A few days ago, I found myself standing in the rain wondering what to do, worrying someone from my former church would come up and say something, feeling frustrated, and feeling like an idiot. I went home and took a nap… and woke up crying. Not hard, but just frustrated.
I must have been half asleep still. I knew that I was reacting to the way things had been in my former church, not to what was really happening that day. I must not have been quite awake. I don’t really remember praying, but in almost the same minute that the tears started, an image came to mind, of Jesus holding me like He would a child, hushing me and telling me everything was alright.
I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d let Jesus really quiet me. I don’t know how to put it in words, but there’s a difference between saying we trust Him and resting in Him, knowing He loves us. Maybe it’s the difference between the child who screams and pushes away from the parent in anger, wanting what they want-right now- and nothing else, and the child who asks and accepts the parent’s answer, knowing that though they may want one thing, the parent may have something better in mind.
As a Pentecostal, I was taught to “intercede,” to “pray until something happens,” to “pray through,” to fast until I got a “break-through”… if I didn’t get married or didn’t get the job or some other “blessing” I was told that I “must not be praying hard enough” or was told maybe I should “fast for it.” But I don’t have to struggle or worry or wrestle with God for what I want. Not only should I want what He wants and trust that’s exactly what I’m getting, but also rest in the simple fact that He’s in charge, He loves me, and He has our best interest in mind.
Going back through some of my blogs, I realize how much things have changed in a short amount of time. I mentioned a few months ago that I was having trouble with Bible reading, and wanted to respond to that now.
I still don’t tend to pick up a Bible and start reading. My former church was heavily into the BREAD program, where everyone is supposed to read a certain number of chapters (and certain ones, designated by a sheet that’s handed out) every day. That might be part of my resistance to picking up the Bible and reading now, I’m not sure.
What I do know is that it’s becoming easier to read and study the Bible now. Several months ago I started participating in an online Bible study. It obligated me to post 15 verses a day and study them. Fifteen verses isn’t much, so I could do that. I had a few nightmares, but posting online and opening the verses for discussion helped me immensely–I was accountable to read at least some amount, and when I got to a sticky place I could ask questions and/or look for answers to help someone else. I still don’t know how I’d handle Revelation, but even Hebrews is OK. Fewer and fewer verses trigger me, even of those that haven’t been part of the discussion yet.
Everyone’s different. I wanted to read but couldn’t seem to do so without resentment and a flood of bad memories. Everyone’s different, but if a person wants to do something and can’t seem to because of memories, there’s probably a way, or will be, given a little time and patience.
Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on September 1, 2015.
Growing up homeschooled means you get a lot more time with your siblings than other kids. As an older sibling, it also means you have much more responsibility for them.
This set the pattern for some unhealthy dynamics. My first counselor after moving out said my dad’s insisting our only friends being immediate family members was incredibly codependent. Libby Anne writes about being an older child instructed to spank her younger siblings.
Parents expecting more of older siblings is typical in secular culture, but not usually with the same connotations like in fundamentalist homeschooling. As the oldest in my family, I heard things like:
A good older sibling sets the example for their younger brothers and sisters. Even if you don’t think they look up to you, they do. They watch your every move, and often, they’ll try to walk in your footsteps. So it’s important that you behave in ways that set a good example for them. Just like we look to Jesus to be our example, that we look to live how he lived and behave like he behaved, our younger siblings often look to us that way, too. — Taken from Christian Teen About
Statements like this put an excessive amount of pressure on older children.
We’re not just expected to protect younger siblings from danger, we’re responsible for their eternal salvation. And fundamentalist parents often manipulate this idea to check rebellion. To squash any behavior they didn’t like.
I couldn’t get angry if Dad was controlling and demanding, because that wasn’t having a meek and quiet spirit. Suffering without complaint was more like Christ, I was told, and a better example.
If I wore a fitted sweater, I was not being an example of modesty to my sister.
When I asked to have a curfew of midnight instead of 7:30 p.m. in college, I was not demonstrating submission to authority for my siblings.
My mom often said: “What will your little brother and sister think? They are always watching you. You know what Jesus said about those who lead little children astray. It would be better for you to have a millstone tied around your neck.”
