Since my mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis and my subsequent takeover of her electronic activity / socials, I’ve had the unique opportunity, via Facebook, to peer into the lives and goings-on of people I know, people I knew, and, frankly, people I wish I never had.
Not unrelated to this, the farther away I get from organized religion and the shackles that had on me, the more inclined I am to pore over it, as though hunched over my microscope, zooming in and looking at each network as one connects to another to make up the minutiae of the massive web that it is.
Most recently, it was when I was in my mom’s Facebook account and stumbled across a post by someone I knew in childhood; this man has proudly just accepted the position of lead pastor at some arbitrary evangelical church in Ontario. And because I had a minute or 10 while my 3-year-old was napping, I thought, “fuck it,” and I clicked on this church’s website just to take a peek at what they’re all about.
GOOD LORD, my heathen siblings. The things I read just about made me choke on my tea. And I’ll tell you—it’s not that anything I read was exceptional in any way, because it was absolutely par for the course—it’s just that I’m finally looking at this stuff with the eyes and mind of a person who’s sloughed religion off, and who’s worked hard to chip away at the indoctrination seared into my brain.
That’s no easy task, either.
I still viscerally remember spending Wednesday nights in childhood at AWANA, quietly mumbling the creepy anthem, memorizing and reciting Bible verses, and coming up with spectacularly drab excuses for why I couldn’t participate in the team sports portion of the evening. My tummy simply hurt too much, as it was mysteriously wont to do every Wednesday evening from 6:30-8:00pm.
I mean, was it all bad? Heck yeah it was! But did I at least develop lifelong relationships with my brothers and sisters in Christ, each of whom has carried me and loved me through the years? LOL, my guy. Nay. The main thing, though, is that I can still recite John 3:16: For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Because that’s the important stuff of this life, right?
So now, knowing that this verse is the premise upon which Christianity teeters precariously, I just…I HAVE SOME QUESTIONS. Not least of all is the one that revolves around the fact that I’m an elder millennial who’s lived through myriad traumas and life-altering events with a cognitive disability and thriving mental illness—so I’d like to know: given that eternal life feels like a bonafide punishment, can I pick perish? I just really wanna pick perish.
I’m supposed to believe that the god who created heaven and earth and every human and organism therein, he whose omniscience granted him knowledge of all acts present and future, he who for some reason unbeknownst to me felt it necessary to sacrifice his only child knowing full well that he wouldn’t stay dead, THEREBY NOT ACTUALLY MAKING A SACRIFICE WHATSOEVER, in order to save humankind from the things he will do to them if they opt not to blindly worship him, IS ACTUALLY A LOVING GOD?
I’m sorry, but uh, have y’all ever known love? Can any Christian who also happens to be a parent please explain to me how they figure that admonishing your children *for any reason whatsoever* to an eternity of suffering constitutes love in the slightest?
Look. I’ve not met god, I’ll give you that, but I have met men; and what I can tell you is that this worship-me-or-die trope sounds an awful lot like that store-brand violent, misogynistic abuse that dudes snort like cocaine.
Any deity who promises to save you from his wrath on the condition of blind worship is, my friends, a run-of-the-mill abuser. Period.
No one, not god or man, can convince a person that they’re deserving of punishment and in need of saving without first convincing them that they’re empty, broken, and altogether nothing without him. It is *astounding* to me that this is actually the basis of this religion—that Christianity doesn’t even fucking try to hide that shit. That’s the real kicker; they’ll say it with their whole chests—and congregations across the planet accept this, get down on their knees, and tithe their hard-earned dollars to the pastors who peddle this shit.
In the words of Karen and Georgia of the My Favorite Murder podcast, YOU’RE IN A CULT; CALL YOUR DAD.
So there I am perusing this church’s aRtIcLeS oF fAiTh AnD pRaCtIcE, reading some awfully haughty guidelines concerning what constitutes a marriage (one man and one woman, DUH), about the importance of forcing pregnant people to give birth against their will (I’m paraphrasing here; sue me), and about not joining any oath-bound secret societies, for some reason??
That one is really bad for me, actually, as I reflect back on the Secret Scattergories Society (SSS) that I was a member of back in my university days in the early aughts; we’d meet under cloak of darkness every second Saturday at 3:00am as a small, passionate, and committed group of individuals who understood the value of a good, unsullied game of Scattergories. Now that I write this, though, I wonder if I’m in breach of contract. I can’t remember whether or not I signed an NDA. Anyway, I suppose if I’m being relinquished to the seas of fire and fury it doesn’t matter much.
Y’all.
The mortification I feel over having been a card-carrying member of this boldly unhinged religion for more than two decades is STRONG. I have to assume, though, that the pride I feel in having sloughed it all off is directly proportionate to that shame. To have found myself, to have loved and fostered the squelched and strangled parts of me and allowed them to thrive—that is a fucking gift.
That’s not the point, though. The point is twofold:
Religion is trash, and Christianity can eat an entire bag of dicks but not before it releases the millions of people it’s brainwashed for shits & giggles.
I really ought to stay off Facebook. That one’s a given, though. And it applies to you, too. All of us, really.
As my sisters and I like to say, religion is FMBM—pronounced “fumbum”—For Men, By Men™, and not to be fucked with. It’s a shame factory planted on the fertile grounds of Exploitation Station, and how it’s not plastered in caution tape and warning signs is beyond me.
None of my never mind, though. I don’t fuck with that shit, after all.
It’s all FMBM. So call your dad, for fuck’s sake. You’re in a cult.
I am forever grateful that my parents do not believe in all that. My mom is a little more on the spiritual side of things and like believes in a Creator and will "pray" to the women on her side who have continued their journey buuuut that's about it. I would not have survived the evangelist cult. Yikes.