face with his
fingers.
I live in Nashville. The stereotypes about this town are true.
Everyone is or has been a musician at some point in their life.
Most of us who live here will carry on long conversations with
people we don’t know. When it rains here, the majority of us forget
how to drive and become fully capable of killing ourselves. And
everyone here has asked Jesus into their hearts at least once, if
only to fulfill the requirements for getting a Tennessee driver’s
license.
But if I was going to stay true to the Nashville way, I would
have to ask Jim to explain his “crazy day.” That’s not considered
nosey in this town. He fully expected me to ask.
“What’s been so crazy about your day?”
“Oh, just work, man. One of those days when you wonder whether or
not you should have gotten out of bed.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m an associate pastor at the Pentecostal church just up the
road.”
“The apostolic one?”
“Oh, you know it?”
“It’s sort of difficult to miss.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. And it’s about to get bigger. The
deacon board just approved a ten-million-dollar expansion. Some of
the members think we need a new connection center. I think it’s a
waste of money, but what are you going to do? So Matthew, are you a
Christian?”
“I love Jesus. Does that count?”
Jim laughed as though he understood what I meant. At the time, I
was going through a period when I didn’t like telling people I was
a Christian. I didn’t want them to be scared of me, fearing that I
would invite them to church or a “rock concert” starring Kutless.
And I didn’t want them blaming me for the war in Iraq. Simply
telling people I loved Jesus seemed like a cop-out to some of my
friends, but often it kept me from having to own the sins of
evangelicals in places like Kansas or South Carolina or two miles
up the road at Jim’s Pentecostal church.
“You know, man,” said Jim, “I moved here a couple of years ago
from Connecticut, where it’s–in my opinion–spiritually dry. I
thought moving here would make being a Christian a whole lot
easier.”
“Easier? Why did you think that?”
“Because Nashville is the Christian Mecca.” Jim made air quotes
with his fingers when he said, “Christian Mecca.” I’m sure he did
it so I wouldn’t assume he believed Nashville was Mecca or that
Mecca was Christian.
Among Christians, air quotes are a form of contextualization. I’m
partial to using them myself, mostly because they prevent somebody
from taking a potentially rash or exaggerated statement and using
it against me. “Wait just a minute,” I can say to my antagonist. “I
totally threw air quotes around the words big fat loser when
describing the pastor. That clears me, man. I’m clean.”
While they’re not biblical, air quotes seem to sanctify insults
and debatable theology like baptismal water sanctifies a baby’s
forehead.
But I understood Jim’s point. While I’m quite sure religious
people in places like Chicago and Detroit don’t kneel southward
when they say prayers to Jesus, I have met a good number of
vacationers who come to Nashville because this city is a big ol’
John Deere buckle in the Bible Belt.
“Seriously, think about it, Matthew. Do you know of any other
city in America better known for its fear of God?” Jim wiped sweat
off his brow. “I don’t think I do.”
I thought for a second. “I hear Colorado Springs is rather
fearful.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But I doubt it’s Nashville. I’ve been told
this town has more churches per capita than any other city in
America.” Jim nodded. “Honest-to-God truth, Matthew, that’s what
I’ve been told by a number of people, and I can believe it.”
I believed it too. No doubt we have a lot of churches in this
town. But since I’ve heard the same statistic used in reference to
Dallas, Birmingham, and Orlando, I’m not sure it’s scientific. But
scientific matters don’t hold much weight in Christian cultural
claims, so it probably wouldn’t count even if proven.
Even if Nashville doesn’t lead with the most churches, I’ve
always said that one of this city’s chief exports is Jesus. God’s
only Son gets shipped, bused, couriered, radioed, televised, faxed,
e-mailed, and, if need be, dropped like a bomb from twenty thousand
feet in places all over the world because of what happens here in
Nashville. In many ways, we are God’s command center. His Pentagon.
His newer Jerusalem.
With a push of a button, we can have a million Bibles dropped in
a remote location in China. With a phone call or two, we can get a
person carrying some very good news to show up on your doorstep,
like Publishers Clearing House. The only catch is, you have to die
before you’re able to afford that mansion you’ve always dreamed
of.
Jim and I walked out of the sauna to cool off. He sat on one of
the benches, and I went over to the water fountain.
“So tell me why you thought moving to Nashville would make it
easier to be a Christian,” I said.
He laughed. “Because Christians are everywhere. I thought it
would be amazing to be in a city where Jesus is as much a part of
the culture as Dolly and Cracker Barrel.”
I laughed. “Okay, I get that. I’ve probably been there at some
point in my life.”
“I also thought it would make being a pastor a lot easier. I
mean, back home I would never have had this kind of conversation
with somebody at the gym. Here, it happens every time I work out.
It’s almost annoying. Sometimes it feels like we’re playing church.
It’s difficult to explain.”
“But I understand what you’re saying.”
I’d been looking for a way to ask about the tattoo, but with no
open window, I just blurted, “Jim, you have to tell me the deal
with the tattoo.”
“You mean you don’t like it?” He laughed. “Man, I was young. I
guess it was my way of sharing the truth about Jesus without having
to say anything.”
“And that truth would be what? That Jesus is a flamethrower?
Puff, the Magic Dragon?”
“Dude, I was an idiot back then. Now, I’m embarrassed to go to a
public pool where people who don’t know me can see me without a
shirt. I’m scared to death somebody will take it seriously.”
“I kind of did. It’s one of the most awful tattoos I’ve ever
seen. I’d call that ‘doctor’–you know, the one who advertises on
107.5–and have that thing removed.”
I headed back to the sauna for another round. For a few minutes,
I sat there alone, thinking about my conversation with Jim.
I wasn’t a pastor, but I had been to church more times than I
could count, and I had lived in Nashville for a while, so I knew
something about what he felt. At first, this town feels like a shot
of faith in the arm.
When I first moved here, I thought it was energizing to be a part
of a community where you were odd if you didn’t believe in Jesus. I
felt at home. Even alive at times. But I started thinking about it
too much, which led me to wonder if I was just filling a role in a
Stepford-type reality.
Jim opened the sauna door, stepped inside, and sat down. He
didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either.
My mind wandered back to a service I attended at one of
Nashville’s largest churches a year or so after moving here. I
hadn’t really wanted to go, but a friend begged me. “It’s our
annual Harvest Festival on Sunday,” he told me. “You’ll love it.
Please come. God always shows up on Harvest Sunday.”
Against my ...
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