So when Dad said things that hurt, when the house felt like a cage, when I thought of running away in the middle of the night, I didn’t. Because of my siblings. I was responsible for them.
When I thought my parents punished my brother and sister unfairly, I’d try to anger them into spanking me instead.
Junior year of college, I moved out because my parents said the alternative would be transferring to Bob Jones University. I went back and forth, uncertain what my decision would mean for my brother and sister. I’d be the first to leave home.
I told my professors that I wanted to be a good example for my siblings, that I didn’t want to run away or rebel if it would hurt them, that I’d go to Bob Jones if I had to, even if it killed me.
They told me that I could be a good example by moving out, that I could show my siblings that freedom was possible.
But I worried. I knew I couldn’t live at home anymore, but I still wanted to be a good big sister. That fall, I struggled to set limits as my parents barraged me with visits and phone calls, begging me to reconsider.
A couple of classmates, both named Cynthia, asked me what was wrong after one of our Saturday writers’ group meetings.
I gave my fears a voice. I didn’t understand taking care of yourself before helping other people. Fundamentalism taught me the reverse: don’t be selfish, sacrifice everything for others. Shouldn’t I just put up with my parents’ behavior for the sake of my siblings?
One of the Cynthias looked at me and the other Cynthia. She said, “Are you familiar with New Life Church’s teaching about confronting lies that you’ve believed? You identify the lie, you replace it with truth, and you pray against the power of the lie. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for your siblings. You’re free to make your own choices.”
They each laid hands on me, praying with me that I’d heal and live in freedom.
I can’t save my siblings. All I can do is be a good human.
My little sister is going to BJU, and my little brother is a serious, quiet teenage boy. I lost contact with them for two years after leaving, so I can’t just speak my truth to them openly.
Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on November 1, 2015.
So I’m active in several online communities that discuss homeschooling and spiritual abuse. I also read a lot. Almost daily, I post articles and blog posts that I find interesting.
I’m also Facebook friends with people I met during each of the four times I moved cross-country between Texas and Colorado, people from every church I went to growing up, every place I’ve worked, people who are my fellow homeschool alumni and college classmates. This means that everything I share is being viewed by people all over the human spectrum.
I value this diversity, that my community is no echo chamber. I welcome the opportunity to be challenged and corrected and grow, and I hope my friends do, too.
Yes, there are periodic flame wars in the comments, but I’ve also seen successful dialogue. This is why I want to foster debates and discussion, because I believe that if I limit myself to only people who agree with me, change will never happen.
But a couple of arguments surface over and over.
“Not all homeschoolers were raised in cults.”
“What does abuse in these churches have to do with true Christianity?”
And these rebuttals are killing our discussions. Here’s why. This week, I read an article posted by Relevant magazine on why there’s a problem with saying All Lives Matter. The subtitle read: “There’s a difference between ‘true’ and ‘helpful.'”
Responses like this usually demonstrate a failure to listen. Conversations usually go:
Person 1: “This is what my experience with homeschooling / purity culture was like.”
Person 2: “Good point, but remember, not all homeschoolers were abused / raised in cults.”
Person 1: *awkward silence* (thinks) But I wasn’t talking about all homeschoolers. I was talking about me.
And they feel like you don’t think their story is important.
It’s hard to have these conversations, I think. If you say, “Hey, this happened and it was bad,” or express criticism, you get a lot of “not all homeschoolers” responses. Which is technically true.
But the one doesn’t invalidate the other. Sure, not all homeschoolers were raised in cults. But some were, and problematic and harmful things happened as a result. I’m not against homeschooling as a form of education, and I don’t think it should be banned, but I do think the problems within the movement must be addressed.
Person 1: “This really awful thing happened in my church / to Amish girls / to Pentecostals.”
Angry Defensive Person 1: “Not all Apostolic Pentecostals are like this!”
Angry Defensive Person 2: “What does this have to do with true Christianity?”
These comments are missing the point. Orthodoxy isn’t the issue here, abuse is. And if you’re more concerned with heresy than hurting people, you are contributing to the problem.
And almost every group thinks they are the true believers, the genuine thing. So asking whether or not the Amish are truly Christians is irrelevant. They believe they are. That’s why they live in isolation, making sure they aren’t corrupted by deviating opinions. Other high control religious groups operate similarly.
