Good News

I’m not sure when or how I got a copy of the Good News Bible. It was not allowed. There was only one approved version of the Bible and don’t you dare listen to those radio preachers. So I never heard the Good News, in fact most of it was bad news. If you don’t stop or start doing you will go to hell.

I was told the gospel was Acts 2:38, those three steps to salvation: repent, be baptized every one of you in Jesus name, and receive the Holy Ghost. You couldn’t say Holy Spirit, that was new-fangled and not in the approved version of the Bible. I can still see in my mind’s eye the huge wall size poster replica of stairs I painted for my Sunday school class depicting the three steps to heaven. Why kids, do these three steps and never make a mistake and you might, if you are “perfect” and never cut your hair, go to heaven. But you’ll never know for sure. God can be awful mean sometimes.

By the late 80’s to early 90’s, I rebelled. After years of crying, praying, and never understanding why I couldn’t be good. I started listening to the radio preachers, who gave me a glimpse into the Good News. Then in 1995, I began reading in earnest my Good News Bible and learned that the gospel is not Acts 2:38 but Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection for me. This gospel or good news is what I had missed all those years. It wasn’t my effort to save myself but His effort on the cross to save me that would get me to heaven.

And now I want to remind you, my friends, of the Good News which I preached to you, which you received, and on which your faith stands firm. That is the gospel, the message that I preached to you. You are saved by the gospel if you hold firmly to it—unless it was for nothing that you believed. I passed on to you what I received, which is of the greatest importance: that Christ died for our sins, as written in the Scriptures; that he was buried and that he was raised to life three days later… I Corinthians 15:1-4

Salem Part 2

Salem village in 1692 was small, and founded on religious principals. Everyone attended the same church. Church attendance was expected of everyone. The town was not a true theocracy, but religion played a large role in both the legal and social aspects of the village.

People sought explanations for the dangers and hardships at the time, and at least some of these were explained as the devil’s acts. Prayer, holiness, quietness, simplicity, dedication, and faithfulness were highly valued not just by a few but by the majority of people in the village.

Then some girls began to act strangely, having “fits” and “spells.” A doctor diagnosed them as being bewitched, and soon they named three women as witches- a slave, a homeless beggar, and a poor widow. The three accused were imprisoned to await trial.

The trials that took place to determine if these three really were witches were held or backed by the clergy, religious leaders of the time. Witchcraft was a spiritual problem, after all, and it was the Bible that said “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

There is a lot of speculation about why the girls started acting out. It is possible that they felt guilty for dabbling in fortune telling with the slave, Tituba, whom they later accused, and that the fits somehow were connected to this guilt. It’s also possible that there was something toxic in the water that affected them. And it’s just as possible that they were bored and tired of the controlled quiet and work that was expected of them all day every day and enjoyed the release of acting up. All of those are possible. I think many who’ve been spiritually abused might see other reasons…

Read Part One and Three.

Salem

In doing some research for a class project a year or two after being thrown out of a church, I came across an interactive activity enacting the trials. I sat clicking through it, stunned. I had been familiar with the trials, but I had never thought of them as closely related to my life. But here in an interactive about a bit of 300 year old history, was a reenactment of my expulsion.

https://education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/salem-interactive/

Are you a witch?
Why do you torture these people?
How do you know you’re not a witch?
We know you’re a witch!
How long have you been a witch?
Don’t deny it! Why won’t you confess?
How long have you been in the snare of the devil?
Why would you laugh? Don’t you see, you’re hurting these people?
You can’t expect peace without a confession!

You would sob, but it’s too much. You stood before your neighbors, your God and your judge and spoke the truth. They saw you, they heard you, and they jailed you.

Now, all of Salem, hungry for drama, seems to have squeezed inside the courthouse…

And on the story goes. Though it’s not precisely accurate, it’s not far from the real proceedings. https://web.archive.org/web/20160106151023/https://salem.lib.virginia.edu/texts/tei/swp?div_id=n24

The interactive haunted me. For the first time after I’d been thrown out, I had found an incident that was very similar to my own. Here is basically my interaction with the man who threw me out:

I feel in my spirit–you aren’t right! You’re lusting after me.
ME: “NO!”
Don’t argue with the man of God! I know you’re lusting after me, and you won’t destroy my ministry!
If you don’t get right, I’ll throw you out!
I don’t even know if you can be saved.
I knew someone was hindering revival!
You’re hindering revival! You need to repent!

