The Very Worst Missionary: A Memoir or Whatever

by Jamie Wright

Increasingly, this matters. I can no longer bear hearing one thing coming out of a leader’s mouth while the evidence makes plain another reality. I’m hypersensitive to agendas, party lines, Christianese, and power. I have no room for talking points, blacklisting, spiritual manipulation, or authoritarianism. Spare me your shame-based gospel, judgment, thinly veiled hatred, and arrogance. That used to be my banquet table, and it left me starved. I need truth and vulnerability, and I need my leaders to call something broken when it is instead of dousing it with spiritual sugar to help it go down.

In the decades ahead, I would come to understand that, while my insecurity turned inward in the form of self-loathing and the core belief that I was undeserving of love, his insecurity turned outward. He searched for validation by performing for affirmation, believing that love was a competition to be won and that he could be loved only if and when he earned it.

The truth is marriage is a shit ton of work, and as far as I know, it never stops being hard.

Like, did anyone else notice that you can follow all of the good Christian rules and still be a huge dick about it? Seriously. I can say things right to your face that’ll make you want to slit your wrists, and I can do it with church-approved language, dripping with sweetness and an air of concern. I can lead you to believe God hates your guts and I can make you wish you were never born while I claim to “speak the truth in love,” promising that I only want what’s best for you.

Jesus was just a badass. He was a rule breaker. A system-bucking ball buster. He boldly pushed back against social norms and the religious order of the day to engage in his God-given duty to heal the sick, feed the poor, call out injustice, and pave the way for everyone to know the saving grace of faith, hope, and love. The world called him weird and the club called him dangerous. They spit on him, they threw things at him, they drove him away, and hell, eventually they killed him. But Jesus was such a motherfucking badass, he just kept loving.

He’d been hurt and disappointed, so I could completely understand why Steve turned away from church as a young man, and yet I had a hard time understanding why this new prodding from God seemed to make him so angry. But then I’d never been let down by God, the way Steve felt he had. I’d never begged God for freedom from my personal demons only to have them come back at me, time and again, stronger and more overwhelming than ever. I hadn’t lived with years of spiritual shame over a perceived lack of faith, or carried around a quiet belief that maybe God was releasing everyone else from the darkness trying to swallow them whole while He let me drown.

There was a chapter about how medication and professional therapy aren’t the answer to clinical depression, because Jesus,

See, it takes a certain amount of confidence and—let’s be real—a hefty dose of arrogance to believe that God is calling you to go out into the world and “be the hands and feet of Jesus,” especially when you don’t speak the language, don’t understand the culture, and can’t find the freakin’ place on a map.

buy Crocs—but

Lololol true

Oh, and don’t forget to say it’s for Jesus, because, let’s be honest, if you say God is “calling you,” who’s gonna argue?

Surprise! That’s what a banana is supposed to taste like! And there were

some not-so-good surprises, like parasites. Surprise! You just shit your pants.

Once, when I really felt like I was getting the hang of things, a friendly grocery-store clerk handed me my receipt and said, in Spanish, “Thanks for shopping at Mas X Menos. Come back soon.” Feeling confident, I smiled and tried to sound casual as I replied, “¡Sí! Volveré pronto porque tengo que comer mi familia!” which sounds lovely but translates to “Yes! I’ll be back soon, because I have to eat my family.”

I assumed that because I’d just showed up, God would grant me immunity, even from my own self.

And, yes, papaya is easy to prepare, but it tastes like a big toe and a butthole had a baby, so no thank you.

Lololol

Because clearly there was something very wrong with me. That’s what depression does. It clouds your vision, it turns you inward, and it makes it very hard for you to see beyond yourself.

But depression is a sneaky son of a bitch. It creeps in behind your joy to convince you that to live a life you love isn’t worth the effort. It whispers and lies and manipulates, and pretty soon you’re certain that the hill from your house to the rest of the world is just too damn steep.

Our calling is not what we do as much as it is who we are while we do it.

We had come to Costa Rica with our sights set on Sunday-morning programs, but God was using us for bigger things under Friday-night lights.

was not the only one sitting in the aftermath, when the carefully crafted Christian facade has collapsed. It was like the air beginning to clear after an explosion, and I was seeing the faces of other stunned survivors stumbling around to find a safe place in a new landscape.