My father and I are estranged and have been for several years now.
I don’t mean for this to sound dramatic, because it isn’t. But just because something isn’t dramatic doesn’t mean there isn’t still pain. Especially around Father’s Day.
My home in the Southern Baptist Convention
Eric Minton
This past week the Southern Baptist Convention met for its annual denomination-wide gathering in Nashville. In the weeks leading up to the convention, Southern Baptist heavyweights Beth Moore and Russell Moore (no relation) publicly parted ways with the denomination. And, throughout the convention itself, the SBC has been roiled by protests from a growing contingent of Southern Baptist abuse survivors demanding accountability and wholesale change from the SBC’s Executive Committee, on the one hand, and the denomination’s growing right-flank — the self-titled Conservative Baptist Network — over the SBC’s perceived “leftward shift,” on the other.
But you likely already know all this. Because this is a piece for Baptist News Global, and if there’s anything readers of Baptist News Global know about, it’s probably Baptist news.
Which is why I needn’t say more about the political and theological machinations of a denomination with whom I no longer identify nor understand. Others can and have spoken more authoritatively about such things. Which is also why I began this piece talking about fatherly estrangement, instead of the SBC.
My life as a child of divorce
My parents split up when I was 3, but not before taking me to Disney World for the first time. Where, I was told, I had a wonderful time.
From my earliest days as the only child of my parents’ divorce, I learned that if I wanted a relationship with my father, I would have to work for it. From initiating phone calls to him as a 6- and 7-year-old, to losing video and board games on purpose to avoid his sometimes volcanic anger, to swallowing my own discomfort at the ways he broke remote controls, swore at me, and abruptly stormed off during disappointing college football and basketball games.
“I realized I was exhausted from worrying about how my dad would take it, emotionally, if I was honest with him about what it was like to try and be his son.”
Eventually, in middle school, I began noticing a sometimes physically destabilizing guilt and reflexive sadness at not wanting to spend time with my father, to go to his house on the weekends, or to call him on the phone. I didn’t have words for it at the time, but eventually I realized I was exhausted from worrying about how my dad would take it, emotionally, if I was honest with him about what it was like to try and be his son.
It’s strange to be 13 and feel an overwhelming responsibility to take care of your parents’ emotional state, and knowing, deep down, that if you quit, you’ll be alone, cut off, and without the one thing commercials, sitcoms and psychological literature teach you is most important in life: family.
So, I swallowed my pain and internalized my guilt and busted my ass to keep things afloat with my old man. I grew up believing if I performed enough, apologized enough, gave enough, understood enough, listened enough, called enough and believed in him enough that one day all this effort would be enough for him, and, at bottom, I would be enough for him.
I’m here to tell you dear reader, it didn’t work.
It wasn’t until my own son was born that I discovered what it means to be a dad and a son.
Holding this tiny human in my arms invited me to become born again in the presence of something that poops its pants, can’t sleep through the night and has this borderline-cellular understanding of wonder. My son entered the world owing me nothing, and his freedom from this kind of parental debt was a gift to behold.
“My son entered the world owing me nothing, and his freedom from this kind of parental debt was a gift to behold.”
Before my son was born, I didn’t care much for my last name, because being a Minton was exhausting, expectant, lonely. But with every passing year, my last name means something a little different for me, because the words “son,” “father” and “Minton” all mean something entirely different to my son than they once did for me. Resurrection, in my experience, isn’t too strong a word for this kind of generational transformation.
My son’s first month on earth was also the last time I spoke to my father. I think about this every Father’s Day. But my son doesn’t, and Lord willing, he never will.
Heavenly Father?
I say all this because my experience with my father mirrored much of my experience growing up Southern Baptist in East Tennessee, and the “Heavenly” Father this tradition introduced me to.
From my earliest days as a Southern Baptist, I learned that if I wanted a “strong” relationship with my Heavenly Father, I would have to work for it. From initiating prayers to him as a 6- and 7-year-old no matter how tired, anxious or confused I was about God’s role in my life, to voluntarily losing my sense of self and trust in my own experience to avoid God’s sometimes volcanic and ultimately damning anger, to swallowing my discomfort and doubt in the face of how my Heavenly Father seemed to treat people who didn’t perform, pray or proselytize in the ways his glory demanded.
