TW: I do discuss my experience with receiving the Holy Ghost and dress standards in the way that is taught in apostolic Pentecostal churches, as well as my baptism. It is primarily told from the perspective I had at the time.
I have to put another disclaimer before I continue: I was in this church organization for nearly two decades, but portions of my memory are a big blur. There are large blocks of time I have forgotten entirely. Part of this is due to a series of medical events later on, and partly due to complex trauma. I will endeavor to piece together what I do remember, as it’s the crucial foundation that has shaped who I am today. Everything I write, however, is my truth. My experience. And no one can take that away from me. With that being said, lets delve into the past— twenty years, to be precise…
Walking into the church for the first time was like walking into a whole new world. It was a smallish congregation, at least compared to the mega non-denominational churches with celebrity pastors I’d attended before. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming. I was shy, so I clung to my friend. We’ll call her “Raylene.” (I’m not going to use real names at any point in my posts, by the way.) Many people came up to me and shook my hand. It was so different from what I’d experienced before. People cared about little old me? And there were young people!
As someone who loved singing, the vibrant music swept me away. The congregation singing at the top of their lungs, lifting their hands, oozing with emotion. Still hurting deeply, it touched something within me. And the preaching was very emotive, not holding back.
Still, I kept my guard up in those early days. I didn’t want to be treated like a lost person in need of Jesus. I already had Jesus! I’d accepted Him as my Lord and Savior, I’d even been baptized (in a high school pool), and I loved the Bible.
As time went on, however, I was starkly aware of my differences. I wore pants and jewelry, and I love to play with makeup (as any average teenage girl does). These were my new friends, but I still wasn’t quite “in” their world. Was I wrong? As kind as they were, I was an outsider. Think of how pleased they would be if I followed these new rules! Perhaps I would be more pleasing to Jesus too?
I agreed to the Bible studies. They taught me the “plan of salvation” according to Acts 2:38. No longer was accepting Jesus as your savior good enough. No, there was now a multi-step process to go through. The way it was presented sounded logical enough, though the thought of speaking in tongues was unnerving. And the studies on hair, clothing, and other holiness “standards” followed soon after, to explain why they all looked the way they did. Everything had a Bible verse to back it up in some shape or fashion. Surely that meant it was correct? I was inexperienced in exegesis and deeper, independent study, so I took their word on it.
By the time January of the following year rolled around, I’d already started wearing skirts. My mom was all too pleased to take me out shopping for them, as we’d been on the heels of our time in a different fundamentalist church that had also taught stricter modesty in dress (which I had actually shied away from before, ironically). She’d gone back to wearing pants already, but was 100% supportive of my own decisions to dress “modestly.”
On a cold, January Sunday, I decided I needed to be baptized. Again. I was convinced, by then, that I wasn’t saved enough. Of course, I wanted to avoid that hellfire and brimstone that had already been instilled in me since childhood. I needed to be right, and follow the rules. Rules were comforting; rules helped me breathe.
I asked my mom if I could get baptized. She looked at me funny and said, “Alright. But you do know you’re already saved, right?” A church friend was with me at the time and we were about to head out the door. I froze, blood draining from my face. What if I told the truth- that I wasn’t saved, because I wasn’t baptized “correctly”? That the man dunking me in the water hadn’t uttered the right formula?
And so, I panicked. And… I lied. “I know.”
With that, I was released to rush from the house off to evening church service, where I donned a blue robe and entered the chilly baptismal water to have the right words said over me like some magic spell that would wash my sins away.
It was exactly a week later that I was praying fervently (for the millionth time) to receive the Holy Ghost. Now, to do this, it wasn’t simply reciting a prayer. You didn’t just talk to God, assuming He would hear and everything would be alright. No, my friend. You had to seek. Cry, wail, snot. Hands lifted to the ceiling, with the cacophony of praying people around you. My eyes were shut, I was hyper-focused.
“Please, God! Don’t let me die and go to hell!”
In my mind, I was no longer in the room, but standing at the base of a great, white, stone wall, with the heavens in the sky above, pleading with God. I poured out every single bit of energy I had into those moments. I was in a strange, dreamlike trance. People around me were laying hands on me, speaking things into my ear. The atmosphere was so intense, and I was so desperate, that I began to shake, my jaw shook, and I mumbled words. I was told that this was it- this was the Holy Ghost. I had been an empty, worthless sinner before, but now, after much travailing, I’d finally received God and I could start my journey. This was the way it was supposed to be…
…Right?
Things were a whirlwind after that. I flipped from normal(ish) teenager to being thrown into church life just about 24/7. Church service three times a week, with practices and other events in between. My church social life was so busy that I barely had time for my old, faithful friends, or even my family anymore (beyond caring for my younger siblings). My schoolwork started slipping. I joined the choir, the puppet team, sign language drama team—the works!
I still remember the finality of taking off my necklace for the last time in the church bathroom. It was go big or go home time. I got rid of “bad” music, cut up my jewelry so I wouldn’t be tempted to wear it anymore (kept the jewel part in a box as a “keepsake”). My hair was going to grow as long as it could and I was going to be a bare-faced angel from there on out. No necklines more than three fingers width below the collarbone, no one would ever witness my knees again. I was covered… and I was proud.
I’ll never forget one day, my mom came down the stairs, all prettied up for a date with my stepdad. I told her she had “eighty pounds of makeup on her face”. She got upset and went back upstairs to take it off. My stepdad scolded me for saying that (rightly so). I made a similar remark when a church friend got Glamour Shots taken and wore light makeup for the shoot. She looked beautiful, but I just had to zero in on that makeup. I became eagle-eyed for it. The smallest bit of mascara made someone a Jezebel.
Strict adherence to the rules made the pastor happy, and meant that I was “on fire” for God. In my mind, this was the right way. If I had any tempting thoughts about skirting the rules, I would be on my knees in the altar, repenting. I was determined to serve the LORD, and make it in that rapture!
But over time, that initial fire began to dim… and my storms returned. I was losing energy. Things were still not perfect at home. My stepmom criticized my new way of dressing. My stepdad got angry if I came home too late after an evening service. I had days were all I wanted to do was sleep and disappear into my books. Television was discouraged, so I tried to stick to listening to preaching tapes and reading theology books borrowed from the church library. I fed myself as much as possible with church doctrine. This dreadful emptiness had to be filled somehow. Surely it was my own fault- I wasn’t prayed up enough, doing enough, seeking enough?
In the church (we’ll call it Church A), at the time, mental health was not really talked about as such. Everything was mostly a spiritual problem. You’re burnt out on going to church 4-5 times a week? You’re just not prayed up enough. You need to be even more dedicated. You’re feeling sad? It’s a spirit. You need to be in the altar, seeking deliverance! Worry was seen as a sin (which didn’t help my anxiety).
So when my storms came on, fast and furious, I tried to hide it behind a smile and a joke, and grieve the sunshine in private. If pastor found out you were struggling, you might be pulled off platform for a while. They didn’t want anyone with a bad spirit on them “hindering the worship,” as if they might somehow send out negativity like dark waves through the sound system. If you didn’t pray hard thirty minutes before service, it was highly frowned upon.
Looking back on it now, it seems ludicrous. But the fear was real. For me, the fear of slipping up, of breaking a rule, had me suffocated. Because not only did it mean not pleasing people, it meant not pleasing God himself. And that meant hell.
Take all of this into consideration, and put it on the shoulders of a teenager, who’s already dealing with normal teenage emotions and changes. Anyone would struggle! And so many of the young people around me did. The rumor mills were constantly turning. Even those that were exalted as near-perfect wrestled in private, as I later found out. Put that kind of pressure on a developing mind, the results can be disastrous.
When you push rules, and not grace, cracks form. And those cracks can and will be filled by whatever seems promising at the time. Add in preexisting mental health and neuro-developmental differences, such as mine, it’s a perfect storm.
And little did I know just how big those storms would get.
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