Out Of The Dark

Twenty years ago this month, I started my search for a way out of the dark.

I'm taking the liberty to be a little preachy today. I was raised to be a conservative. A religious zealot. A Bible believing fundamentalist. Hard-core Pentecost. What it says is what it means. Church three and four times a week, two hours of prayer time every Wednesday night, and at least one forty day fast a year. I watched people run down the aisle and scream for redemption. Like if they hollered loud enough, made a big enough spectacle of themselves, they’d be sure to reach the ear of God. Our lives revolved around the church, its people, its sole pastor, and its rules.

What a life, eh? As women, our choices were few.

I was told because I went to a certain church, believed this way, that I was “better off” than everybody else. I figured with all we had goin’ for us, we were God’s chosen people, not the Jews. In the 70s, I just knew the rapture was going to take place. My kids would never see high school, and why save for the future? Why buy a house? No need to save for your child’s education. Why bother? Give every extra dime to the church to win the lost through the media of television. In fact, don’t have children. Not in this day and age. Don’t bring children into this world of sin. It’s less time and money you’ll have to give to the church!

I grew up with the notion of ask and ye shall receive. I don’t think it's that simple. I think you can ask until your blue in the face, and you’ll get what you get. Whether you deserve it or not. I’m not sure about divine intervention. I’ve seen too much to the contrary.

I’ve seen many pay a huge price for their sanity to get out from under the heaviness of “scared religion” in more than just one church. It ain't easy. Many never recover. Never feel worthy, or good enough, ever again. The idea that salvation comes from a single moment of divine intervention infuriates me. I know men and women who are genuinely evil. In their mind, they’ll ask for forgiveness on their deathbed and think they’ll be alright. Mmm-mmm. Can you swallow that? Not me. But that’s okay. I sure don't have the answers about all that, and neither does anybody else no matter how divine they lead you to believe they are.

And yet I know – salvation is a gift. You don’t have to get all washed up before you accept it. But what bothers me, though, is the way it’s used as a means to lift one’s self up above other people. Or as a quick fix when it all goes down the toilet.

We believed that our church was the only worthy church. We were basically a lower to middle class congregation, but honestly believed we were exceptional in some way. Really beautiful and really smart people, we thought. Kissed by Jesus.

Everybody else was background noise and bound for the flames of hell.

Then things fell apart. The bottom dropped out twenty years ago for me.

These days, I feel light and thankfully delivered from all that bondage. It took years and years, but I had to relearn all about the love of God, and at times I questioned whether there was a God. Religion nearly ruined me. Nearly killed me.

But since then, a lot of hypocrites have been uncovered. Many more still remain in churches that have become subtler over time and remain just as dangerous as they ever were.

I’m grateful and thankful, I don't believe in scare ‘em to death religion anymore—haven’t believed it for nearly twenty years now. I became spiritual and shunned religion. I don't shun someone who doesn't believe like I do anymore. I'm one of the few true survivors.

I like the fact that God gave me a brain to think for myself. I don’t necessarily agree with the left or the right. I’ll live and work beside anyone that’s of a kind heart, a cool head, and an open mind. I’m thankful my parents fled scared religion long before I found my way out.

Give me my grandma’s little white church in the wildwood, where we praised God and didn’t give a hoot how we looked. Where we were never interrogated when we missed church or felt like we had to out give the next fella in the pew. Give me simple faith. I’ll take emotionalism over religious hierarchy any day. I’ll take a tickle the ear sermon on the mercies of God, rather than a timeline of God’s dispensation of grace that’s about to run out. Or messages of doom and gloom and the end of the world. That stuff nearly stole my youth. No more proverbial prosperity messages shoved down viewer’s throats to pay for TV time, Please! And no, I don’t think you have to be poor to love God. But there’s a difference in giving and giving to get. Yeah, I know the scriptures … pressed down, shaken together, and running over … and I believe them … but I’ll never give again to some over extended televangelist to pay for his expensive cars, suits, satellites, and expensive hotel bills.

Or blindly give until you end up so poor you can’t pay your own bills, and the pastor uses it as a means to control you. It happens … oh yes, it happens.

Twenty years ago, I found my way out. It took almost everything from me. But the one and only thing it gave me was a treasure box full of stories. Deep, dark, religious thrillers to fill volumes. Stories of men and women finding their own way out of the darkness.

Not about snake handlers, necessarily. And not all filled with humor like Steve Martin's, “Leap of Faith.” More present day stories, more frightening, and just as twisted. The working class church congregations are where the stories are. The rich and powerful televangelists have been taking advantage and riding our asses for our last dime since the first black and white TVs rolled off the line. I don't want to see the powerful TV zealots made over into a story that glorifies them. Our stories are glory enough.

Blessings to you and yours.