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I sat at the children's table in the library, my knees shoved under my chin, pretending to listen to the librarian read a story while my stomach tied itself in knots. It wasn't the story being read to my son and the other preschoolers that upset me. It was my elder sister, Diana*, 32, who sat across from me. She'd just dropped a bombshell into my lap. "I quit the church," she'd blurted out. "Sam and I have joined a meditation group."
"What's a 'meditation group'?" I knew I didn't want to hear her answer.
"We meet together and meditate," she hedged. "It's similar to praying."
"But what about Jesus?" My stomach ached clear through to my back.
She said, "It doesn't matter. I don't believe Christianity's right anymore. Jesus was just an influential teacher and good man."
Diana's reply hit me like a physical blow. The tension between us crackled through the air like static electricity.
On the 90-minute drive home that afternoon, I berated myself for not seeing this coming. Despite the fact we'd been raised in a Bible-believing family, I'd sensed Diana didn't share the type of personal relationship I had with the Lord. As a Christian, I'd often felt the Holy Spirit nudge me to talk to my sister about Jesus. I've tried, I reasoned, wondering all the time if maybe I could have tried harder. At least three times in the last few months I'd attempted to get together with my sister to talk without interference from our kids. Twice, I even made the long drive to town only to find something had come up for Diana, and she couldn't meet with me. Could I have done more?
Over the next few years, Diana and I had many confrontations as I tried to "set her straight." One day, at a fast-food restaurant where we were having lunch, our conversation strayed to a controversial subject.
"But homosexuality is wrong," I said.
Diana leaned forward. "Wrong according to whom?"
"The Bible says … " I began.
My normally mild-mannered sister exploded. "Why does everyone always talk about the Bible?" she ranted. "I get so tired of hearing that!" I felt as though her attack was personal, yet deep down I knew God's Word can be convicting and painful.
Once, when we visited her house at lunchtime, my four-year-old daughter, Amy, said our mealtime prayer. When she finished, Diana taunted her, asking if Jesus really came when she prayed. With childlike innocence Amy explained that Jesus is always with her. Although angered at my sister's ridicule of a child's prayer, I kept quiet, hoping my daughter's budding faith would shine through with a testimony of its own.
One day while we talked on the phone, Diana asked, "Do you know what Dad says? He says Jesus is the only way to heaven. Can you believe that?" It didn't matter to her that I agreed with Dad; she only thought we were narrow-minded. "Where were you when we were growing up?" I wanted to ask. Hadn't we been taught that truth? Once again I antagonized her by disagreeing with her. At least this time we weren't face to face; she couldn't see the tears in my eyes.
I came to loathe visits to her house. The more she and her husband, Sam, delved into Eastern mysticism, the more idolatrous paraphernalia surrounded them. Pagan altars appeared in all the bedrooms. Even their two young teenaged daughters had altars in their rooms. A beautiful amethyst rock outlined with candles soon adorned the front of their living room fireplace and became an altar of worship when their meditation group met in their home.
I dreaded the summertime when Diana and Sam attended weeklong pilgrimages to New York. There they stayed at a huge center for people who believed as they did. Their meditation leader met with them and reinforced the teaching that they should worship themselves. They were indoctrinated in New Age/Eastern mysticism beliefs, such as God is in everything; therefore they are God.
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