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PITTSBURG —
It’s hard to be religious when certain people are never incinerated by bolts of lightning. — Bill Watterson (Calvin and Hobbes)
A traveling, independent street preacher made his annual two-day visit to the oval at Pitt State last week to exercise his first amendment rights. As far as I could see, his God is pretty much a judgmental, angry, wrathful one who’s just waiting around to catch people (especially young people) sinning so he can pack them off to the fires of hell.
As you might expect, he had little trouble drawing a crowd, as he spouted taunts and Judgment Day reckonings, Bible in hand, at college students as they passed him by. Which, of course, is why he does it. It got pretty tense at times, which is why Campus Police were on hand to see that no one got so torqued by his outrageous, Fred Phelps-style, baiting that they offered him a cold one — a nice Hawaiian Punch.
Walking back to my office after teaching class at Yates Hall on Thursday, I spied two, scrubbed, open-faced Mormon missionaries who were also exercising their first amendment rights. They were sitting quietly on the edge of a planter of blooming flowers, 50 yards or so away from the shouting preacher, with a sign that said simply, “God Loves You.” From time to time a student or two would walk up to talk.
I stopped, visited with them a bit, and shared that their approach reminded me of a story a Joplin minister told at the funeral of my friend, Danny Joe. Danny Joe, who was an addiction counselor, would bring addicts, new in 12-Step recovery, to church with him. One day after church, the minister asked one of them what she thought of his sermon.
“Do you want the truth?” the scruffily dressed and tattooed young woman replied. “Why yes, of course,” the minister said. “You talked a whole lot about sin in your sermon,” she said. “I already know a lot about sin. I came here to learn about forgiveness.”
Throughout the day I found myself reflecting on a statement by religious writer Karen Armstrong: “There are some forms of religion that are bad; just as there’s bad cooking or bad art or bad sex, you have bad religion too.”
Thursday evening, I was challenged by a tight-lipped, serious woman outside the room where I’d been teaching alcohol education class, “I heard some laughing in there. I was born into an alcoholic family, and let me tell you, alcoholism is no laughing matter! I don’t know even how I made it … other than it must have been God looking out for me. I have a great connection to God. But I don’t go to church. In fact, it’s my experience that a lot of people who go to church are hypocrites.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “You’re right … but there’s also lot that aren’t.” She paused, thought about it, and agreed … but nonetheless went on to tell me some of her wounding church experiences growing up with a Baptist preacher grandfather.
I shared with her a story about Arlo Guthrie, who, year’s ago, purchased the decantified Episcopal Church that was featured in his classic song “Alice’s Restaurant.”
Part of the building became his nonprofit Guthrie Center, which serves as headquarters for local volunteers who help out in the community. The Great Barrington, Mass., center is also a place for concerts, retreats and silent prayer.
The second day that he was in the old church, the local preacher came by. Here’s how Arlo tells the story of what happened next:
I was mopping up the floor. It was in the evening and the lights were on. There was a glass door, so I couldn’t run away and pretend I wasn’t there. So, I let him in. He introduced himself and said, “Arlo, I just came by to find out what you’re doing here.”
I said, “I’m not doing much. I’m just mopping up the floor.”
He said, “No, Arlo. What are you doing here? What kind of church is this?”
And I didn’t know what to say. So, I just said, “Well, it’s a Bring Your Own God church.”
And he didn’t really want to smile, but he couldn’t stop it from spreading across his face. He said, “I’ve never heard of a church like that.”
I said, “Well you know, when you think about it, every church is like that. Every synagogue and temple and mosque. Every hill with a view, every sunset … you’re bringing yourself. You’re bringing your own version of reality, whatever you look at.”
The preacher said, “Well, I guess you’re right,” and we left it at that.
By the story’s end, the woman wore a smile — and such a look of gentleness and appreciation that you would scarcely have recognized her as the person who challenged me a few minutes earlier.
I descended the stairs, exited the south doors of Kelce Hall, and walked east toward a purple rose sunset, marveling at how sharing the simplest of life’s stories can bring forth such instant transformation of the heart.
