Boy, were we grumpy.
As several of us like-minded cynics found each other, we began to meet weekly for what turned out to be some very therapeutic church-bashing sessions.
We were all at various stages of recovery, having individually grown to a place where we realized that no matter how many times we'd sung Awesome God or how many drinks we'd turned down, how bloody our tongues had gotten from biting back the bad words, we amounted to nothing.
We had nothing to show for our efforts, save a few notches in our Bibles for the few people we'd managed to love well enough into relationship with Jesus and a few Compassion kids. We were selfish, grumpy young adults who'd spent our lives thinking we were pretty awesome and had just had the rug pulled out from under us. Surely the church was to blame.
Not any one church, in particular, but the Church. The Church that had trained us to consume, consume, consume instead of to relate, relate, relate. The Church that had said "bring them here to us," instead of saying "YOU do it."
We tore down traditions, one at a time. We laughed and we cried and we dreamed about how we'd do it if we were in charge.
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