He went on to tell me why he thought I was lusting. He had the spirit of discernment. He felt it in his spirit. I’d made him grab a folding chair I was sitting on and drag it around the room. I’d gone to the store at the same time he and his wife were there….

And so I identify with those tried as witches in Salem.

What happened in Salem, and why did the witch hunts and trials take place? Why were they allowed to go so far? Superstition, lack of knowledge or common sense, emphasis on the devil doing things to people, mass hysteria, toxins in the water or food, boredom, a fear of secret ‘sins’ being discovered, or guilt for those sins still hidden, the power of a few, the jealousy of others… there are many guesses as to what happened in Salem. I think it was a combination. And I think witch hunts still happen today.

Read Parts Two and Three.

True Worship

When I would go to a pastor for advice or support rather than praying or studying the Bible for myself, or when I would feel that God wanted one thing, but would second guess myself due to something that was preached or something the pastor said, something was definitely out of balance. I put my health and others’ at risk by going to church sick and pushing myself beyond reasonable limits. I bent over backward to make a good appearance, and was afraid to say “no” to any suggestion that was made.

In service, if everyone ran, I ran. If they danced, I danced. If the pastor indicated we should shout, I shouted. But none of that was worship.

Worship is a way of honoring God. If a person is focused on what other people are doing or are expecting you to do, they are honoring other people, not God. Worship is a form of love. It is not a mechanical, directed display, but a focused, heartfelt expression of adoration.

God, I want to be a true worshiper. Let my focus, love, adoration and worship be on You. Not on what others are saying or doing and not on what anyone else expects or demands, and not on what actions I’m performing. Worship is not a science of specific words, moves and actions, but an intimate place where the words, moves, and actions cease to have importance, because all are outweighed by love. Teach me to worship.

#WhyILeft Fundamentalism, Part 3

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on January 11, 2015.

Source: invisigoth88, Deviant Art

Continued from Part 2

That’s why I hide here in the dark
So no one has to see my pain…
But can You bring the keys to my heart
And help me find the way? – TFK, In My Room

My growing independence unsettled my parents.

The fear crept in subtly.

I buried myself in 15 credits fall 2011. Several nights of the week, I stayed in the Math Center on campus doing calculus homework with tutors.

But Dad freaked if I didn’t respond to his texts or calls right away, threatening to call campus police to check on me. I explained I got absorbed in study and didn’t check my phone often.

He taped an index card that said “Campus Police: 719-255-3111” to the kitchen microwave.

The landslide started. I was 22 years old.

December 2011: I started seeing a Christian counselor because Mom took my sister.

I told him how controlling my parents were, and he encouraged me to set boundaries. I wrote in my journal that he told me to stop thinking in terms of “shoulds” and “musts” and more in terms of “wants” and “your reasonable heart’s desires,” because the former is living under the law, and the latter is “where freedom is and where Christ wants you to be.”

We met regularly until his retirement in April.

After finals, my parents raided my room, confiscating all Harry Potter books I owned and other fantasy they found objectionable. And two Harry Potter DVDs I’d checked out of the library.

Mom opened my bank statements. Said I spent too much money at Christmas. Opening any mail or packages addressed to me became a requirement for living in their house.  I objected. They grounded me from attending a white elephant gift exchange party with my online writers’ group. Dad drove my sister instead.

January 2012: Dad said my hair had to be cut off because women with longer hair are more likely to get raped according to a book Mom read on self defense. I fought him for three weeks, gave in and donated 14 inches to Locks of Love.

My parents took away internet and cellphone access and driving privileges the last two weeks of winter break. I chatted with my friend Anna G. in Dallas on my mom’s iPad in the morning and on the landline with Cynthia B. so I didn’t hurt myself. I felt so trapped.

They threatened to prevent me from driving to campus for classes and work unless I signed a written contract. I didn’t like being manipulated, so I agreed to the chore list and asked them not to pay me.

My curfew was 7:30 p.m.

