I once scared the hell out of ninety-five high school students. Don’t worry, my boss loved it.
It happened at an event called Boycott Hell Night—held annually on Halloween—and my particular moment of fame came on its third anniversary. That year boasted a record turnout with over four hundred high school students showing up to a youth group event instead of, you know, doing something secular like trick-or-treating. I had been an intern at the church for over a year and had just started my sophomore year in college when my boss, the youth pastor, handed over the prestigious role of presenting the Boycott Hell message. It was a veritable dream come true.
My job: deliver a twenty-minute talk about hell, drudging up the scariest and hottest images I could imagine and employing the most manipulative techniques at my disposal. Like this (which I actually said out loud in a room full of human beings): “Imagine one night you and your friend are driving home from a party and you get into a car accident and both die. You’re a Christian, but you’ve never talked to your friend about Jesus. At the gates of heaven, Saint Peter lets you through but calls a demon to take your friend away, and they’ll spend eternity in hell. As your friend is dragged by the demon over the coals and toward the darkness, he turns back and screams, ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’”
My goal was to convince as many students as possible to accept Jesus into their hearts and thus save them from the aforementioned fires of hell. When my message concluded, if you combined the number of hands raised during the closing prayer with the number of cards turned in where the box “I got saved!” was checked, ninety-five students changed their eternal destiny that night.
I went home proud as a dove (like a peacock, but more spiritual). My peers and professors the next day endured no shortage of humble-bragging as I touted my 1-in-4 conversion ratio. Billy Graham had better watch his six.
An insufferable Christian from ages seventeen to twenty-seven, I’m embarrassed when I think back to moments like Boycott Hell Night. I refer to those days as being “oversaved,” a term I learned years ago that most readers won’t need explained. During that decade of my life, no conversation with me was safe. I could spin any topic into a segue about salvation.
For example, I’d sit at Starbucks and glance across the shop to see two people minding their own business while enjoying an over-roasted coffee. In my mind I would swear I heard the voice of God (perhaps not audibly, but in a way that I still described as “God told me”) prompting me to pester these innocent strangers about why they needed to know Jesus as their personal lord and savior. I did this regularly.
At restaurants, my friends cringed when the waiter came to take our order because they knew what came next. I had this routine where, once I’d politely introduced myself and said, “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger, no pickles, and an ice water—hold the ice,” I would follow up with, “Before you leave, I’d love to ask, is there anything I can pray for you about?” Now, to be fair, this question occasionally sparked a wonderful conversation where the server genuinely felt seen and loved, so it wasn’t the worst habit of my oversaved days. Yet, you can imagine how often my inquiry was met with eye rolls, polite annoyance, or back-of-kitchen mockery. To make matters worse, I would often leave my tip rolled up in a gospel tract, you know, just in case Daphne wanted to spend her smoke break traveling down the Romans Road.
Whether warning teenagers about the darkness and suffering awaiting their stubborn hearts, interrupting latte sippers to interrogate the status of their souls, or spinning a conversation about “Scrambled or sunny-side up?” to “Are you frazzled and want to give up?”, I never missed an opportunity to offer my gift of evangelism gratis.
As I look back on that season of my life, even more than the unsolicited proselytization or manipulative sermons, I deeply regret the general energy I exuded to my non-Christian family and friends. I couldn’t just relax in their presence, and I’m certain they felt it. They knew I believed deep in my bones that unless they accepted Jesus as their lord and savior, then the great beyond held torment for them. Even when I kept my mini sermons and Jesus jukes at bay, I still carried a general air of disappointment around people who didn’t share my beliefs.
It grieves me to think of how my self-righteous surety cast myriad judgy shadows on folks in my orbit. Waitresses didn’t need my gospel tract or spiritualized solicitations; they needed a good tip and a kind patron. Strangers at Starbucks didn’t need interrupting and inquisitions; they needed to be left alone. And my friends didn’t need my judgmental asides or pious attitude; they needed just another kid like them who was stumbling along, trying to figure life out, and who was there if they needed something.
Like Ebenezer Scrooge waking up from the longest sleep of his life, I am ashamed when I think back to how I thought about and treated people.
In the last chapter, we looked at one of the more deeply personal obstacles in becoming a progressive Christian, namely when our old self puts up a vicious fight and resists our new self’s faith exploration. I’ve discovered that soon after the new self wins a few battles and tries on an article or two of progressive Christian clothing, another inner obstacle emerges when we experience moments of horror upon reflection of how we used to think and act while entrenched in our more conservative ways of seeing the world.