J.T. Knoll is a writer, speaker and prevention and wellness coordinator at Pittsburg State University. He also operates Knoll Training, Consulting & Counseling Services in Pittsburg. He can be reached at 231-0499 or jtknoll@swbell.net
It’s hard to be religious when certain people are never incinerated by bolts of lightning. — Bill Watterson (Calvin and Hobbes)
A traveling, independent street preacher made his annual two-day visit to the oval at Pitt State last week to exercise his first amendment rights. As far as I could see, his God is pretty much a judgmental, angry, wrathful one who’s just waiting around to catch people (especially young people) sinning so he can pack them off to the fires of hell.
As you might expect, he had little trouble drawing a crowd, as he spouted taunts and Judgment Day reckonings, Bible in hand, at college students as they passed him by. Which, of course, is why he does it. It got pretty tense at times, which is why Campus Police were on hand to see that no one got so torqued by his outrageous, Fred Phelps-style, baiting that they offered him a cold one — a nice Hawaiian Punch.
Walking back to my office after teaching class at Yates Hall on Thursday, I spied two, scrubbed, open-faced Mormon missionaries who were also exercising their first amendment rights. They were sitting quietly on the edge of a planter of blooming flowers, 50 yards or so away from the shouting preacher, with a sign that said simply, “God Loves You.” From time to time a student or two would walk up to talk.
I stopped, visited with them a bit, and shared that their approach reminded me of a story a Joplin minister told at the funeral of my friend, Danny Joe. Danny Joe, who was an addiction counselor, would bring addicts, new in 12-Step recovery, to church with him. One day after church, the minister asked one of them what she thought of his sermon.
“Do you want the truth?” the scruffily dressed and tattooed young woman replied. “Why yes, of course,” the minister said. “You talked a whole lot about sin in your sermon,” she said. “I already know a lot about sin. I came here to learn about forgiveness.”
Throughout the day I found myself reflecting on a statement by religious writer Karen Armstrong: “There are some forms of religion that are bad; just as there’s bad cooking or bad art or bad sex, you have bad religion too.”
Thursday evening, I was challenged by a tight-lipped, serious woman outside the room where I’d been teaching alcohol education class, “I heard some laughing in there. I was born into an alcoholic family, and let me tell you, alcoholism is no laughing matter! I don’t know even how I made it … other than it must have been God looking out for me. I have a great connection to God. But I don’t go to church. In fact, it’s my experience that a lot of people who go to church are hypocrites.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “You’re right … but there’s also lot that aren’t.” She paused, thought about it, and agreed … but nonetheless went on to tell me some of her wounding church experiences growing up with a Baptist preacher grandfather.
I shared with her a story about Arlo Guthrie, who, year’s ago, purchased the decantified Episcopal Church that was featured in his classic song “Alice’s Restaurant.”
Part of the building became his nonprofit Guthrie Center, which serves as headquarters for local volunteers who help out in the community. The Great Barrington, Mass., center is also a place for concerts, retreats and silent prayer.
The second day that he was in the old church, the local preacher came by. Here’s how Arlo tells the story of what happened next:
I was mopping up the floor. It was in the evening and the lights were on. There was a glass door, so I couldn’t run away and pretend I wasn’t there. So, I let him in. He introduced himself and said, “Arlo, I just came by to find out what you’re doing here.”
I said, “I’m not doing much. I’m just mopping up the floor.”
He said, “No, Arlo. What are you doing here? What kind of church is this?”
And I didn’t know what to say. So, I just said, “Well, it’s a Bring Your Own God church.”
And he didn’t really want to smile, but he couldn’t stop it from spreading across his face. He said, “I’ve never heard of a church like that.”
I said, “Well you know, when you think about it, every church is like that. Every synagogue and temple and mosque. Every hill with a view, every sunset … you’re bringing yourself. You’re bringing your own version of reality, whatever you look at.”
The preacher said, “Well, I guess you’re right,” and we left it at that.
By the story’s end, the woman wore a smile — and such a look of gentleness and appreciation that you would scarcely have recognized her as the person who challenged me a few minutes earlier.
I descended the stairs, exited the south doors of Kelce Hall, and walked east toward a purple rose sunset, marveling at how sharing the simplest of life’s stories can bring forth such instant transformation of the heart.
J.T. Knoll is a writer, speaker and prevention and wellness coordinator at Pittsburg State University. He also operates Knoll Training, Consulting & Counseling Services in Pittsburg. He can be reached at 231-0499 or jtknoll@swbell.net
