Ripe for Persecution? Momma, Love, and Christlikeness

When I was a little girl, we lived down the street from a Baptist church. Mom and I would walk there each Sunday, trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk so I wouldn't break her back. It was the same place where mom found me on the preacher's lap (with the little red wagon she helped me pack abandoned in front of his desk) the day I decided to run away from home. The same place where mom showed up early to church unaware of the time change and thought the rapture had occured. (A quick run home (sobbing all the while) and a call to Aunt Lucile resolved her fears that we'd been left behind.) The same place where I could hear-feel the organ under the floorboards and into my toes and up into my chest and out my mouth in praise. Where I sang my first solo, Away in a Manger. It's the same place where I squirmed and made noises, played with mom's golden filigree owl necklace until mom pinched me under the arm because the old lady next to her said it would make me still. The same people who heard me screach, "Ouch, you pinched me!" and laughed also watched my baptism. I remember peeking over the water and glass to wave at mom where she sat in our pew. And at 5, I began a life seeking love and service to make the world better. Church was where I learned about Jesus and love. Where I memorized Bible verses in Vacation Bible School. It's where we read about the end times that mom thought we'd entered way back in the '69 because our clocks didn't automatically change. It's when I didn't know a thing about abortion, gender issues, divorce, disease, war, poverty, or politics of any kind. I just knew my momma loved me and made the world a better place. Church is also where I learned about persecution of the Christians. That little girl who sat in those pews just couldn't understand why or how folks would want to be mean to people who were to be known by their love. But I get it now. Here's a test: They will know you are Christians by: a. your vote b. your political party and candidate c. your financial contributions d. your stance on governmental and societal issues e. none of the above Are we ripe for persecution? Religion. The church. Government. The Republican Party. The Democratic Party. Christianity. None of these common and proper nouns are recognizable to my child mind or my adult one. And I can't diagram any sense into it. None of these concepts are what I thought they were supposed to mean...or how I thought I was supposed to behave and act. I recognize nothing. But here we are. Persecution? Why would anyone want to talk ugly or repress folks whose main objective is to love others? Because we are no longer seen as loving. Something I couldn't imagine - persecution of the saints - seems a probable prediction. Voters for Trump have somehow become synonymous for Christian beliefs. Ripe for criticism and attack. And the media - something else I couldn't ever understood is how we'd get to a place where even a child can't tell right from wrong? We are there. I can't make heads nor tails of truth from any of the sources. It's bad fruit not worthy of eating. But shall I starve? I have friends on both sides of the political and religious spectrums. Friends with folks who don't believe in the magic fairy book or even god of any kind. Family to those alienated by and harmed by the church. All of it...devastating. But I still love them and seek to do good. At one point in my learning, a teacher explained that Christians were Jesus with skin on. Flesh not spirit. Not a Hannibal Lecter kind of grossness...but a demonstration of love that would show people what God was really like. That's the kind of Christian I want to be...not what I'm seeing described and rightfully mourned out there in reaction to the perceeption of what "Christians" have turned into. I want nothing of that. I hope that my friends can see a better picture of the world through how I'm choosing to live. And love. I hope I can love you like my momma loves me. It's the best kind of Christ-likeness I've ever encountered.