#Cult of a religion that I will vehemently hate for the rest of my life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

papcrback · 7 years

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awake; nonfiction/ memoir

Here is a piece that I wrote in my nonfiction class this past semester. It is centered around my experience with religion. From a young girl in awe of her Catholic church to a young woman who was forced into a new cult-like church by her mother.

My family went to church twice a year every year without fail. Every Christmas and Easter we would carpool my entire extended family to the church and attend Mass. There were no questions, no arguments, not a complaint to be heard. This was law.

My two older sisters and I were always gifted new dresses for the festivities, and we wore our matching gowns with pride as we swayed and sashayed down the aisle and into our pew. Our church was grandiose and beautiful. The marble-like floor sparkled as the kaleidoscope of color rained in through the glass-stained windows near the top of the church, like a vibrant halo sitting perfectly atop the picturesque structure.

My church was a beautiful castle where priests would rise and tell stories of the Bible with such passion and grace that I always found myself sitting on the edge of the pew, transfixed by the stories of Mary and Joesph and their miracle baby. My favorite part of these services was when he would tell a story of his own choosing—one that always made you think, made you wonder what you would do, how you would choose if you were in their shoes. They always ended with a peaceful resolution because the main character made the righteous choice, always keeping God’s words as their guide through their stories. These church visits brought me peace and shared the wisdom that I hold dear to me, even to this day.

When I was fifteen this tradition was shattered.

As my parents sought out religious marriage counselors my mother stumbled upon an online add for Cornerstone Church. She quickly called and explained her uncertainty in her marriage, her suspicion of infidelity, and her desperate need for help. After their first session, my mother made the decision to convert us to the Baptist church.

She quickly found out that biannual church-goers like ourselves were snubbed as “chreasters” (people who attended only on Christmas and Easter) by the members of our new church, and my mother decided from that moment on that we were going to leave our old traditions behind, along with the Catholic church, as we converted to this new Baptist faith.

On our first visit, my sister and I were pulled to the side and spoken to by the head ladies of the church. We were warned that we were going to hell and that unless we repented, asked God for forgiveness, and turned away from our life of sin, we would be eternally damned to live in the lake of fire and brimstone forever.

“I don’t understand,” I said to my sister, interlocking our arms as we hid behind a large tree outside of the church. We were waiting for our parents who were speaking to the assistant pastor by the entrance doors.

“Why is everyone so mean here?” I asked. My sister, Courtney, shook her head as she tightened her grip on me, and after seeing my parents turning toward us, immediately pulled me toward the car.

That was the last time Courtney went, however, it wasn’t without a fight from my mother, who now passionately believed that Sunday was the Sabbath and it was a sin to not attend church, and an additional sin to work on it. Courtney, who was never particularly religious in the first place, told my mother that she could add it to her now growing “list of sins,” and worked every Sunday from then on. My other sister Brittany, who was away at school, tried to ease tensions but was also noticing the new sinister streak that my mother had inherited since joining this new church. She drank the Kool-Aid and was now Hell bent on erasing the sin from the rest of her family.

My father had conflicting feelings about the new church. He was trying to repair the marriage that was quickly deteriorating, but after a particularly explosive counseling session at the church, he moved his clothes and books upstairs into the guest bedroom and refused to go back again. My mom kicked him out of the house a month later and blocked him from my cell phone. She claimed that his sin needed to be atoned for and losing his children was just the beginning of it. I was unable to speak to him for four years until I finally moved out of her house.

After my mother had declared her sentencing of my father, a bold line was drawn. My sisters, although not much older than myself, were old enough to choose their own sides. And after my mother’s blatant mental breakdown consisting of a screaming fit at a graduation, a fist fight in the front yard, and multiple stalking allegations, my mother had officially shattered.

Somehow the family of five had been reduced to two.

Our twice a year celebration turned into a twice a week responsibility, which now included a three and half hour service every Sunday morning alongside our Wednesday Bible study groups. I was signed up for every group, meeting, and festival that the church held, as my mother was attempting to solidify her position in the church.

