Why I removed the Elevation decal from my car

Things are going above average. It’s over an hour past closing, but the bar manager lets us buy one more bottle. “No worries,” she says when I apologize for not realizing it was so late. “You two seem like you have a lot of chemistry.”

Our date has stretched into that part of the night where small talk about work and Charlotte has slurred into more personal, more challenging topics. We cover our exes, recurrent family issues, and then finally…

“What about God?” she asks. “Do you believe in God? Are you religious?”

I take a sip of my wine in the same way one would take a sip of water during a job interview when asked about their biggest weakness. What you say is only half as important as how you phrase it.

“I do believe in God,” I respond. “I think there’s a God out there that cares about us. I think there’s a big cosmic plan and I believe things happen for a reason.” I add a non-committal “You know? Or something like that.” She nods.

Later, we’re in my car as I drive her back to her place. I think we discuss Post Malone or something for a brief moment before she says, “So… you have an Elevation Church decal on your car.”

She must’ve seen it when we walked to my car, that unmistakable orange circle with the white arrow pointing upward that outs me and thousands of other drivers as attendees of Elevation Church, Charlotte’s homegrown mega church.

“Yeah,” I say. Even though I’m facing forward, I can feel her eyes squint at me.

“So, you’re like really religious,” she says. “You kind of downplayed that in the bar.”

Did I? I don’t remember how I responded to that, but after I dropped her off promising we’d get together again soon (life got in the way and we couldn’t get our schedules to link up, if you’re curious) her comment stuck with me for a few days.

I moved to Charlotte in 2008, when Elevation was just two years old. I watched as the number of decals boomed. Attendees gave themselves the worst nickname ever in “Elevators.” News articles started popping up claiming fake baptisms and extravagant mansions. I began to feel like a significant portion of Charlotte feels: Elevation is a cult.

But in 2015 after quitting my job for a failed cross-country move, I found myself hired to a six-month copywriting contract with Elevation, causing me to give the church the chance most people with my former viewpoint never would.

I learned that Steven Furtick’s success lies on the fact that he’s an extremely gifted teacher, speaker, writer and pastor.

I learned that the church’s success lies in its laser focus on providing a friendly, welcoming atmosphere with multiple ways to get involved.

Four years later, even though I’d never call myself an Elevator out of principle, I am undeniably one in practice.

I attend every Sunday.

I volunteer twice a month from 5:30am to 2:00pm at the Uptown campus.

I give financially.

Most of my close relationships stem from the church (my friends and I joke that we each thought Elevation was a cult before we attended, but now that we’re involved, we know it’s a cult).

And yes, I slapped that decal on my Nissan Murano. I did it so I could show people what I was part of, and that I’m proud to be part of it.

So why’d I take it off this week?

The urge hit me much in the way a Futo Buta craving does, unexpectedly but unceasing until satisfied.

I was walking out of The Man Cave Barbershop on 10th street with a fresh cut, approached my car from behind, noticed the decal, and was thrown back to that conversation with my date from a few months back.

What I’d said in The Hop Shop about my faith was true. I do believe there’s a God, a plan, and that things work out for the best because of that God and that plan. The non-committal “or something like that” is because sometimes that faith waivers, or because sometimes I do things some people would say God doesn’t like. I go back and forth between using “think” and “believe” because I’m still figuring out which is which. I’m in a process, and will likely be in one my entire life.

I’m starting to learn that’s what faith is: a process. It’s eternal conversations about an infinite subject.

But that decal, in the minds of many, towers above all of that. I don’t hold any negativity toward my date for reducing my faith to “You’re really religious.” After all, that’s how I felt for years when I’d see those decals. Plus, it falls on me to represent my faith in the way I choose, or whether to represent it at all.

I realized the decal was saying more about my faith than I was.

So, I stood in my driveway in 40 degree weather and painstakingly scraped the decal off. It was rush hour and traffic was backed up on Shamrock Drive, giving me a sort of audience. One guy rolled down his window and yelled “Congrats! You’re free from the cult.”

It made me laugh. That decal is so small, but it means such big things in this city.

I’m not sure how I feel about it removing it yet. Sorry to disappoint that random stranger who yelled at me, but I’ll still attend the church every Sunday. I’ll still give, volunteer, and I’m not going to deny I’m proud of being a part of it.

I’d just like to broach those conversations with people on my own terms, not up against the ubiquitous culty vibe that I myself held against Charlotteans who had the decal. I think (and believe) that a few years into this journey called faith, I’m a part of something bigger than a decal.