“I can’t believe I used to believe that!” we tell our friends, mortified at some previous doctrine that, at the time, we held with deep conviction. Now the thought makes us cringe. The most common beliefs that cause this response include: the condemnation of LGBTQ individuals, the notion that God predestines people for hell, and the idea that women are inferior (and therefore ought to be subservient) to men. We might imagine a time machine taking us back to a Bible study where you ardently defended and masterfully articulated why science is wrong and God created the universe in six literal days. Or perhaps we dig up your journal from five years ago and it betrays earnest prayers for God to change your child’s sexual orientation. Or, like me, maybe you’re haunted by the memories of explaining—with a straight face—to your best friend why it “truly is loving for God to send them to hell if they don’t believe in Jesus.”
I remember when I thought all religions of the world (other than Christianity) were lies leading people to damnation. I remember arguing incessantly that the Bible is absolutely without error, a perfect articulation of God’s heart and mind. Now, if I try to get in touch with the person who believed like that, I’m dumbfounded. I’m embarrassed that it once seemed reasonable and logical that God would order a Hitlerian genocide of an entire people group, or that Jesus would one day return with trumpet blasts and snatch the bodies of Christians just before unleashing a series of violent plagues upon the unbelieving schmucks left behind. (Even as I type those sentences, I find myself amping up the egregiousness of it all because they feel so bizarre and offensive, which leads me to describe them so it’s obvious that’s not what I think anymore.)
It feels impossible nowadays to connect with these old beliefs. I try to wrap my head around them, but they feel foreign and distant. It’s like how you sometimes wake up from a deep sleep and for the first fifteen seconds you can vividly recall the dream you just had, but then the details get fuzzy and you barely remember a thing.
In my early post-Shift days, I could easily become paralyzed with guilt around such recollections. I was appalled that I used to think the way I did or treat people with such frivolity. Fortunately, since then, I’ve come to see those moments of horror and shame in a new light. I now have a framework that helps me not just make sense of my past but also better illuminates the present. Plus, I’ve discovered some helpful practices to make sure that in the future I don’t make the same mistakes.
It starts with bacon. And babies.
Unless you are part of the 2 percent of the population who suffers from ageusia (a condition in which you can’t taste anything because your taste buds are defective), then there’s little denying that bacon is the Chuck Norris of food. It goes with anything and makes everything it touches better. Even vegetarians know the beauty of bacon, though their conscience convinces them otherwise. Prometheus may have thought the fire he stole from the gods to give humanity was the gift, but the real gift is how fire eventually allowed us to cook pigs and discover bacon. Bacon is best prepared in a frying pan on the stove and I won’t hear otherwise. If you come at me insisting any sort of “baking in the oven” nonsense, to quote Jesus, “Get behind me, Satan,” and “forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.”
I like to start with a cold pan on the stove, carefully laying down each fatty strip (none of this thin-cut tomfoolery) as the medium heat slowly works up a sizzle. Make sure the strips aren’t overlapping—you want the entire surface of each strip to get its own spot against the pan, dancing cheek to cheek. Crack some ground pepper on top. Then crack some more (you should feel almost embarrassed at the amount you’re lavishing). As the bacon starts to soften and scrunch, flip and pepper the other side. Don’t be shy. Proceed flipping every two minutes or so until one side is deep red. One more flip to finish off the other side ought do it (probably thirty seconds max, at this point), then remove the bacon and lay your bounty flat on paper towels. Keep in mind that after it’s removed from the heat, the bacon will continue cooking. Let it do its thing; it wants to be perfect for you. If you notice the bacon getting orange in the pan, you’ve cooked it too long. Avoid the temptation to make bacon-flavored charcoal—people who say they like it that way simply haven’t had it prepared for them properly. Finally, pat down the excess grease, but not so aggressively that you soak up everything and leave it desiccated. If it looks like those small discs of watercolor paints before you’ve added water, ease up on your grease patting, pal. The final product should be a nice combination of crisp with a slight chew, deep red with a hint of white at the fattiest parts, with just the slightest kick thanks to your black pepper barrage.
The fact that I used four hundred words of this book to describe bacon should show you just how seriously I take it. But here’s a truly tragic thing about bacon: babies (which I love almost as much as bacon) can’t eat it. For starters, they lack teeth. Beyond that, their little digestive systems simply aren’t developed enough to handle the fatty, salty, chewy goodness. It’s one of life’s best offerings, yet babies can’t partake.
However, unless someone is unconscionably cruel, no one would consider mocking a baby for their inability to eat bacon. No one would laugh and point and rub it in their tiny, squishy face that they can’t enjoy the food equivalent of a sunset over a Balinese beach. Obviously, mocking a baby is absurd, but you couldn’t even imagine someone thinking less of a baby because they couldn’t eat bacon, as though their inability indicated a lack of effort. We simply accept that these miniature humans have some growing up to do before partaking in such thick-cut slices of heaven.