My mother’s sinister streak did not end with the banishment of my father and sister. Instead, it was simply redirected. With every passing month, I could feel myself harden inside. I began to truly listen to the pastor preach every Sunday. I would see how my peers would talk about others. How they would view them as if they were nothing more than dirt and grime.

They would speak of women who dressed immodestly. Her shirt not to her neck or her dress above her knees. “This is a whore,” they would say, “how could someone treat their bodies so carelessly? How could you tempt men like that? Don’t you care about how men will lust after you? Men cannot control themselves. As a wife you are to serve your husband however and whenever he wants, but not until you are married, or else you are a whore.” I began to pull my sweaters close and hide my body, ashamed of how men looked at me, knowing that it was my fault that their eyes lingered around my covered chest. Knowing that my body was more theirs than my own.

They would speak of two men kissing. “Sin, sin, sin. They are possessed by demons.” My Pastor would say, “God destroyed an entire city because of them. They are destined for hell. They have chosen evil.” I began to fear those different than me, afraid that I would too become possessed.

I would think of my father and think adulterer-sinner-evil. My mother would preach daily that he was hell-bound, possessed by demons and unworthy of Heaven. He was of the world. And I was cut of the same cloth.

One Sunday, as we were welcomed into the church and seated alongside our new family, the pastor stood up and called for our attention. “One of our own needs our help today. She needs all of us. Mary would you please stand.”

A woman who I recognized as a member of my mother’s bible group stood, the man seated next to her rose as well.

“Mary’s son has fallen to homosexuality. He has been possessed because of the sinful and worldly nature of his lifestyle. He has watched pornography and through this sin, he has opened himself up to the demon of homosexuality.”

Murmurs of disgust echoed through the room and Mary’s face reddened into a deep purple as her eyes welled.

“Mary, you have come to me and asked that we all pray for you son.” Mary nodded her head.

“What is his name?” Mary looked at the man standing next to her. He bent down as she whispered the name into his ear. Women were not permitted to speak during the service.

“His name is Toby.” The man, Scott, who was a junior Pastor and often came into my youth group meetings, announced.

The Pastor nodded his head solemnly. “We will be praying for Toby to be awoken to his sin. We will pray for harm to fall unto him. For the devil to attack. For the demons inside of him to swallow him whole. It is only then that he will truly see the light of God and come forward to be saved. He must first see the severity of the sin that he has chosen.”

I starred at the Pastor for a long moment and was elbowed in the rib by my mother when he began the prayer as I was still staring off idly. This was my moment of clarity. As I listened to a chorus of people pray to God that this young boy would be harmed (for his own good, you see!) I could feel the hypnotic-like haze evaporate from my body. Suddenly, I felt very sick, as the gravity of the situation hit me.

I wasn’t allowed to stop going to services and bible study, but my awakening led me to see the world differently than I previously had. I no longer saw women as objects to be presented to men. I no longer saw those in other religions as less than or unworthy. I no longer saw myself as better than girls who didn’t attend church on Sundays or read their bibles before bed at night. I was awoken to the color of the world, seeing truly that life was not black or white. Good or evil. Heaven or Hell. I was not just a sinner. I was a human being in a world with more to it than the hate and resentment that this church so vehemently fed off.

I graduated high school not long after the predatory prayer was introduced into the church. Years later I am ashamed of how twisted and toxic I allowed my thoughts to become. Knowing that I condemned love as hate and freedom as sinful is shameful. I have struggled with the idea of religion ever since and feel most comfortable with the idea of living peacefully with a loving and open heart rather than following any specific ideology. It took me a long time to realize that the church that my mother had brought us to was not really a church, but rather a cult.

A few months after I moved out of my mother’s house a news article caught my attention. Church Pastor arrested for sexual and physical abuse of children. The mugshot on the front page caught my eye, the familiar deep domineering black holes staring right back at me. His jeer made my stomach churn as I read the article.

A close friend of the Pastor’s family reports that he made his wife and daughters bleach the garage every Sunday night. From floor to ceiling. Apparently, this is where he would sexually assault his daughters. He believed this bleach ritual has cleansed him of his sins.

I emailed the article to my mother. She simply replied the World doesn’t understand God’s work.

#my writing #memior #nonfiction

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