To be among the first notified of the release,
join our mailing list:
Excerpt
I
|
am a sinner. I stand with one foot in each
world, one called sin, the other called grace. I stand in the midst of sins I
have committed today and yesterday and those I inevitably will commit on
tomorrow. And whatever my sins—and they are many—none of them are greater than
His grace that by the blood of His Son can make me—us—in the words of a Gospel
hymn, “whiter than snow.” I stand because of our Lord and Savior Jesus
Christ—He who remembers when others forget but also He who forgets when others
remember. I stand. And yet, without Him, I can do nothing.
I stand here, somewhere on the timeline of Christianity—more
than 2,000 years after the Day of Pentecost, 18 centuries after Roman Emperor
Constantine the Great placed his thumbprint on Christianity, and many years
after the Great Awakenings. I stand somewhere in the afterglow of the Azusa
Street Revival in Los Angeles, California, which gave birth to modern Pentecostalism
in America. I stand. Between the cries of ancestral slaves in the cotton fields
of southern plantations, between my great-great grandfather’s pastoral prayers
in Pulaski, Illinois, where he—Burton Roy—migrated from Atlanta, Georgia, after
the Civil War and the Emancipation Proclamation set him free from the bonds of
slavery he inherited from birth. I stand.
I stand on the prayers of my grandmother and grandfather,
Florence Geneva and George Albert Hagler, who, in 1943 made their way, like
millions of southern blacks during the Great Migration to Freedom Land up
north—in their case Chicago. I stand as testament to the prayers and faith of
the “prayer warriors,” those gray-haired church mothers with whom on Tuesday
and Friday mornings at one storefront church or another we petitioned God for
my soul, health and future. I stand as proof that God hears even the cries of a
ghetto boy.
Shaped
in iniquity, even in my mother’s womb, I am the son of an alcoholic father,
predestined, at least having a predisposition to dysfunction, death and
damnation. And I am certain that it is the grace of God that I have not been
consumed and have found instead of my father’s tragic fate a life filled with
more blessings than the curse, pain and sufferings of sin. I am as certain that
the church, the institution, the building, the place where I have gathered more
times than I can count since I was a child had a critical hand in the faith
that pulled me through poverty, hardship, and away from the very gates of hell,
toward life.
"At my worst, I felt like I needed a drink to go to church.
I felt like I was dying in church, hemorrhaging in the pew,
my mind drifting in and out of consciousness..."
my mind drifting in and out of consciousness..."
And if I close my eyes, I can tunnel through time, through
the years of Sunday worship service and Sunday School, of singing in the choir
at one storefront church or another, or my roles in countless Easter and
Christmas plays since I was knee-high. If I close my eyes, I see me standing in
the front of the sanctuary as a teenage junior deacon, or plucking my lead
guitar during worship service. Or I see me as a young adult, standing in my one
and only suit—dark blue and shiny from wear and tear—near the offering
collection plate at the wooden table in front of the church as a full-fledged
deacon. Or I stand preaching from the pulpit as a minister of the Gospel,
Grandmother shouting Amens and the
saints egging me on to preach the Word.