In a letter he wrote to the church he started in Corinth, the apostle Paul said, “Brothers and sisters, I couldn’t talk to you like spiritual people but like unspiritual people, like babies in Christ. I gave you milk to drink instead of solid food, because you weren’t up to it yet” (1 Cor 3:1–2). Did you catch that? Paul said he gave them milk instead of solid food (bacon!) because they weren’t up to it yet. He assessed their developmental stage and accommodated in kind. Members of the Corinthian church tangled themselves in jealousy and quarreling around which teacher they liked best, and even though Paul may have wanted to discuss more advanced ideas of how to live in the way of Jesus, he met them where they were. In this case, they were mere infants in Christ.
When I think back to my oversaved days, it’s easy to get bogged down in embarrassment. But reframing that season of my life as simply one developmental stage among (hopefully) many has done wonders for my well-being. As a babe in Christ, I did the best I could with what I had. Sure, I know more now. I’ve moved on from some of the more primitive ideas about God and the Bible that once fueled my naive adventures. Back then I was like a first-grade kid who’s mastered addition and subtraction but whose little brain would explode at the suggestion of negative or imaginary numbers. You do the best with what you have, and if you’re graced to someday receive more, great! Enjoy all the fun, new, fancy tricks now at your disposal. But it doesn’t do you any good to belittle past versions of yourself when, odds are, no one could reasonably expect you to have done differently.
Babies can’t eat bacon. The reasonable response is not to disparage or disregard them for it. May we take the same approach when considering who we were in our more conservative Christian days.
I want to push deeper here because I think this particular obstacle trips us up more than it needs to. I really believe that once we reframe our thinking, we can shed all sorts of unnecessary bad feelings around what we used to believe and how we used to treat people.
Not only does it make sense to look back at previous versions of ourselves with grace because a certain degree of development is necessary and normal, but we’d also do well to consider that maybe who we were was all we could have been. In other words, what if you legitimately had no other option than to be a self-righteous prat whose beliefs were narrow-minded and whose actions were hollow-hearted? I realize that not everyone looks back at their faith journey quite as harshly as I do, nor were they quite the self-righteous prat that I was. But that’s the good news! If even I can find a way free from this obstacle, then surely you can too. Especially if it’s less intense for you.
Consider the following: You didn’t choose your parents. You didn’t choose where you were born or when. You didn’t choose what sort of home you grew up in, what religion (if any) your parents subscribed to, nor what values guided your family system. You didn’t choose your earliest friends, your teachers, or your pastors. You didn’t choose where you rank on the five big personality traits—which play considerable roles in what resonates with us religiously, politically, and ethically. You didn’t choose your Enneagram number, hair color, height, or vision or hearing ability. You get the point.
Now, think back to some of the earliest memories that shaped your religious worldview. The prayers said over you at bedtime. The conversations your parents had with you about God. The sermons preached and the lessons taught in Sunday school. Consider how your beliefs were shaped by your friends, your personal tragedies growing up, and your parents’ expectations of who you should be in the world.
All of this created the unique conditions in which your beliefs about everything formed. Outside a few variables here and there, is it too far of a stretch to consider that the person you became, the person comfortable inside conservative Christianity, is realistically the only person who could have come into being? Regardless of where you fall on the free will versus determinism spectrum, we all must acknowledge the sheer magnitude of significant factors that undeniably shaped us along the way and that without a doubt were beyond our control or choosing. With that in mind, how could we not grant our past selves enough grace to at least let us off the hook for some of who we used to be?
My brother and his family used to care for foster kids, specifically those who came from traumatic home environments. Most of the young children who showed up on their doorstep came with fetal alcohol syndrome or some other behavior-altering condition they developed as a consequence of their parents’ neglect or abuse. My brother and sister-in-law were trained for such situations, and they knew they couldn’t parent these kids the same way they parented their biological children. Blaming kids who come from such environments—where clearly they were unwilling participants in the chemistry and manufacturing of their psychological and biological makeup—when they fail to respond to relatively normal direction or stimulus is the height of ignorance.
Even if the scale is smaller, you are still a product of factors outside your control. So, shower yourself in kindness. When you bump up against those moments of disbelief over what you used to believe or are mortified at how you used to treat people as a result of your religious convictions, take a breath and remember that in some sense you had very little potential to be anyone else.
