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Why do you say you left fundamentalism?

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on January 15, 2015.

The biggest question that surfaced during this week’s series was: “What do you mean when you say you left fundamentalism?”

I’m mostly referring to the definition that Homeschoolers Anonymous used in their 2014 alumni survey:

Christian Fundamentalism includes, but is not limited to, the following ideologies: Christian legalism, Quiverfull, young earth creationism, anti-LGBT rights, Christian Patriarchy, modesty and purity culture, betrothal and/or courtship, stay-at-home daughter movement, Dominionism, and Christian Reconstructionism. It is not limited to Protestantism and can also be seen in Catholic, Mormon, and other subcultures.

Does it mean I stopped believing core doctrines of the faith? No.

Have I wrestled with what to believe now? Yes.

I actually wrote a post on it called help my unbelief.

But many of the fundamentalist ideologies listed above are recent inventions, reacting against the hippie movement and supporting the conservative boom of the Reagan administration.

These are not central tenets of the faith, at least traditionally. My Catholic and Orthodox friends have showed me as much.

The trouble is that we mean different things when we use terms like fundamentalism. Or legalism. My sister told me her freshman seminar at Bob Jones University discussed how to avoid legalism. But from my perspective, the BJU student handbook is legalistic (check out the dress codes) and doesn’t allow college students to formulate opinions.

Why did I leave fundamentalism? Because those belief systems taught me to fear the outside, helped me to think that only people who believed the exact same set of things I did were safe to associate with.

This is why I refer to it as “the box.”

I realized purity culture can make women feel like their virginity determines their worth, and I stopped wearing my purity ring. I replaced it with different rings, rings that matched a new understanding of my worth.

I stopped believing in courtship because I realized my dad may never approve who I would want to marry.

I sold my copy of the Botkins sisters’ book So Much More during freshman year of college, because well. The Botkins said girls were more easily tainted by the college experience and should not seek out higher education.

Rebecca Davis wrote about why being a stay-at-home daughter is not a Biblical mandate in her post For Shame, Beautiful Botkins. She defends single female missionaries the Botkins condemned.

I read about how many were hurt by Bill Gothard’s teachings and abuse at Recovering Grace.

One of my chemistry professors reminded me that I didn’t have to believe in young earth creationism because “it’s not a salvation issue.” Now my answer is simply: I don’t know. I don’t care whether the universe came about in 6 days or 6 billion years. It’s a beautiful place to live, and I like to think someone awesome created it somehow.

Oddly, the Pearls’ articles against patriarchy in 2011 convinced me that my family was unhealthy: Cloistered Homeschool Syndrome and Patriarchal Dysfunctional Families, Part 2. Although their child rearing methods advocate breaking childrens’ spirits and enable abuse.

In my teen years, I knew several Quiverfull families, although my family only had us three. I loved hanging out with the family with 13 kids we knew in Dallas, and the Jeub kids made me feel almost one of them at their birthday bash in 2013. But I always wondered if they were really happy or if they hid their problems.

I read books like The Children Are Free arguing that Christianity and LGBT lifestyles aren’t incompatible. And my friend Cynthia Jeub wrote a defense of equal marriage rights, based on her own interpretation of the Bible.

I now support making all marital unions contract-based, with a divorce clause built in so breakups could be more amicable. Then religious organizations wouldn’t be forced to perform ceremonies, and my LGBT friends would have equality with any other couple.

My parents didn’t believe all of the fundamental philosophies I’ve described here. Many of them I found in Focus on the Family’s Clubhouse or Brio magazines and devotional / Christian living books I received for Christmas or birthdays.

Other ideas seeped in through guilt and fear-based devotionals like Leslie Ludy’s Set Apart Thot YouTube videos, which argue that “even the good things in our life [example: Starbucks] can become idols” and “the only true beauty comes from a life totally surrendered to Jesus Christ.”

For those who believe Christian theology, valuing anything to the point of worship would be idolatry. I believe that I give over my darkness and am healed by the light, and for me, I think it comes from Jesus. But videos and sermons like Ludy’s seem to encourage excessive self-denial and an obsession with sacrifice.

This is the problem with words like fundamentalism.

And other church buzzwords like surrender or take up your cross. (I took that last one literally in my self-harm.)

For one person, the words capture a beautiful release or fulfillment. For another, the same words trigger being crushed by guilt and self-hatred.

In leaving fundamentalism, I left behind a cult-like system of beliefs that caged me.

My friend Rebecca M. sent me an article last fall on recovery from religious abuse, which recommends: “Take a breather from organized religion for about three to nine months, at least. Deal with your questions about religion, ethics, and philosophy in an honest and challenging manner.”

This is why I only attend church services and events sporadically. Many familiar things are still painful. Rachel Held Evans described this in her post this week Post-Evangelicals and Why We Can’t Just Get Over It.

This is why it’s taken me over two years to hope I can find welcome in a church again.

This is what I left.

Read Part One, Two, Three and Four.

#WhyILeft Fundamentalism, Part 4

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on January 13, 2015.

