Prodigal Magazine

I remember, as a sophomore, having this hilarious conversation with a friend about sex.  It was one of those grey winter afternoons and we were parked outside of the Christian high school the both of us attended.  Part of what made it funny was the fact we were both virgins so conversations like this were sort of an indirect testing ground for guys to ascertain if the thoughts fueled on by your raging hormones were either normal or an indication of incurable sexual deviancy. Being good Baptists, of course, our entire talk was framed within the context of our assumed marriages. “On my honeymoon I’m going to burry my head right between my wife’s breasts and go crazy,” my friend said cupping a set of imaginary double D’s that he jiggled slightly to enhance the realism.  Then we broke out into a fit of laughter as he lowered his head and illustrated the “motor boat” technique recently made famous by Vince Vaughn in the film Wedding Crashers.  I don’t know how the discussion started or anything beyond that moment, but I do know “doing the nasty” was not a subject you could talk about within the walls our school. 

Just ask our beloved science teacher who was fired by the administration for making mention of a woman’s period during class. Some little punk in the eighth grade – a pastor’s kid no less – went home and complained to his dad who then raised an unnecessary fuss over the issue. And God have mercy should you actually engaged in pre-marital sex (not that I’m a proponent). I’d tell you to ask one couple that got caught what happens, but no one ever heard from them again after they were forced to confess their sin to the entire student body right before we witnessed their permanent expulsions handed out by the principle. My memories probably sound a tad harsh, but this was what it meant to grow up in a born-again Fundamentalist sub-culture.

These were the stories, and many others like them, dredged up as I read Matthew Paul Turner’s recent book Churched: One Kid’s Journey Towards God Despite A Holy Mess (Waterbook Press). When I first heard about Churched from Turner’s blog Jesus Needs New PR, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it especially given our similar upbringings and shared interest in humor. Early reviews were even hailing it as the Christian’s answer to famous humorist, and my favorite writer, David Sedaris, well, other than Turner being straight anyway. By the time of its eventual release, I was frothing at the mouth, anxious to read the biting treatment Turner would give to a group of people responsible for causing the large dent in my world view that I still find myself hammering out sixteen years later.  Unfortunately, however, after reading the entire book in about seven and a half minutes, I was disappointed.

Turner’s cutesy memories left me unsatisfied, eventually causing me to be openly critical of Churched to my wife and friends. I wanted to belly laugh till my sides hurt from at the words of the first “bona fide humorist” in the today’s modern church. I wanted prose that was vividly entertaining, while at the same time serving as a sharp satirical indictment of anyone carrying a King James Bible as if it were a cell phone or sporting a degree from Bob Jones University.  My expectations were higher for a guy who authored a blog that regularly poked fun at Joel Osteen’s extravagant lifestyle, ridiculous church marketing ploys, along with the a number of other religious foibles done in the name of Christ. To someone like me, who can’t even spell the word “Fundamentalist” without emphasizing the letters “F – U”, Churched was lukewarm at best and I proverbially spewed it out of my mouth.  But after a few weeks, however, it occurred to me what I actually was looking for.

What I really wanted from Turner was for him to take away all the years of damage done to my faith in the name of the very savior who said He loved me. I hoped the book would provide a sort of revenge for injustices like the pastor who dragged my reputation through the mud after I broke off my engagement with his niece, or the administration that down-played improprieties within our Christian school that eventually resulted in the revelation of a heinous secret that seriously hurt members of my family and many others. In Turner’s words I had hoped to find the validation for my anger at right-wing Fundamentalism allowing me to symbolically crucify every last one of them. Understanding my emotionally misguided perspective led me to see Churched in a new light. Now Turner’s book felt more like the arm of a fellow survivor around my shoulder rather than a bland attempt at being funny for God.

Within the premise that comedy cannot exist without the preceding element of tragedy, I could now find the humor in Turner’s stories such as questioning the morality in eating a cookie made in the shape and likeness of Jesus, or the earnest prayers that the coming Apocalypse prophesied in Revelations would hold off long enough for the author to experience sex. I must have said that exact prayer eight billion times myself, and so, to hear Turner mention it had me rolling on the floor. But there was an even greater relief felt when the subject turned to the Fundamentalists perspective on hell.

From an early age I had professed my belief in eternal life through the redemptive actions of Christ’s death and resurrection. And like Turner, I must have traveled the Romans Road more times than a mailman after 30 years on the same delivery route, confessing my worthlessness over and over hoping with each admission my fear of hell would disappear. Even today when I imagine the unbearable pain and loneliness from an eternity in damnation, my stomach tightens and I break out in a cold sweat. This is no exaggeration either. It has been pounded through my skull for years that once you’re “saved” you will no longer fear hell, so why do I still feel afraid?  Is it because of unbelief or a fear I can’t let go of.  Its sounds a little weird, but when you read the story of how Turner’s zealous, but short-sighted, Sunday school teacher tried to recreate the effects of hell in a darkened room with a lighter and a Barbie doll, you will get a sense of the kinds of things we children of Fundamentalism were exposed to.  Think Guantanamo, but with prizes for brining a friend each Sunday.

My thoughts on Churched are completely opposite from those I held after first reading it. Although Turner, who has authored several books as well as being a former editor CCM Magazine is no David Sedaris, his prose is beyond adequate in portraying the innocence, confusion and hurt he endured as a boy muddling his way through the issues of faith. In the end, Turner shares his personal apprehension of being involved in today’s church as a result of these experiences, while at the same time alluding to how being part of the body of imperfect believers has helped lower his guard. Yet, one more consequence of Fundamentalist belief structure I can empathize with.  Churched is an important work dealing with a hard-line Christian sub-culture that has been the source of anger, distrust, and resentment for many of us like Turner who recounts the mangled foundation of his faith the only way I believe one can – humorously.