Praying Woman [Black Rock City, Burning Man 2006] Canon EOS 20D w/28-135mm f3.5-5.5 Zoom

"Deliciously scandalous" is what my friend Ariel calls me in her most recent blog post.This is in reference to the outfit I chose to wear to church last night: black mini-skirt, black thigh-high stockings, and black platform combat boots.

My friends Ariel, Ariel, and I decided to visit the notoriously hip yet dreadfully conservative Mars Hill Church a couple of days ago after reading this article in Salon. The two Ariels were hard-pressed to believe that such a conservative church could have such strong footing in Seattle, a hotbed of liberalism. I, however, spent over 15 years of my life as a born-again christian, and knew, at least to some degree, what we were wading into. Hence the need for combat boots.

Rather than re-cap the evening and all of the reasons why we found their church to be so deplorable here, I'll direct you to Ariel's post. She's a hilarious writer and pretty neatly summarizes our experience; she says everything I would say, but better.

Instead, I'll share with you my personal experience with getting re-aquatinted with Jesus.

When the idea first arose to visit Mars Hill, I knew we had to act immediately. Given any time to think about it, I would have postponed, and likely backed out. So when the idea hit us saturday, we seized it, and sunday night we found ourselves holding eachother's arms tightly for support as we approached the modern doors of Mars Hill. We were terrified. We giggled like schoolgirls, endured the glances of the members of the congregation who apparently didn't approve of my outfit (and perhaps recognized us as some of those evil "feminist women" their pastor was literally about to expound on), and took seats towards the back and off to the side. I don't know what the Ariels were afraid of, but I know what I feared: I was irrationally afraid that Jesus might get me back.

When I was in high school, a Mormon relative of mine gave me a copy of The Book of Mormon. She had hand-written me a note in the front of the book, telling me to read a few select verses, and then pray to god to tell me whether this was the divine word of god. She believed it would be impossible for me to deny the authority of the Mormon Church if I followed these steps. I never read those passage, in part because was afraid that if I did, I might have to become a Mormon, and there was no way I was going to become a Mormon (nor was there any need, as at that point in my life I was thoroughly walking the walk holding hands with my buddy Jesus.)

My irrational fear of attending Mars Hill Church was something like that. Of course it's crazy, of course there's no way my mature, educated, and rational mind could ever be seduced by something as grotesquely simple and oppressive as this particular brand of religion. But the fear lingered. What if I went to church, and Jesus got me back?

As it turns out, I had no reason whatsoever to fear Jesus or pastor Mark Driscoll (Mars Hill's insult-slinging, name-calling, snide-comment-making, morally-authoritarian leader) or the congregation at Mars Hill. Their message is packaged in an appealing, hip, pop-culture-relevant package, but their message is the same old radical right-wing fundamentalism that I outgrew years ago. It's founded on a particularly depressing and oppressive myth, one that I reject even more easily now that I've had the opportunity to examine it from the outside. It only took me about 10 minutes to recognize the brand of christianity that shimmered under those slick lights and throbbed to the beats of their bass-booming sound system. In those 10 minutes, I lost my fear of them, and happily showed Jesus a little more leg.