Eventually, in middle school, I began noticing a sometimes physically destabilizing guilt and reflexive sadness at not wanting to spend time with my Heavenly Father, to go to his house on the weekends, or pray to him. I didn’t have words for it at the time, but I was exhausted from worrying about how my Heavenly Father would take it, emotionally, if I was honest with him about what it was like to try and be his son.
“I was exhausted from worrying about how my Heavenly Father would take it, emotionally, if I was honest with him about what it was like to try and be his son.”
This is all the more true when one remembers this Heavenly Father killed the Son he really loved to avoid killing me.
It’s strange to be 13 and feel an overwhelming responsibility to take care of your God’s emotional state and knowing, deep down, that if you quit, you’ll be alone, cut off and without the one thing sermons, Christian radio and theological literature teach you is most important in life: faith.
So, I swallowed my pain, internalized my guilt and busted my ass to keep things afloat with my God. I grew up believing if I performed enough, apologized enough, gave enough, understood enough, listened enough, called enough and believed in him enough that one day all this effort would be enough for him, and, at bottom, I would be enough for him.
I even became a Baptist pastor to try and fix what was broken in me and the world around me.
I’m here to tell you dear reader, it didn’t work.
It wasn’t until my own son was born that I realized what it means to be a dad (both heavenly and otherwise) and a son. Holding this tiny human in my arms invited me to become born again in the presence of a something that poops its pants, can’t sleep through the night and has this borderline-cellular understanding of wonder. My son entered the world devoid of the debt of original sins, owing God nothing but to become himself and to keep this kind of trustworthy love and freedom in circulation for the kids or humans or weird pets he chooses to raise in the future. His freedom frees me.
Before my son was born, I didn’t care much for being a “Baptist” because being Baptist was exhausting, expectant, lonely. But with every passing year, this tradition means something a little different for me, because the words “Jesus,” “God” and even “Baptist” all mean something entirely different to my son than they once did for me. Resurrection, in my experience, isn’t too strong a word for this kind of generational transformation.
A better way of parenting
When I think about the kind of father I’ve tried to introduce my son to, I think about the words of Jesus when he talked about parenting impulses in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 7: “Who among you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for fish, will give him a snake? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”
Introducing my son to the heavenly and earthly fathers I grew up with is like giving him a stone when he asks for bread. It weighs him down, causes him to sink and eventually will only drown him. This is all the more true when I let my own unacknowledged pain at the hands of these fathers unthinkingly trickle down and define how I talk to my own son about family, faith and his future.
“While I can’t control who raised me, I can control how I raise my son.”
While I can’t control who raised me, I can control how I raise my son.
I think about this every time the SBC gathers for a convention. Or when Baptist churches refuse to acknowledge victims of its abuse, the insidiousness of racism in their origins and current decision making, oppress women and minorities, and introduce new generations of children to a God willing to damn his children in the name of his own glory, reputation and theological rightness.
But then I remember my son doesn’t know these churches and these fathers, and Lord willing, he never will.
At first, estrangement seems dramatic and extreme, but over time it gives us the freedom to understand that heavenly and earthly fathers unwilling to die, or be wrong, or apologize, or give up power, or stop sacrificing their children on the altar of their glory won’t ever save us, no matter how much we want them to or ask them to.
However, being raised by a God willing to die for the world and God’s kids without expectation that the world or those kids would return the favor? A God willing to take responsibility for bearing our burdens and letting us crash on the couch no matter what? A God constantly celebrating us becoming who we are independent of what it says about this God’s glory? Well, resurrection, in my experience, isn’t too strong a word for this kind of generational transformation. I guess I’m saying this kind of God empties my tomb every time. And maybe this God will empty yours, too.
Because that’s what real heavenly and earthly parents do — they willingly give good gifts and sacrifice themselves for their kids, and not the other way around.
Eric Minton is a writer, pastor and therapist living with his family in Knoxville, Tenn. He holds a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Tennessee, a master of divinity degree from Fuller Theological Seminary and a master of science degree in clinical mental health counseling from Carson-Newman University.
