Billboards, Church Houses, and Cathedrals

 

I recently enjoyed a fantastic vacation down South. While making that drive, as a religious abuse survivor, I was greatly aware of signs and messages with religious sentiments being shared and often in fearful ways. This is nothing new as I’ve grown up in the Bible Belt and as a former fundamentalist, the tactic is one I know all too well. But it seemed that the further south I went, the more prominent these messages became. I continued to see billboards, stating they were truth. “Repent,” the Sinner’s Prayer, and the fact that I needed Jesus were constantly thrown in my face while making that drive down Interstate 95. It didn’t always bother me. Sometimes, I would laugh. Other times, I’d feel my stomach twist. I even reminded myself that they have a right to speak freely. Then there were the moments that I let out a relieved and yet frustrated breath. I hated that kind of “in your face” witnessing. I hated Chick Tracts, knocking on doors each Saturday, passing out Gospel tracts, and being arrogant and ignorant while doing so.

A couple of months ago, while walking with one of my young, loved ones, I was approached by a smiling man in my local Walmart parking lot. He held in his hands a pile of Chick Tracts. I took one being held out to me to examine, and asked him, “Is this a Chick Tract?” He smiled and said, “Why, yes! Do you want it?” I shook my head and said, “no thank you.” I handed it back to him. I felt protective of the youngster with me even though I knew they understood what that fear and shame inducing religious propaganda was. Of course, they wouldn’t view it like I did, as an adult, and as someone who knew how vile the founder of Chick Tracts was. I was cordial and polite, because being combative wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. Plus, I knew what it was like to be that man, passing out those ridiculous stories about satanic panic, inaccurate information about health conditions such as AIDS and how by simply living your life, you were doomed to damnation. If I were on my own, I have no doubt, I would have likely taken the opportunity to actually TALK to the guy.

Back to those billboards though. Like I said, I continued to see For Truth on each one. On a random whim, I googled that, and found the source for those billboards. They are for the Amish, Mennonite, and other Anabaptist groups. In fact, the group Christian Aid Ministries was responsible for those billboards. Christian Aid Ministries have child sexual abuse scandals left and right. I was not surprised by this. Abuse is everywhere in religious settings.

These billboards reminded me of my past. They reminded me of what I never wanted to be, of what I fought not to become. It reminded me that religion can be good, but also arrogant and self-serving. I never understood why we needed to tell how sinful a human being was while living our saintly lives in religious fundamentalist movements that were actually quite abusive. I was reminded where the “Golden Rule” of treating others kindly has been neglected in Christianity. Where recruitment takes preeminence over loving others.

It can be both useful and frustrating to be informed on religious abuse. Useful because it provides me the ability to have knowledge that can help me help others or approach unique situations carefully. Frustrating because I so often “just know” that something is off when it comes to religion. It’s like a learned gut intuition and one I rarely can turn off. I often have to ignore it, so I’m not bombarded with it. I call this part of knowledge my brain’s filing cabinet. Something I see often triggers the learned info inside of the cabinet and suddenly I have access to files of stored data. This is how my brain works with random things, but since I have devoted years in the past of learning, researching, and understanding religious abuse and cults, there is quite a bit of information stored there.

In spite of the negative emotions I felt over those billboards and that guy passing out Chick Tracts in my favorite local store, I recall the incredibly moving experience of visiting St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City recently. I walked to the front of that historically and visually beautiful church and took a seat. I listened as mass began and when it was made known that as a nonbeliever, I could not partake in communion but could ask the priest for a blessing, I got up and explored that sacred place instead. The music was gorgeous, the architecture breathtaking, and the shame suddenly crept up inside of me. I felt like a reprobate, sitting in a pew of a religion I was taught to hate. I reminded myself that I was groomed as a child to feel hatred for Catholics, but I no longer held those views as an adult. I felt connected somehow in that spiritual place. I wasn’t drawn to convert to Catholicism and as a religious abuse survivor, I am well aware of the scandals surrounding child abuse in the Church. I felt though that I understood somehow on a deep-down level that spiritual connection, and I realized for the thousandth time again, that I do not hate religion. I hate religious abuse.

Often, that part of my truth is misunderstood. Whether ill-intentioned or not, I have people who have often asked if after all my negative experiences, do I hate religion? I do not. I just feel that at this point in my journey, I may be a guest at religion’s table, but won’t be dining there often. I’ve returned to IFB churches, both out of family obligations and as a visitor who was curious to see how much of it, I remembered. I left rejuvenated my last visit as odd as that sounds. I and my partner chose a pew at the back of a small congregation of maybe ten. We listened and I explained everything I saw. I flipped to the books of the Bible mentioned as if I had done it all my life… because, well, I had. I sang the songs that brought back some bittersweet memories of my late mother. I was polite when speaking to the pastor and his wife, asking how long they had been at the church, and how it was founded. I cringed seeing the way they recruited military. I felt that the pastor’s wife’s smile was genuine but only for a season. I knew her tone and that if I were under her command, it would get nasty quick. Still, I felt connected to my roots. These were my people, but thankfully, today I am my own person.

So, Chick Tracts, billboards, church houses and cathedrals have all had a place in my life. I was born to the church and the church raised me, but unlike the prodigal son this prodigal daughter no longer longs for home. Especially when home is abusive. I understand that blood is not thicker than water, not even the proverbial blood of the Jesus IFB taught me cleansed me of my childhood sins. Still, there is a space in my heart that does not say the sinner’s prayer but sends a prayer of hope that others will leave the pews of abusive churches and find freedom in healing from abuse.

I do not have to believe like I was taught to have faith. I have faith in the hard work of survivors, of resiliency, of learning to heal after trauma. I have faith in dedication, determination, and deconstruction. I know that to rebuild is possible after church abuse. I know that grief can give way to rebirth. I understand that the sermon of a hellfire and brimstone pastor is not the sermon of all pastors. I believe in the kindness of the human spirit. Of a stranger offering a smile and a helping hand, of the strength of survivors to be a lifeline to other victims.

Most of all, all of these reminders tell me that I have survived and I’m thriving. That I’m living my best life yet. That struggles can be viewed in a different light, and I now have that ability after hard work on my part to do so. I was able to grasp how fortunate I am to now be where I am, that I’m present and always becoming. I feel a sense of deep gratitude to others who understand the life we have lived and are now living now, and that they shared their experiences that left us all feeling a little less alone. I feel a peace I’ve never known even in fundamentalism.