What’s a small moment from your past that you still think about years later?
By Andrew R. Duckworth
We’re all walking around with a bit of a chip on our shoulders, whether we’re willing to recognize it or not. That’s okay. We should try to our best to rid ourselves of it, but sometimes—easier said than done.
When I was eight years old, I realized I was a minority in my community. I’m using that term a bit loosely by today’s standards. I certainly wouldn’t have been seen as a minority by the larger society. But in a small Protestant town, I was a Catholic. For some, that seems like small problems. And, in a way, they’re right! I’ve never been denied a job because I’m Catholic. I’ve never had a glaring set of eyes on me because of the skin I’m in or for the name I carry. So, in that context, it is small. But I remember the first time I realized there were stark differences between me and the rest of my community.
There was a huge push to evangelize in the Protestant community, unlike that of the Catholic community at the time. And one of the groups of people the Protestants wanted to evangelize was Catholic. Catholic anything was bad. This wasn’t an implicit sentiment. It was very much explicit from time to time. Some were a bit more implicit—the uncomfortable “oh…” when I would mention I was Catholic. But, at eight years old, you don’t introduce yourself by your differences. If you were like me, you were barely aware there were any. But it was when I was eight years old the illusion ended.
I was at a friend’s house and my friend let me know I wouldn’t be allowed over anymore. You see, I was Catholic. And, according to his dad, that was a very bad thing. I wasn’t even Christian according to his dad (and, in that small town, you were a Satanist if you weren’t Christian). In fact, my friend kept asking, “are you Christian?” It was one of the most perplexing experiences I’ve ever had. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why all these years later I still remember it so well. But it was then that I began noticing the awkward glances, the tone in which some spoke to me, etc. And for a long time, I assumed all Protestants were the same, just like the people in my hometown. It would take a long time for me to realize that it was only the tribal nature of my hometown and their inability to deal with different.
To this day, I still hate traveling through my hometown, where my father is buried. It’s the only reason I even return there—to visit his grave and to see family and the few friends who actually see me for who I am and love me. I credit my hometown for so much of the pain I experienced as a kid. It made maturing practically impossible. I was caught in a perpetual state of defense, one that I rarely broke from. Even going to school felt like walking into a battlefield. Would I survive the day? Obviously so. I’m here. But it took damn near forever for me to understand that the problem was never me.
Still to this day, when a conversation about faith comes up, I’m hesitant. It isn’t that I’m afraid of what I believe. I’m firm in my faith and I’m not about to compromise it for anyone. I’m afraid of what they might believe. I’m afraid that I might be speaking to someone who might hold those same sick beliefs of those from my hometown. I’m afraid that my view of someone might change. Given enough conversation, it might.
As a Christian, obviously, I want others to share in the same peace I have. But I’m not going to select my friends based on what they believe. I’m certainly not going to make them feel less than because I believe one thing and they might believe another. I’ve been through that trial before. There’s no need to put someone else through that. Rather, I’m going to keep living my life and let others keep living theirs. If I’m a good representative of my faith, they will see my faith lived out. That is my evangelism. If they have questions, I’ll answer and honestly. But I’m not going to rush at the first opportunity to make them feel like an ant on an anthill with a cruel, vindictive child holding a magnifying glass over them.
In a way, I should be grateful for those experiences. They allowed me to realize what I would never want another person to feel. They were formative experiences. And, because of them, I’ll never be the same. I am who I am because of them.
Still yet, it’s a chip on my shoulder. I realize this. Yet, gradually, over the years, it’s become lighter. Branching out and meeting new people has allowed me to realize that not all Protestants are like this. Many have good reasons for why they believe what they believe, and many do not hold such extremist views towards Catholics. In fact, many would not even consider “Protestant” to be their defining characteristic. Many simply live their lives. Still yet, I would be lying if I said there wasn’t that bit of hesitancy that comes when talking about matters of faith.