February 2012: I discovered my study buddy Racquel and Cynthia B.’s numbers were blocked on my cellphone. My mom said Dad told her to block them on our family plan since they’d encouraged me to move out. So I called them using campus phones.

March 2012: Dad and I fought at midterms because he wouldn’t let me study. I was enrolled in 17 credits (Organic Chemistry 2, Chaucer, Bacteriology, an English senior seminar, and a Merck honors research lab class) and tutoring on campus part-time.

I told him I wanted to move out after finals. He cried and told me he wanted to be a hedge of protection around me as long as possible.

April 2012: I bought tickets to go to New Life Church’s Easter production, the Thorn, for the first time. My dad said he didn’t approve, I went anyway.

May 2012: After finals, we took our last family vacation together to Camden, Maine. Mom and Dad said they had an idea. They would send me to Bob Jones University.

I didn’t want to leave UCCS after three years and attend an unaccredited school. I read the 2012 BJU student handbook and told my parents I wasn’t comfortable with rules like “on and off campus, physical contact between unmarried men and women is not allowed” and “Headphones may be used for educational purposes only and may not be used to listen to music” because it sounded Orwellian.

I didn’t want to leave one box for another.

They allowed me one phone call to Nia, a writing mentor. She said prepare to move out ASAP.

June 2012: Mom and Dad laid hands and prayed over me, saying I had been given to them as a loan when I was born and they were giving me back to God. They said determining God’s will for my life was up to me now.

I went with my writer’s group buddies to a 10:30 pm showing of Snow White and the Huntsman. I texted my parents before going. I came home, everyone was asleep. I woke up and the car keys were gone for a week as punishment.

July 4, 2012: I visited the Bob Jones campus with my family. I wasn’t allowed my laptop or cellphone so friends couldn’t sway me. I still didn’t want to transfer, even though Dad said I didn’t have to be a dentist if I went.

July 22, 2012: Met with my parents and my pastor after church. My pastor asked if I was being physically or sexually abused. I said no, my dad was just controlling and I wanted freedom to follow God on my own. He said the only way to honor my parents was to transfer to BJU.

July 23, 2012: I told an English professor and my chemistry research professor, Dr. Owens, what was happening. They listened to me, helped me sort my thoughts. Told me independence was part of growing up, that virtue in a closet is not virtue. Said to listen to my heart.

I told my parents to give me another week to decide. The next day, I got an email from BJU saying my registration fee had been paid. I called my mother and asked her to explain. She said they figured I’d go.

My parents tracked my location using the GPS on T-Mobile’s Family Anywhere feature. They checked multiple times a day and knew from the satellite map of the building if I was working in the research lab or standing in my professor’s office. So I was scolded for driving to a mentor’s house for advice.

July 27, 2012: I walked to investigate apartments near campus since my parents took the car. My mom told me they’d emptied my savings account of nearly $10,000. The funding I was using to leave. Money I earned working for Dad and money they gave me as my college savings.

July 29, 2012: Another meeting with the pastor. I said God’s will seemed muddled. He said I was letting Satan confuse me. He said BJU was the only Scriptural way to honor my parents. I twisted my hands in my lap, said I couldn’t do it. He said, “Then I’ve got nothing more to say to you,” and walked out.

I sat in the pew sobbing. My mom came in.

I said, “Do you realize I can never come back here for church now?”

July 30, 2012: Dr. Owens picked me up and took me to the bank so I could remove my parents from my checking account, which only had $200. I drove her car from campus to a downtown branch, but the bank couldn’t transfer the money back to my account.

I signed up for my own cellphone plan. And my friend Mary W. and her mom gave me one of their bikes, a helmet, and gloves for transportation.

August 1, 2012: I signed a lease for an apartment with my roommate. Dr. Owens gave me $500 towards the deposit.

Mom and Dad said my possessions must be out of the house by 5 p.m. Around 3 p.m., I texted friends for help. I dragged furniture and boxes out onto the front porch in pouring rain.

Five carloads of friends came, carrying my punk pink-haired friend Kat, Ivy, Adaeze, Elsie, the Peveto twins, and Kristi and John.

Mom took my house key, but she couldn’t kick me out in front of all my friends. We pulled up at the apartment complex around 7 p.m.

And I was out.

Or so I thought.

Read Parts One and Four.

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