Before moving on, I want to make one final observation as it relates to showing ourselves kindness for our past. While I believe such self-love and self-grace are necessary for our well-being, we also must take into consideration what real harm we may have done to others as a result of our previous religious beliefs and/or political commitments. For example, if your past involves the dehumanization of LGBTQ people (especially those you know personally), the degradation of women, or the discrimination against different ethnicities, then simply letting yourself off the hook for your past ignorance may not be enough. Your future well-being may very well be contingent upon your willingness to repent of past prejudicial beliefs, coupled with efforts to set wrongs aright. What that might look like in your particular context and how to go about it is beyond the scope of this book. But if you at all feel as though you’ve wronged people in the past as a result of your more conservative ideas, then may you remember the ancient story from last chapter and consider how, like Jacob before his brother Esau, you might humble yourself to others, acknowledge your errors, and seek reconciliation and repair.
You haven’t arrived. Sure, you might have deeper, more gracious ideas about the world than you used to. You might have a broader awareness of science or history or sociology. You probably feel better about your overall current state of belief (or disbelief) than when you used to run in more conservative circles. But you haven’t arrived. Odds are, some of what we’ve covered in this chapter in terms of being embarrassed by past versions of our selves will come up again later in life as well. To prepare for that, I suggest you memorize the lessons learned in Spencer Johnson’s 1998 bestselling book about business management, Who Moved My Cheese?
The book’s core message revolves around the inevitability of change in the workplace. It offers a simple six-step process:
Channeling all my skills in what the world has demeaningly labeled “dad humor” (I think it’s just called humor, but whatever), I suggest that one of the ways you can stay sane in your Shift is by remembering the principles of this book, but change the title to Who Moved My Cheese-us? (like Jesus, but cheesier. Get it?). Anticipate your continued growth and transformation. Regularly check in to see if what you currently believe lines up with a year ago. Once you’ve noticed a change somewhere, simply let the old belief go—because you’ve already come to see how faith doesn’t require you to hold your beliefs tight. With openness and trust, implement your new ideas and values. Test them out in the world. If they don’t yield good fruit, then let those ones go too! Enjoy the new place you’re in, because why not? You’re never not here, right now. Might as well enjoy it. And as you look ahead in life, remember that you still haven’t arrived. One day you’ll look back on what you believe now with wonder and curiosity, maybe even disbelief that you ever thought that way.
We start by appreciating the developmental nature of spiritual transformation, then zoom out further to accept that who we become (at any stage, really) remains largely beyond our control. Next, we reset our expectations for the future and assume we’ll continue to change and evolve. Finally, we are ready for the black belt of grace, the master level of applying kindness with regards to the reality of faith development and transformation.
Black belt–level grace occurs when we apply all of what we’ve learned about ourselves in this chapter to the people we come in contact with every day. The magic of the way forward through this particular obstacle is that not only does it alleviate undue pain and suffering from our own lives, but it opens up the possibility for better connection with friends and family members who might still believe as we once did. Picture those from your previous conservative church or family and spend a moment imagining their lives. Imagine how they might have grown up. See if you can find space to accept that they might very well be doing the best they can with the cards they’ve been dealt. Perhaps they, for whatever reasons, still require spiritual milk as you once did.
Then consider that, just as you went on a very unique journey of spiritual transformation that included all sorts of surprising twists and turns, perhaps they too might one day change. Even if they don’t (because, honestly, some people stay on milk forever), you will greatly help your own mental well-being by showering them with the same grace you give yourself. Who knows why some people experience radical consciousness expansion while others don’t. If you feel you have, great! What a gift. Enjoy it. Try not to take too much credit for it, though. Twist a few knobs on the machine that is your life, and it could have gone another way entirely.
The black belt of grace also invites us to trust deeper in God. When I find myself getting worked up at friends and family members still entrenched in theology that I find small and toxic, I try to step back and entrust their spiritual journey to God. My worrying and fretting about it won’t do a thing. Just as I believe God guided me to where I am today, I choose to trust that other people’s journeys are between them and God.
To the extent that you’re able, try to relax. You’ve come so far. On your journey toward progressive Christianity, there will inevitably be a series of reckonings as you scrutinize the beliefs you once held dear. These reckonings can be painful, especially if you’ve wounded people you love as a direct result of beliefs you previously championed. How you respond to these reckonings, though, is entirely up to you. No, you cannot go back in time to undo that biting remark you made to your step-mom. You can’t take back the years you made your gay neighbor feel like they were second class. And I can’t track down the ninety-five people who attended Boycott Hell in 2001 and say, “Hey, remember that time I manipulated you into praying an oddly specific prayer? Yeah, sorry about that.”
What you can do is show yourself kindness and grace, make peace with the normal and natural aspects of spiritual development, admit that you likely had no choice to be someone else anyway, anticipate that you’ll continue to change because you haven’t yet arrived, and extend all that kindness and grace to others, trusting that God knows and loves them even better than you do.