I see me, walking with my bible outside on weekdays, up and down the 1600 block
of South Komensky Avenue, where I grew up and later lived as a young man with
my wife and three children on the West Side of Chicago. It was the same block
where my grandfather owned two apartment buildings where nearly all of our
family lived at one time or another. Toting my bible, I would knock on my
neighbors’ doors, telling them about Jesus, asking parents if they would allow
their children to attend Sunday School at my church. “The church van will swing
down the block about 9:15 or so on Sunday morning,” I would say, adding that
the kids would be in for treats and games. On to the next door…
 |
| John Fountain as a child and sister Gloria |
If I close my eyes, I see a different man than I am today:
Younger, fervent, more idealistic. I see me, standing to testify of the goodness of God and of
my steadfast faith in Him, despite not having money to pay my electric or gas
bill and having them subsequently disconnected. Despite my inability to find a
job after months and months of unemployment. I see me as a young man, walking
to church with my young family on Sunday evenings, up Pulaski Road to Roosevelt
Road, then east to True Vine Church of God In Christ, my grandfather’s
storefront church at 3915 W. Roosevelt Road. I can still see True Vine’s
neon-lit marquee with the red letters “Jesus Saves” in a white globe, lighting
the way. And inside those doors, if I close my eyes, I can hear the organ
revving, cries of “Yes Lord,” the exaltations of the saints: Amen’s and Hallelujahs. And I can feel the Spirit. It rises from my belly,
seems to spread like electricity across the congregation that rises to its
feet, praising and worshipping on one accord. I see Grandmother, standing
across from the church mothers, dressed in all white, her face aglow with a
light not of this world and Grandpa sitting in his suit and clergy collar at
attention in the pulpit, between the other ministers as it appears that the
worship service has now come under God’s divine control. And I stand in the
midst of it all—inept, incomplete and insignificant in my own strength, ability
and status in life—but completely oblivious to my failings, shortcomings and
insufficiencies. I stand in the glory of this moment in which God has become
the focal point of our hearts, souls, minds and strength. And in the
awesomeness of His power, we, the church—a body of believers—exists as one,
with one purpose, one Lord, one faith, one hope. One.
 |
| True Vine Church of God In Christ circa early 1970s was founded on Chicago's West Side by Fountain's grandparents. |
And yet, when I open my eyes now, I stand mostly alone these
days—at least apart from the church I once knew. I arrived at this state
unintentionally, though it has since become clear to me that it was far from
happenstance and that my collective experiences in the church—my tears and my
joys, my hurts and my triumphs, my acceptance and rejection and far too many
disappointments in the church—have their part in my bittersweet exodus. It
wasn’t something I planned necessarily, nothing I had ever quite imagined would
ever happen to me, especially after years of going to church, having been
raised a PGK—a pastor’s grandkid—and with Pentecostal pedigree running through
my veins like blood. But I was church hurt. Church angry. Church wounded. By
pastors, by so-called brothers and also sisters. By a lifetime of backbiting,
browbeating, by slights, over-the-pulpit berating and pastoral oppression. By
that deep hurt that I have seen sting so many within the House of God at the
hands of “the brethren” or the “sisters,” and which seems among the deepest of
all hurts and betrayals.
Slowly, I began slipping away—first, a Sunday here and
there. I stopped attending bible study. Sunday School. Eventually, Sundays
became days to sleep in or mornings to sit and sip a cup of coffee at a local
café. It was preferable to the weekly hemorrhaging in the pew that Sunday’s at
church had become, listening to Buffalo fish-sermons, prosperity preaching,
political spiels from visiting election candidates, or hype-‘em-up hooping and
hollering, half-sung homilies that had about the same effect as a sugar
sandwich on white bread. I say “Buffalo fish-sermons” because the tasty, flaky
white fish is filled with so many bones that the sifting for the bones that can
kill you make the meat for me not even worth the while, and, in fact, safer to
avoid altogether. I had also come by then to believe that the church prefers
the majority of men to be spineless, speechless and sack-less—at least with
regard to criticizing the pastor or the church or the status quo within it. I
had come to believe that for some, attending church has become the Sunday ritual
for proving how much better or holier “they” are than “us.” But I digress.
By the time I stopped attending church on a regular basis in
2005—aside from the visit to one church or another on some Sunday when mostly a
feeling of guilt mixed with a longing for the cultural ritual of worship I had
known since a child—I was sick of church, literally. Toward the end, I would
get a migraine on Sunday that lasted for about a week then returned once Sunday
had rolled around again. At my worst, I felt like I needed a drink to go to
church. I felt like I was dying in church, hemorrhaging in the pew, my mind
drifting in and out of consciousness and my soul longing for rescue from the
agony of enduring another church service that neither fed me nor filled me but
only seemed slowly to suck the life away from me with dogma and with irrelevant
or inept sermons and the recital of canned “church-isms” that drew a near
robotic call and response from the congregation. By the time of my departure
from the Sunday ritual, it was clear to me that attending served little
practical purpose for my life. That my money, along with my silent,
non-threatening, unchallenging attendance was what a pastor really wanted from
me, along with mine and my wife’s and children’s bodies occupying the pews each
week. I felt like a piece of meat. I felt used. Overlooked. Diminished.
