"The Boy From the 'Good' Family" by Emily Strempler
- Roi Fainéant
- 9 hours ago
- 9 min read
The first time Nicole encounters him, they are at a youth event, one of those big multi-church affairs, across several days. Nicole’s church is only here for one day, a volunteer afternoon, BBQ picnic, and concert. Her church’s volunteer contribution involves hauling junk, trash, brush, and leaves out of people’s yards, in a crumbling downtown neighborhood. So when Nicole arrives at the picnic, she’s still got a big old t-shirt on over her concert clothes and a pair of her mother’s gardening gloves scrunched up in her back pocket. Her arms are sore. Her purse is with a youth leader, locked in his car, so she can’t touch up her makeup. She’s scarfing down a couple of hot dogs, when a school friend taps her on the shoulder. “Hey!” the girl says, “Have you met Jonathan? You know, from my church? You should talk! I think you’d get along.”
Nicole turns to see she’s got this boy, this Jonathan, standing beside her, looking bored. Jonathan isn’t wearing work clothes. He’s wearing a Christian band t-shirt, a slouchy black sweater, and un-distressed jeans. He looks her over, evidently unimpressed. Nicole offers a hand, introduces herself. He barely returns her greeting, glancing back into his book, his fingers tucked between tented pages. “What are you reading?” she says, for lack of anything better to say.
“You wouldn’t know it,” he says.
Nicole already can’t imagine why anyone would think she and this boy would get along, but she tries again. “Well, try me. I know a lot of books.”
He shows her the cover, rolling his eyes, with a can-I-go-now attitude. She barely gets a chance to read the title, only catches the author. He’s right, she hasn’t read it. Because it’s old. Really old. And boring. She excuses herself from the conversation, and he seems just as happy to be done with it as she is. So much for that, she thinks.
But then, there he is again. This time, they’re at a youth retreat. One she didn’t expect him to be at. This time, it’s because someone wants to win an argument. A stupid theological argument. Something about forgiveness, and who does and does not get a chance at heaven.
On this issue, Nicole will not budge, and she’s not really interested in arguing about it. In fact, she’s been trying to leave this conversation for the better part of half an hour, by the time this boy, Jonathan, walks up. But the friend arguing with her refuses, absolutely refuses, to drop it, insisting that Nicole’s reluctance to judge, to condemn, is just as morally suspect as if she’d committed the sins in question herself. “That basically makes you a murderer, you know?” the girl says, “You know that, right?”
“I’m sorry you think that,” Nicole says, and tries to leave it there. Grace means grace, Nicole thinks, whether you like it or not. Grace means grace, and grace is for everyone. Not just the people you like. That’s what Nicole’s Grandma always says, and Nicole loves her Grandma, trusts her, with a deep and ferocious loyalty.
Jonathan is here to tell her why that’s wrong. As if she should care. She tells him as much, right away, “Why should I care what you think?”
“You never know,” he says, “you might learn something.”
Nicole’s mouth snaps shut. For a moment, she can only seethe. But, she shouldn’t speak out of anger, she thinks. So she swallows her words, breathes in, collects herself. “I’m not even sure what your church’s theology is,” she says, voice full of forced calm, “I don’t know you. You’re certainly no better qualified than I am. Why should I want to learn anything from you?”
That gets him. Really gets to him. Jabs right up under his skin, at something deep. Something she didn’t even know was there. He begins to rant. He rants and rants. Gets right up in her face, in the middle of a room full of other teenagers trying to carry on their own conversations. His voice rings in her ears, a fine mist of his spit, his contempt, dusting the powdery finish of her makeup.
She listens quietly, while he enumerates his pedigree. His father is a pastor, he says, and a venerable one, a truly great teacher. So are both his grandfathers. It’s a family tradition. Something she wouldn’t know anything about. Soon, he will be going away to seminary. And then he too will be a pastor. He’s been reading theology since the seventh grade, he says, not on his own, but with the guidance of “great leaders.” Like his father. He wants to know why she thinks her mere “thoughts” can compete with this kind of quality education. He wants to know why she thinks she can “logic” her way out of biblical authority. His biblical authority. Which is not just his, but his father’s and grandfathers’ before him. How lucky she is, to get an opportunity to benefit from so much learning, so many generations of wisdom. How foolish, to throw it all away in favor of her own, craven will. He really uses that word, “craven.” She’s not convinced he knows what it means.
“Are you done?” she says, when he finally peters out.
“No,” he spits, but clearly he is done, because he spirals back through a few of his points before falling silent for a second time. Then, the punch, “What do your parents even do?” he says, “Because they’re not any Christian leaders I’ve ever heard of. And frankly, I think someone should talk to them about the kind of guidance they’re providing to their kids if they’re going around spouting off ideas like yours. ‘No unforgivable sin,’” he repeats, the claim he finds so offensive.
Adrenaline pumps through Nicole’s chest, lingering after his display of aggression and authority has ended. She should walk away, leave this conversation, walk right into the women’s bathroom, if that’s what she has to do to end the argument, but he’s got her hackles up now.
