Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I have spent a fair amount of time wondering why so many of the stories we tell ourselves seem to need a dark side.

Why can’t something just be good?

Why can’t we have a little light without immediately being reminded that somewhere behind the curtain, there are demons, sinners, eternal consequences, and apparently a celestial accounting department keeping track of everything we’ve done wrong since breakfast?

I’ve written before about our apparent inability to tell a story without putting some darkness in it. Maybe that’s just human nature. We seem to need a villain, a tragedy, a cautionary tale, or at least somebody wandering around in the background ominously reminding us that things could be much worse.

And then I started thinking about religion.

Specifically, organized religion.

I’ll willingly admit that I haven’t been to church in a very long time. I’m not making some grand declaration of atheism or claiming that I have figured out the mysteries of the universe. I simply haven’t been sitting in a pew on Sunday mornings for quite a while.

But I remember what it felt like when I did.

And what I remember most isn’t necessarily feeling bad when I walked in.

It was feeling bad when I walked out.

There always seemed to be something lurking around the edges of the service. Sin. Temptation. Judgment. Hell. The devil. Guilt. Shame. The possibility that I wasn’t quite measuring up to whatever invisible standard I was supposed to be measuring myself against.

Even when the sermon was supposed to be about love, there was often a warning attached.

Love your neighbor—but remember who the sinners are.

Forgive—but remember what happens to people who don’t.

Be kind—but don’t forget that there are people living the wrong way.

Believe—but be very concerned about what happens if you don’t.

It can make religion feel less like an invitation to walk into the light and more like a fire drill for avoiding the dark.

And I’ve always found that strange.

Because if the central message is supposed to be about love, compassion, forgiveness, mercy, kindness and hope, why does fear seem to get such a prominent speaking role?

Maybe that’s one of the reasons Christmas always felt different.

For a little while, the emphasis seemed to shift.

There were lights everywhere. Candles. Music. Decorations. People wishing strangers peace and happiness. Churches seemed to become less interested in reminding everyone what was wrong with humanity and more interested in celebrating the possibility that something good had entered the world.

And then, eventually, Christmas ends.

The lights come down.

And apparently we’re back to worrying about the demons.

Maybe I’m oversimplifying it. I know there are churches that genuinely emphasize love, service, acceptance and community. There are religious people who spend their lives helping other people without asking what they believe, who they love, how they vote, or whether they have checked all the appropriate theological boxes.

Those people exist.

And honestly, they’re probably closer to the version of religion I could understand.

Because here’s the thing I’ve never quite understood: Why spend so much energy convincing people that everyone else is different when difference is one of the most obvious things about being human?

We’re different.

Of course we are.

Different backgrounds. Different cultures. Different beliefs. Different ideas about God. Different ideas about whether there is a God. Different ways of loving. Different ways of living. Different questions. Different answers.

That’s not a bug in humanity.

That’s humanity.

Maybe if I ever walked into a church again, that’s the kind of sermon I’d actually like to hear.

Not one telling me who the demons are.

Not one explaining who is going to hell.

Not one spending forty-five minutes identifying which people aren’t living correctly.

I’d like somebody to stand at the front of the room and say:

Look at all these different people.

Isn’t that amazing?

Now go be kind to them.

What a radical theological concept.

Maybe the purpose of religion doesn’t have to be convincing us that we’re surrounded by people who are wrong. Maybe it could be teaching us how to live with people who aren’t like us without needing to fix them.

Maybe faith could be less about fearing the reaper and more about embracing the light.

Less “Here is what happens if you get it wrong.”

More “Here is what you can do while you’re here.”

Because eventually, every one of us gets the same ending. That’s the one theological proposition that doesn’t seem to require much debate.

We’re here.

We get some amount of time.

Then we’re not.

So perhaps the interesting question isn’t how terrified we can become of what happens afterward.

Perhaps it’s what we do with the time before then.

Do we make somebody’s day better?

Do we forgive somebody?

Do we help somebody who needs help?

Do we make room at the table?

Do we learn something from someone who doesn’t look, think, pray or live like we do?

Do we leave the world with a little more light than we found?

I don’t know whether I’d ever become a regular churchgoer again.

But I know what might get me through the door.

A church that didn’t spend so much time telling me what to fear.

A church that didn’t need an enemy.

A church that didn’t confuse difference with danger.

A church that understood that maybe the greatest expression of faith isn’t pointing toward the people standing in the darkness and explaining why they’re there.

Maybe it’s simply turning on another light.

And then another.

And another.

Until eventually, there isn’t quite so much darkness left to worry about.