My Oceania: Part One

My Oceania wasn't Winston Smith's Airstripe One that settled on what used to be London.  Mine looked more like rural towns, bumpy backroads rarely paved and farmland stretched out on every side. There were fields of peanuts where the smallest breeze kicked up dust, leaving a sheer coat of dirt on the windows of your vehicle while you drove past. It wasn't cool or damp often unless it was early Spring or an unusual cold front that would move in after a Summer thunderstorm would interrupt your mid-afternoon plans. And instead of rows and rows of townhouses and complexes made of brick—crumbling or otherwise—there were old farmhouses, weather worn boards showing and the commonly peeling paint trademark that would pop up every few miles or so in between towns and right outside of their limits.

This isn't the town I lived in but rather the well memorized trek that led to the one place mine and my family's lives revolved around. Oddly, the destination isn't threatening. And why would it be? A small, backwoods country church with simple white siding and pale blue trim. When you arrive, piano music from a group of fellow church members practicing with only minutes remaining on the clock that always seemed to start two minutes prematurely, greets you behind the deafening sounds of an outdated and failing air conditioning unit. There seems to always be a remark from the leadership that congregants would be better worshipping in the heat of late Summer than to cover the cost for a new system. I just nod, agreeing and walking along, mentally preparing myself to enter the doors of this benign looking building.

                            
I'm already tired and right now one of my biggest fears is that a helpless yawn, out of its own accord, will escape and paint me as an uninterested worshiper, especially during the sermon hour. It's been a worry of mine ever since an old preacher came through with thinning white hair comically combed just right to disguise his aging baldness. His words and admonishing are still in my mind, warning me not to slip up and give in to my physical flesh that needs to be brought into submission when it's exhausted. I feel guilty for being more concerned about my lack of sleep and the gnawing ache beginning in the pit of my stomach courtesy of a breakfast that I know won't stand up to the hours it will take for services to end. These are my two most pressing thoughts. Those, and the ever countdown that seems to always be in the back of my head.

This is Sunday morning routine. A process well memorized at this point. A habit I was born not to break. It's tradition.

The word tradition, although constantly preached against as Pharisetical, is probably the most constant presence in Christian Fundamentalism. In my particular brand, by far the most continued practice of tradition, is the respect and loyalty to our community's leader. An Independent Fundamental Baptist (IFB) pastor is the final say since he's God's mouthpiece, speaking and leading the flock according to the special leading of the Holy Spirit. He's anointed by God after receiving "the Call" and surrendering to "the Ministry." And what God has anointed, no man, women, boy or girl can touch.

                           
"Touching God's anointed" translates to many different things. This could be a person trying to destroy a Man of God's ministry by spreading falsehoods to damage his testimony, or simply a congregant ignoring the message the Almighty has placed upon their pastor's heart to deliver.

As a child, I vividly remember being told the Bible story of the mocking and blashpheming children who went against Jehovah's prophet, Elisha. While these kids went on to ridicule the Prophet for his sermons, age, and the vagrant looking clothes he wore, a bear suddenly appears and devours them, each and every one. By ten years old, I knew this story, believed it wholeheartedly and swore to never ridicule my pastor or any other Shepherd. From where I sat on the pew, tiny legs too short to reach the brown carpet beneath, my little girl feet dangling over the edge, I would anxiously scan the outdoors beyond the sanctuary's window to my left and off towards a wooded area, waiting for a rare bear sighting. One of my biggest worries was that, unbeknownst to me, I would somehow mock and ridicule my pastor. For years, I was convinced I would somehow meet my death this way.

That's only one example of the type of things that were planted in my brain from a very young age. The fear of not doing something like that yourself would sometimes mean being afraid someone you cared for would accidentally do it instead. In fact, just a wayward thought can be terrifying.

We were taught to not trust our minds, thoughts, and feelings. "Head knowledge" is a dangerous thing that if you weren't serious enough, convicted enough, and didn't repent enough when it came to your Salvation experience, you very well could end up damned. For some, and in my case, the conversion aspect was borderline traumatic...make that completely traumatizing, because it definitely was.

Fear was such a controlling part of my existence. Today, some old habits aren't quick to die off. My first instinct is to be afraid, but now it's followed by quickly trying to rationalize. Back in the old days (also known as my fundamental or Oceania days), the remedy to this kind of fearful thought or feeling was to stop it in its tracks. Fear leads to worrying, worry to doubt, and neither have a place in a fined-tuned Christian Fundamentalist's life. You are to check those hesitancies at the door and you do that with Scripture and putting an end to that negative thought in order not to sin.

All of this was mandatory when it came to that backwoods country church that I grew up in. Check your emotions at the door if they're your own, however, be ready for them to be engaged by what sure seemed like a master puppeteer once you entered that building. So one of the many facets of my Oceania were emotional control and the inability to think for oneself. And for the record...no, I no longer steel myself for unexpected bear sightings, but the guilt of just writing this feels awful familiar to the concern that never seemed to go away when it came to "God's anointed."

My Oceania, IFB, was authoritarian, patriarchal, and demanded absolute authority and dedication to our leader. To question that...well, you don't question anything in Oceania. Not ever.

Photos courtesy: Google/jesus.is.savior.com,Google/hard preaching.com