The air inside the clapboard chapel was thick and humid. Some parishioners fanned themselves with the Sunday bulletin, while others ignored the sweat running down their temples, soaking through the back of their shirts. Many arms were raised above their heads with their hands waving at the ceiling in praise; some swayed back and forth, and others clapped vigorously and sang along with the hymn of worship.
He has made me glad!
He has made me glad!
I will rejoice, for he has made me glad.
The preacher stood with a microphone and sang the hymn fervently, waving his black leather bible above his head. A pianist pounded on her keys, and a drummer thumped a steady rhythm while another strummed his guitar. A female vocalist crooned, and the rhythm increased, the preacher dancing and jumping. The praise and worship rising in the room like the energy at a rock concert, intensifying with each song. Throughout the wooden pews, people mumbled and chanted, babbling unknown words, sounds, and syllables. More arms reached up, palms open, waving the thick air. Despite the heat, arms were covered in long sleeves, and necks of dresses were cut no lower than the throat. The women wore their hair piled in buns atop their heads. No jewelry. No makeup. Children were scattered throughout the chapel, mimicking the behavior of the adults. They clapped and swayed and lifted their hands toward heaven.
In a Pentecostal church, worship and praise were for everyone, but before the preacher began his sermon, the children would be escorted from the chapel and gathered in the basement for Sunday school. Indoctrination began early.
The toddlers and infants remained with their parents unless they became disruptive, and then the mom could take her child to a room in the back of the chapel with a window through which she could observe the service and a speaker piping in the preacher’s message for her to hear.
In this Church, in 1967, a young couple worshipped and prayed with their 2-year-old daughter standing on the pew, raising her hands, trying to sing the songs. The mother was barely 20, the father 22. They lived in family housing on the campus of International Bible College in San Antonio, Texas. The father was studying to be a youth minister but also worked two jobs to support his young family. Chapel was a requirement. Worship services were held on Wednesday nights, Sunday mornings, and Sunday nights. Choir and music practice was on Thursday evenings, and youth events kept young people engaged on Saturdays. Women studied the bible together over coffee at least one morning throughout the week. They structured their lives around worship, praise, and going to Church.
“Praise God, alleluia, thank you, Jesus. Isn’t God great?” The lanky pastor said from the pulpit.
The swaying, worship, praising, and speaking in tongues, gradually subsided.
“Thank you, Jesus. Can you feel the presence of God in this space? We have invited Him in, and He is here. We can feel the Holy Spirit! Praise God.”
“Praise god!” some repeated.
“Amen. Amen.” The pastor said.
“Everyone sit down,” he commanded like some Southern Moses leading his people to the Promised Land.
The 2-year-old, her eyes animated, her dark curls sticking to her forehead, stood in the pew beside her mother.
“Everybody shit down!” She shouted.
Her mother, embarrassed and flustered, put her hand over her daughter’s mouth while older women glared at her and her child from behind cat-eye glasses.
“Everybody shit down!” the girl repeated as her mother scooped her into her arms and fled to the back of the Church while church-goers prayed under their breath for the heathen child.
….
I was that two-year-old girl. I grew up sitting in the church pew being told what to do–when to sing, when to worship, when to sit down, and what to think and believe. Sit down, shut up, and listen. This is what the bible says, and you must accept, or you will burn in hell for all eternity. The evangelical and Pentecostal churches I was raised in programmed people to be followers. But instead, I questioned, doubted, and hungered for more information, knowledge, and understanding. That preacher, bless his soul, was not asking us all to sit down but to be mired in the excrement of religion.
It takes less effort. To go to Church and “worship” than it does to sit in silent meditation with only you and God, spirit, the universe, Jehovah, Gaia. It is easy to think that church pew sitting and tithing will atone for one’s sins and make one “perfect.” It also limits one definition of faith and God. It puts God in the box of a church, diminishing and limiting our perception with an explanation and an idea of what God is– Zeus, a bearded man on a throne, Jesus, Allah. We have dozens of names for the all-mighty, but we have limited knowledge of what God is or might be, nor can we truly comprehend the alpha and the omega, infinite, all-knowing definitions of God.
An excellent website and presentation called scaleofuniverse.com by Cary Huang put into perspective the known elements of the universe from the tiniest – quantum foam—to the most massive—the observable universe. For me, this slideshow demonstrates how little the average person knows about the elements of life and the universe, and conversely, it presents the breadth of what God might be.
My parents had a minimal definition of God, which their Church taught them. They met at International Bible College (IBC) when my then 17-year-old mother stepped out in front of my father’s car. He was a 19-year-old Texas Methodist who dropped out of Texas A&M to follow his “calling” to become a youth minister. My father is a descendant of Gustav Elley, a Methodist minister and Texas Ranger. My mother’s great, great, great, great, great grandfather was Father John Kehler, who came to Colorado in 1860 as the first Episcopal Priest. However, my grandmother was raised Catholic and became a born-again Christian when she was 17 after her mother walked by a Four Square church in Louisville, Colorado, and heard a preacher reading from the bible in English and not Latin.
My middle name is Ruth. It was the name of that preacher’s wife.
My religious roots are like an Aspen grove, all interconnected, creating one living organism–me. However, growing up in a Pentecostal Church, I came to believe that life for the good Christians, those blessed by God, the truly saved, was all peaches and cream and that if my life was challenged or things were not perfect, something was lacking in my faith. I must not be saved. Growing up, I gave my heart to the Lord at altar calls. I prayed for salvation and perfection, to be baptized with the Holy Spirit, to speak in tongues, and to somehow find my own voice. To be like my namesake Ruth in the bible—”a woman of noble character.”
But I also wanted to be a writer, and I would write worldly fairy tales and love stories. I questioned why I would be inspired to put such words on paper and how that aligned with my desire to be pure, chaste, and noble. It was the initial perceived conflict of inspiration and creativity as coming from God and that inspiration not aligning with my religious upbringing that opened the door of my doubt and questioning—a wedge that, over time, would split me from religion—but leave me finally whole and rooted in faith and security.
This is my life’s story. I separated myself from Church from religion and continued to free myself from limiting beliefs. I know it will also speak to some of you who have already had something chip in that shell that has caused you to question your religion and faith and who want to crack open the geode to find the sparkling crystals inside.
Crystals form very slowly in a liquid cavity from evaporation or condensation. They are created from the chemical separation between liquid and solids when the molecules cluster together to become stable, much in the same way that, over time, I have sought out the wisdom and experiences of others to find my stability. I share my story to help you find the same and begin your unique journey from religion back to however you choose to comprehend God. Our experiences will be different, and that is ok. I only hope that my story will spark something in your life.
I heard these messages over and over. Be obedient. Be a servant. Do what others tell you. You are flawed. Christ is perfect. Give. Give some more. Commit. Never waiver. Be afraid. Fear not. God loves you just as you are—now change—don’t do this, and don’t do that. Don’t think. Don’t be an intellectual. Focus on the kingdom of God and not the wrong things.
Separating from this religious upbringing is like pulling apart Velcro. It takes some time. It doesn’t happen overnight; all those little fibers stick together and must be loosened individually.