Every Sunday, at some point in the day, I think about church. I think about how much I hated it as a child, I think about how much I loved it as an adult (for the brief period that I went). I think about how we’ve become “Those Parents.” You know, the ones who send their children to church with Grandma and Grandpa while the congregation prays for our souls.
My boys love church, because they have had a completely different experience with it than the experience that I had.
If my experience as a had been different, I think I would love church more than anything.
When I think back to my childhood, I have good memories. My mother stayed home with us while my father worked a good paying job for the post office.
I remember making mud pies, playing with neighborhood kids. I remember trips to Disneyland. I remember my mom making food for school parties. I remember my dad being firm, but loving when I’d misbehave. I remember going to church on Sundays and going out to eat after the service.
I was a happy kid with an ordinary, but happy life.
All of that changed the day that The “Apostle” came into our lives.
The Apostle was a little, elderly man from India. I am not quite sure how my parents met him, but I’m sure it was through a member of the church. (My dad was/is a pastor.) At first, he was a delightful man—soft spoken, loving and kind. I used to love to sit in the front row and listen to him preach the Word of God.
But then, he started to teach “his” version of what being a Christian meant.
And my parents (along with every one else in the church) began to accept his teaching as The Word of God.
One sermon, one “AMEN, brother!” at a time, my life as I knew it would be changed forever in a way that haunts me to this day.
The Apostle taught us that women needed to dress modestly. The definition of modest changed every time he spoke of it. And he spoke of it often. The definition became very specific. No makeup (JEZEBEL!). No pants. No arms or legs showing. “Wipe that makeup off of your face, Monkey lips!” He once said to a women sitting in the front row of church.
Suddenly, it became a “sin” for a woman to wear make up. So the women all began showing up to church free from the evil makeup that was made with “ground up bones from aborted babies.”
He also taught that a woman was to submit to her husband and her “place” was in the home, not out in the workplace.
Suddenly, it was a sin for a woman to work outside of the home, for The Apostle said it was her place to breed and cook dinner for her husband.
The church agreed.
The Apostle read a scripture from 1 Corinthians that said “but every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, for that is one and the same as if her head were shaved.” He told us that women needed to “cover” their head before they set foot in the church. “Cover your heads, women!” He said from the pulpit. And without question, women began wearing “coverings” on their head whenever they entered the church.
The women who didn’t wear coverings were scolded and gossiped about for not submitting to the Word of the Lord.
Church was no longer a place to learn the teachings of Jesus. It no longer was a place where we learned how to live a Godly life. It was no longer a place that brought comfort to my soul, but rather a place that I dreaded to be because I had no idea if the outfit I was wearing would be condemned from the pulpit (“Button those buttons up, little girl!”) or if I would get a beating when I got home because I disrespected the “apostle” by acting like the ten year old that I was.
Eventually, my father realized that things had gotten out of hand and that this man wasn’t teaching “the word of God” but rather his own interpretation of God’s word.
I’ll never forget the moment that my father stood up to him and it is one of the reasons why I forgive my father for all that happened (although, clearly, I’m having a really fucking hard time forgetting.)
The “apostle” (Asspostle?!) was, once again, preaching AT the wimmins. He was talking about head coverings. Apparently, it wasn’t good enough for “God” if you wore the covering on your head. Oh! No! God wanted the covering to be pulled down over your forehead, just above your eyes! No, seriously! God said that to him!
My dad was translating the message into Spanish (because there was a large part of the congregation who did not speak English.)
“Pull your coverings down!” Asspostle shouted. “Pull them down and cover your foreheads!”
He waited for my dad to translate.
My dad stayed silent.
“Pull your coverings down!” He shouted again.
My dad remained silent.
He looked over at my dad. I knew something was about to happen from the look on my dad’s face.
“Translate that, brother!” He said to my dad.
“No.” My father shot back. “I will not.”
The “apostle” was stunned, as was everyone else in the church.
“I will not translate what you have just said, because that is not coming from the word of God. Those are YOUR words coming from YOUR mouth and I will NOT take part in telling people YOUR version of the bible.”
It was in that moment that my father acknowledged what had been happening was wrong.
My father has apologized repeatedly for what happened in those years and I do forgive him.
However, I have never been able to rid myself of the pain that came with losing my childhood, with having the most formative years of my life stripped from me, leaving me riddled with shame, insecurities and “what if’s.”
When I think of the high profile cults of the past—the People’s Temple, The Branch Davidians—I think about how EASY it is for people to get caught up in such teachings. Because people are afraid to question these men, they’re afraid of speaking out. They want so badly to believe, to be a part of something so great and Holy. Even when everything in their heart, soul and mind is saying “This is wrong”, they continue to follow blindly, because who are they to question GOD?
I’m not sure what my point is in writing this. I suppose I just wanted to finally put in writing how my once normal, happy childhood was irreparably damaged by one’s man interpretation of the word of God and by my parents’ willingness to blindly follow those words.
I am grateful for the experience it taught me to never blindly follow the words of a man and in learning that, my children will never have to go through such an ordeal. However, I can’t help but wonder if not taking them to church because of MY experience has harmed them in a different way.
I just don’t know.