Nicole’s Grandma is a recovering addict, an AA Mentor, a respected church member, who volunteers for anything and everything, especially if it will put her in contact with the kind of women, the kind of people, this boy seems to most resent. Inconvenient people, difficult people, down-on-their luck people. People like Nicole’s Grandma. People like Nicole, who have issues, who have made mistakes, and who know they will keep on making mistakes, and needing grace, probably for the rest of their lives.
Sometimes, Nicole thinks, her Grandma’s grace is not the grace of this church, or any church, at all. But something more akin to love. Unconditional, empathetic, whole with the understanding of having walked the same paths, worn the same shoes. Not that her Grandma would ever agree.
When Nicole has complained, in the past, about people like this boy, their dogmatism, their strident, arrogant Christianity, Nicole’s Grandma has been firm, unbending. ‘Oh, Nicole,’ she says, ‘Jesus doesn’t care about any of that! Ignore all that crap. Focus on Jesus. Focus on his grace. It's the only thing that matters.’ Nicole wants to get up in this boy’s face, ask him if he’s ever really had to seek forgiveness for something, if he knows what it’s like to really need grace, the kind her Grandma talks about. The kind that actually matters.
Instead, she says, “Show me in the book, then.”
“What?”
“Show me where it says that in the book.” She pulls a Bible from her bag and holds it out to him. He sneers at the NIV on the cover. She rolls her eyes. “You can use your own Bible if you want. Show me where it says any of that? Chapter and verse.”
He sputters. Takes the Bible and looks at it. Then shoves it back at her. “You expect me to provide citations? To a verbal conversation? Is that it? Look up my father’s sermons on the subject and you’ll get all the chapters and verses you need. You’ll see that I’m right.”
She flips through the book, finds a verse, clears her throat, “Luke 6:37. Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” She flips forward. “Romans 2:1 …for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself…”
He scoffs, “Well of course. But there have to be limits.”
“Tell me,” she says, “tell me where in the book it says there are limits.”
“So what, you think people should just be able to do whatever they want,” his tone is mocking, “and then come to God and no matter what it was, it all goes away and we all just have to welcome them into our community?”
“No,” she says, “I don’t think that. But I’m not God. I don’t think it’s my place to decide who’s forgiven and who isn’t. Do you?”
“I’m done with this,” he says, “This conversation is a waste of my time.” And with that, he turns on his heel, and marches out of the room.
With a shrug, Nicole returns her Bible to her bag. That’s enough of that for one lifetime, she thinks. She tries to walk away, but a friend trails after her, down the hall. “I really think you should think about what he said… I mean, his dad is my pastor, and he’s a really smart guy, and…”
“Why is excluding people so important to you?”
“What? I’m not… I’m just…”
“What? You just think some people don’t get the same forgiveness you do? Because some guy at some pulpit said so? I don’t care who he is. He’s human. He’s fallible.”
“That’s so disrespectful! He’s a rightful authority. You can’t… That is so wrong! I’m going to tell one of the leaders you said that!”
Next thing Nicole knows, she’s being hustled into a corner of the retreat space, to sit with one of the female small group leaders and two male pastors. They quiz her about her ideas, ask her if she knows what it means to have a “rebellious heart.” The female leader tells Nicole she thinks it’s important for “us women” to remember that we don’t have biblical headship over male religious authorities.
Nicole says that’s fine, this pastor is not a pastor in her church and as far as she can tell, no one believes in following anything any random pastor says, just because they’re someone else’s pastor. The woman tells her that’s true, but she feels it's a bit different when that pastor is part of the same spiritual “conference,” and that, regardless, it’s important to be polite. Nicole says she’ll keep it in mind, and they let her go.
The following morning, Jonathan stares daggers at her across the room. But he doesn’t move to speak with her. And, for the last day or so of the retreat, she manages to avoid him entirely.
They’re a lot older, next time. The final time.
It’s been years since Nicole last attended a youth or young-adults group. Though, for the sake of Nicole’s Grandma, and her fervent, no-nonsense faith, she’s tried to continue attending church. She’s not at church, or even a church event, this time. Instead, she’s standing in the entryway of her friend’s parents’ house, waiting while her friend tugs on shoes and a jacket, then searches the entire house for her purse, so they can rush out the door together.
He, Jonathan, arrives with a guitar case in tow, a friend of her friend’s older brother. They’re in a band together, it turns out. Some kind of Christian rock group.
They eye each other warily.
“Hey,” he says, “Nicole, right? Still got a lot of strong opinions?”
“You’d probably think so,” she says.
He laughs. “Did you ever check out my dad’s sermon?”
“No.”
“Pity,” he says, “he’s a good speaker.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“You should catch a service at our church sometime,” he says, “hear him speak in person. Or me. I’m preaching at the church now, first Sunday of every month.” This is why he’s talking to her, she realizes. He wants to make sure she knows about this. Who he is now. Who he is becoming. How he has walked in the well-worn tracks of his forefathers, taken on their mantle, as if it were his own.
“That’s nice.”
“You should come by sometime,” he says, “Who knows? You might like it.” He turns to go. Tosses the last line over his shoulder like he’s been harbouring it, holding it close, all these years. “Might even learn something!”
Unsure of what to say, Nicole says nothing. Pulls out her phone and stares at it, as if anything were happening on the quiet screen.
And then her friend is ready.
And she leaves.