Just because you might not believe cult members or other denominations are actually Christians doesn’t stop them from identifying as believers. But shouldn’t Christians be more concerned about people who claim to follow their savior perpetrating abuse than whether or not the abusers are heretics?
Let’s be honest here. We use these arguments to protect ourselves. We don’t want to be associated with sexual abuse and hypocrisy, we don’t want our image threatened. So we cry “not all homeschoolers” to defend our educations, and “not true Christians” to defend our core beliefs. We don’t want to think that our community might be wrong, we hide our faces from the wounds, cover our ears and refuse to listen.
Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on August 23, 2015.
So I got a tattoo.
In April this year, the word I’d written in Sharpie on my wrist for two years was etched into my skin. Became a part of me. It was kind of a spiritual experience.
Here, I’ll explain.
A couple of my friends from CleanPlace, the writer’s forum I joined in 2009, did a lot of growing recently. One of them had been writing “love” on her wrist for four years, inspired by To Write Love On Her Arms and suicide prevention.
Mary’s tattoos. Love and Grace.
Another one hated herself, despised her name. She begged God to give her a new name, and she heard a name: Glory.
“I wanted a name I could grow into. I wanted something I could become. Something I could keep becoming and never completely finish being. Something that was bigger, grander, limitless,” she said.
Silver’s tattoo.
And they marked these revelations on their bodies, etched them permanently. They didn’t want to slip back into those old patterns of self-loathing, they wanted something to mark their healing.
In both Jewish and pagan tradition, people used stones to mark significant events, like this:
Tel Gezer | Source: OurRabbiJesus.com. Image links to source.
The stones were supposed to prompt questions.
Ray VanderLaan, who studies Jewish culture and archeology, explains to his Israel tour group: “Anybody who walked by and saw them could say ‘Woah, what happened here?’ And you could say, ‘Let me tell you what God did.'”
And I think that’s what my friends and I wanted. A sort of living memorial.
I used to believe that any body modification would damage my body as a temple of God when I was a fundamentalist. Then I pierced my ears for the first time in May 2014.
I’d read the verses in Leviticus about not tattooing yourself for the dead, but the context was 1) for the dead and 2) that’s Old Testament regulations anyway, which don’t apply under the new covenant.
I’m just tired of watching people distort and manipulate something beautiful to me until it’s monstrous. I wanted a living standing stone, I wanted to mark myself as part of this journey for life.
So back to the word: ἄφες.
That one word encapsulates over 30 nuances of meaning in two syllables: “to send forth, yield up, to expire, to let go, let alone, let be. To let go, give up a debt, forgive, to remit, to give up, keep no longer. To permit, allow, not to hinder, to give up a thing to a person.”
Ἄφετε τὰ παιδία
Permit the children
– – – –
καὶ ἄφες ἡμῖν τὰ
and forgive us our debts
– – – –
Πάτερ ἄφες αὐτοῖς οὐ
Father, forgive them
You know that scene in the Passion of the Christ where they’re nailing his hands, and like, /while/ they’re doing it, he’s saying that? (Not before, not after, but during?) And the soundtrack crescendos in the background?
It sounds like a release… like some sort of freedom within pain… and it seemed very different from repression.
When I first saw the movie in fall 2012 after moving out, I was like, “I am going to find out what that word is in Greek,” and I did. And I learned ἄφες means “to let go, to release.”
Much different than how churches taught me “forgiveness,” which is more like burying the hurt, or feeling guilty about being angry about it.
It’s letting go when /you’re/ ready to, and it frees you, it lets YOU be your own person. Like, we were always told forgiveness was the answer?
But we also always had to forgive instantly and never harbor resentment ever because 1.) Jesus clearly suffered worse than you ever could! Why can’t you forgive? (because you’ve never been tortured or crucified) and 2.) the faster you forgave, the more Christian you were.
But this, this thing I saw in the film, is way, way different. There’s no obligation or guilt involved.
So I marked it on my wrist, this word that spoke life to me.
Thanks to my friend Sam, who gave me a gift certificate to Pens and Needles.
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P.S. This dude who blogs also has two awesome tattoo stories:
