I ran down an isle scared of hell when I was six.  I realized there was more to “salvation” than that when I was twelve.  When I was thirteen I got called into the principals office for praying.

I was ticked off that it was against the law to “pray in school.” I was ticked off because my youth minister told us we should be.  We had rights, he said, and this is a Christian country, he said.

So I started a bible study on my middle school campus.  Not because I needed more time studying the bible.  Not because I needed more time with Christian friends talking about Christian stuff.  Not because I lacked the time to pray outside of school hours.  I did this only because I wanted to A) be more spiritual than everyone else and B) be seen being more spiritual than everyone else.

At first it was me and a friend, in the crowded cafeteria before school, our bibles open reading one chapter together and then bowing our heads, sometimes while wearing a Jesus t-shirt of some kind.  Then it grew to ten.  And I started “teaching” and not just reading.  I taught mostly about how the “world” will hate us if we meet together before school to be uber-spiritual.  I taught about how dark and bad the “world” is, how blind the “world” is, how mean the “world” is to uber-spiritual people like us.  Pat, pat, pat on the back.  Look how good I am and see how bad they are. That sort of thing.

When our group grew too large to be ignored the principal asked me into his office.  He explained that he was a Christian too but I was breaking a rule with my meetings and needed to stop.  He told me, I’ll never forget, that I didn’t have to be loud and showy to be a good Christian.

Our youth minister found out about all this hassle I got – because we complained to him.  The church attorney got involved.  The lead pastor got involved.  The principal called me into his office again a few days later.  Members of his church (not mine) lived across the street from the school and said they’d love to have us meet in their backyard every morning if we wanted to move our meetings off school grounds.

We moved to their front yard instead, refusing to hide our light under a bushel or, apparently, behind a privacy fence.  And our church moved ahead with legal action against the school district.  And, funny thing, without all the attention in the cafeteria, without everyone seeing how religious we were, with us less noticeable across the street, our group dwindled and, after a few weeks, ceased to exist completely.

Of course the lady with the clipboard didn’t know all this when she started in on rights and faith and public school.  I felt a little like Paul that night in Florida.  He held the coats of Stephen’s murderers and watched him die of stoning.  He hunted Christians, believed they were enemies of God.  Then, one blinding light later, he was converted into his former enemy’s image.

I’ve become the principal sitting at his desk saying, “I’m one of you, really I am, but you’re wrong.  You don’t have to be loud and showy to be a Christian.”

The story doesn’t end well.  Clipboard lady and I talked about prayer a little – how it’s not an evangelistic tool but a conversation between us and God.  We talked about how demanding our way and getting it also gets every other religion their way; would she be OK with a Buddhist praying out loud over the school’s public address system?  We talked and talked.  She didn’t change her mind.  I didn’t change mine. 

I finally asked her, “If your kids’ schools are damaging your kids spiritually, and that’s not good if they are, then have you considered home schooling?  I’m not saying you should, but at home you can teach all the bible you want, allow prayer, be sure they never get taught about homosexuality and anything other than a six day creation.  You can have your way at home.” (It’s right across the street, in the backyard, where no one will see you.)

“No, that wouldn’t work.”

I hugged her, said good-bye and turned to walk away. 

The “volunteer” shook my hand as I passed him heading out the door and he apologized for coming on too strong at first.  And then he said, “Hey, I know where I know you from.  You were on the news weren’t you?”

I looked back over my shoulder and kept walking.  “That was me,” the clipboard lady beamed.  “We was talking about my petition…”

Lights, camera, action.  Another loud showy Christian is born.

Series: None, Stories From The Road
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