Insignificant. And I felt marginalized in a world where even at small churches,
there is no role for brothers who are not preachers, pastors, deacons or in the
choir—and no room for bucking the status quo, even when the status quo goes
contrary to the Word of God, or the pastor or the church have gone South of the
Gospel. I felt like the focus—of time, tithes and talents, of our collective
energies as a branch of the body of Christ—were too often misguided and
leadership shortsighted. That Jesus himself, bearded and not adorned with the
scent of Dolce & Gabbana cologne, or a designer suit and gators, would not
be welcomed into the pulpits of our churches, let alone the pews. That the
focus was too often on raising money rather than on saving souls. On meetings
and conventions and anniversary celebrations, Men’s Days and Women’s Days. On
teas and banquets. On buying new choir robes. On spending more time and energy
in deciding the important stuff, like what would be the designated color theme
for the clothes everyone was to wear for the pastor’s anniversary celebration
and little-to-no time on helping the poor and needy, on evangelism—on being the
church rather than on having church.
 |
| Once a licensed minister and ordained elder, Fountain no longer regularly attends church but has found a place for him. |
There were other things fueling my angst, though it would
take me years to unravel that thread. By the time I wrote the essay that
eventually ran in the Washington Post,
whatever it was, it gnawed at me, vexing my soul. Whatever it was, it would
take years to unravel because it would take a process—time to look in the
mirror, time to forgive, time to sift through my hurt, time to remember what is
most critical to my faith, time to write. When I sat down to write the essay,
later titled, “No Place for Me,” I had no intentions of publishing it. It was
for me an exercise to try and exorcise my torment over my disconnection from
the church. A search for answers. In fact, by then, my wife had asked me many
times why I no longer wanted to attend church. And whenever I answered, there
was a mini-volcanic eruption mixed with anger but mostly hurt that arose, but
that to neither her satisfaction nor mine explained why it had really come to
this. What was clear was that buried deep within the core was a truth that I
needed to reach—for my good, if not also perhaps for the good of others.
Now, after years of soul searching, and
writing on this subject, I have some answers and also reflections to share,
even if this part of my journey remains incomplete. What I have found, at least
what I have made, is peace…
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
About
The Book
 |
| No Place For Me: Letters to the Church in America Release Date: May/June 2015 |
They are not alone. In fact, researchers have identified a
trend of millions of American Christians—from baby boomers to millennials—who
continue to leave the institutional church, a group being referred to by
researchers as the “dechurched” or the “dones” (as in done with church).
Fountain, himself once a licensed minister, ordained elder
and former deacon who grew up in his grandfather’s storefront Pentecostal
church on Chicago’s West Side, chronicles his faith journey in this book. From
his earliest childhood memory of being first introduced by his mother to the
concept of God; to attending Sunday School and bible study, revivals and
countless worship services; and his questions, even as a boy, about the potential
impact of God, religion and church on his own impoverished community plagued by
crime, blight and other social ills. The author recounts in vivid detail his
conversion experience while praying over a bathtub late one night in his
family’s apartment on Chicago’s West Side—which began his own personal walk of
faith. It is a walk filled with highs and also lows, a walk that ultimately led
him away from his home church on a quest to seek his own God-ordained destiny.
That led him away from the gray-haired, little old church ladies known as
prayer warriors, including his grandmother, who were his mothers in the faith.
That led him away from his strict doctrinal upbringing and into a wider world
of religion, faith and varied doctrinal beliefs, customs and practices, even
within the Christian faith. That ultimately would lead him to question how he
and the Christian church in general practice their faith. That would leave him
disheartened, wounded and in some ways broken as eventually he walked away from
the church he once loved but would lead to his rediscovery of a single shining
truth to heal his soul.
Publisher: WestSide Press, Chicago
ISBN: 978-0-9814858-6-7
Release Date: May/June 2015
$14.95
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________