Continued from part 3

Can You meet me in my room?
A place where I feel safe
Where I don’t have to run away
Where I can just be me. – TFK, In My Room

I was like a kid on an adventure the first night in the new apartment.

The second or third night, I called Cynthia B. crying and homesick. She said it was normal and part of growing up.

Until 2012, I never spent a night away from home without my parents. Then I stayed at a friend’s house one weekend in June before leaving.

And I had no idea how to cook.

My first roommate taught me how to make ramen in the microwave.

Dad always worried I’d burn myself on the stove or slice open my finger. Or spill something. I begged them to teach me throughout my teen years. I even planned a dinner when I was 14 and brought Mom the recipes, but Dad didn’t let me.

I started seeing through the cracks, saw how much fear had controlled all of our lives.

I biked to school and rode the bus for the first three months. Then my parents gave me back part of the money so I could buy a car in November 2012.

My second roommate taught me how to live paycheck to paycheck, how to find cheap, gluten-free food when I discovered I was allergic like her.

In April 2013, I found Spiritual Abuse Survivors blog network through a friend and soon after, Homeschoolers Anonymous.

I read about more gentle parenting methods at Permission to Live.

Through reading blogs and talking to friends, I learned it’s not normal to spank your children until they stop crying because crying is “rebellious” and leaving bruises and teaching your child to cover them is also considered abuse.

Most people, even those who grew up in church like me, weren’t spanked until they were 14 and threatened with a belt until age 18.

I started dealing with my dark side, confronting why I self-harmed.

A school counselor helped me through the first year, and my Christian counselor later came out of retirement briefly and my parents and I went to group counseling summer 2013.

Because… my parents did not back down because I left.

The first Sunday after leaving, I went down the street to visit a new church.

My family drove by while I was walking down the sidewalk, rolled down the car windows, and shouted, “Just remember, Bob Jones is still available!”

My dad sent me advertisements for cars he would buy for me if I went to Bob Jones. And a deluge of letters and text messages and emails and phone calls pleading for me to reconsider the first year I was away. My parents dropped by the Science Center on campus while I was tutoring, bringing gifts and asking me to come back.

My anxiety issues spiraled, but my professors understood, giving me extensions.

Heart and brain argued on where to draw the line. I loved my parents, but I wasn’t a child anymore. I didn’t want to have to choose between my family and my adulthood.

Which is why I identified with Tirzah’s story on Homeschoolers Anonymous last week: “Only in my mom’s sad world of jumbled theology would moving out be akin to losing one’s family.”

Everyone told me that my freedom would have a price.

But some days, I ache, wishing my family understood me. Understood my heart.

Understood that I don’t write to condemn them, I write because I’m in pain. I write because I want our relationship to change and heal. I write, pleading with other homeschool parents, “Please, don’t do this to your kids.”

I’m told that blogs are biased, I’m accused of not showing both sides.

So I’m including three open letters between me and my parents and one of the more impersonal ones my sister sent. Quotes can be taken out of context, so here is the entire conversation.

Letter from my parents 11-12-2012
(After the 2012 election. I had voted to legalize marijuana in Colorado after researching studies on the chemical effects of THC.)

My letter 7-9-2013

Mom’s response letter 7-16-2013

Letter from sister 10-27-2013
(Mostly an essay arguing that my actions require the church discipline in Matthew 18.)

Right now, my relationship with my family is inconsistent. We talk sometimes. They help in a pinch, but I fear control creeping in again.

But I know they don’t accept me or approve of me. Nothing seems to count now. Not being self-sufficient, not holding steady jobs, not graduating college this spring. Not my passion for journalism or theater.

It’s like my leaving was an earthquake, and now a canyon lies between us.

But I found others on this side of the canyon, too.

Friends who later asked me to help them escape their own boxes. Professors who encouraged my independence, who had life phase changes of their own in college. My pastor friend in Texas who listened to my story and made me want to try church again.

In July 2013, I told Lissi on G-chat:

You know what?
I realized something yesterday.
I don’t think my family is my family anymore.
I mean, I will always love them, and they are blood.
They are my kin.
But they are not the family I grew up with anymore. That is now changed forever.
My “family” now emotionally is more like Ducky [my second roommate], you, the two Cynthias, other close friends, and my professors.
You all treat me more like family and support me more than my own family does.
I think this realization makes me more okay with emotionally separating from my family, too.
Because at least I have you all. <3

She replied, “Ahhh… the Chosen Family realization.”

Yes, the fight was worth it. Now I am free. Free indeed.

Read Parts One and Two.

#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.

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.

The End Was Only A New Beginning…

“In order to escape accountability for his crimes, the perpetrator does everything in his power to promote forgetting. If secrecy fails, the perpetrator attacks the credibility of his victim. If he cannot silence her absolutely, he tries to make sure no one listens.” ― Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery

Growing up, I knew nothing of the Apostolic church. The United Pentecostal Church, as far as I knew, didn’t exist. I didn’t have any friends in it. No family was part of it. It was a completely foreign subject to me.

When I was 17, that all changed. I attended a small private school, where there were several UPCI students. I hung out with some of the students, and even started to date a girl whose grandfather was the pastor of the local UPCI church. (Note: Her grandpa was also the presbyter of the section, and almost every church in the section was pastored by members of his family.)

We dated several years, and basically, I was accepted as part of that family. The early stages of my ministry even began, and I received a lot of the perks of being part of the ministerial family. I received attention, respect, and felt important – this was a totally different world than the one I grew up in, and I loved it. I was somebody.

Time progressed, and while my relationship with the girlfriend’s family grew, our relationship was falling apart. It was a bad deal, and to sum up quickly, one night she crossed a line where her verbal abuse became physical abuse, and that was it – it was over.

With that, came a strange and unusual problem.

A constant teaching within this family was that you should follow and obey your pastor. They “watched over you.” When you follow and obey their voice, their “anointing flows over you, also, and protects you.” If you ever turn away from their teaching, then you were in a lot of trouble. Not only were you disobeying them, but you were disobeying God, you were out of His will, and you will be sorry for doing that!

A short time after this, I was called into the pastor’s office, the grandfather of my ex. He made small talk for a bit, and then approached the subject about how I needed to stay at the church, and then said, “I want you to know, your breakup won’t have any effect on how I pastor you.”

I remember him saying that. I remember his voice being calm and that he was trying to be friendly. Looking back, I think he actually believed what he was saying.

Still, he was wrong.

One positive after the break up was that I was able to go out and hang out with people from other churches. I even went out on a few dates. I was instructed by the youth pastor that I needed to seek the pastor’s permission of anyone I wanted to go out on a date with, which stupidly, I did.

On one of these dates, I received a big shock – I was told how the pastor’s wife warned her about me. She relayed to me a bunch of flat-out lies which had all originated from a conversation several of the pastors had.

I went to my pastor, and he said he would take care of it. He didn’t say anything more. That was it. I trusted him. I went on my way.

Well, as I tried to go on with my life, there were still a lot of things being said about me. During this time, I was receiving harassing phone calls at all hours of the night. I was young, and still living with my parents. The calls were coming from the pastor’s family, and again, I told him about it. I saw his annoyance this time, but again, he said he would take care of it. This was the last time I trusted and believed in him.

The harassment went on, and the third time I mentioned it, instead of saying he would take care of it, he got angry and starting criticizing me over stuff I didn’t even know anything about. What was he told by family members? I have no idea. Looking back, I have trouble remembering everything he said, but not his attitude. I sat there, finding it impossible to believe this was happening.

I left his office with a breaking heart. The people I’d believed in were not only neglecting being ministers of the Gospel, but they were lying, and actively attempting to destroy my faith and hope. Sure, they may not have seen it like that, but what else would you call it?

The abusers kept on preaching in their churches. They kept singing the worship songs. They kept playing the music. There were NO repercussions for their actions.

At the same time, my ministry was over. The pastor even told me not to ask him about it again. No reason was given; my voice in church was completely silenced. I was being punished. It was so different from several years earlier, when the pastor shook my hand, hugged me, and told me thank you for everything I was doing to help keep the church alive. (There were a lot of behind-the-scenes problems the main family was keeping quiet.)

Now, I was nobody. I was a problem. It was obvious the family didn’t want me at the church anymore. Some couldn’t come out and say it, but their attitude and spirit showed it. I hated going to church. I felt like I had done this incredible evil because I would not tolerate abuse from my ex.

At the time, I was still a UPCI guy. I bought and believed all of theological kool-aid, especially when it came to “obeying and serving” the pastor. I didn’t have enough biblical knowledge at the time to understand the errors of its theology. One member of the family even called my house and told me that they would make sure I never have a ministry again, which was still so very important to me.

Dejected, defeated, and feeling lost, I went to the pastor’s house one day, and just told him this was wrong, and that I wasn’t coming back to his church. Every ounce of strength I had, all of the boldness I could muster up, I used it to do this in the “right attitude.” That was a big thing for them. I wanted to leave in a mature way, so if anything negative was said about me, it would be a lie.

One of the reasons this was so hard was because I felt if I tried to leave, it would be a one-way ticket to hell. Obedience to ministry (and the verse often used was to obey those who rule over you) was an important piece of salvation to these people. I was so afraid that I would go to hell, because to go against the pastor and his thought on “God’s Will” was damning. That is one reason why it took me so long to leave. I just came to a point where I was so miserable, I knew being away from it, I wouldn’t feel any worse than I already did. I also hoped that God would forgive me for leaving. It was a gamble in my eyes, but I didn’t know what else to do.

Looking back now, I can see that this experience really broke me. I don’t think I ever fully felt at peace in the UPCI after this. (On a side note: I eventually ended up at another UPCI church far away from this family, and my ministry did get going again. In fact, I eventually became a licensed minister in the UPCI for a while. I ultimately left because of theological differences, and the fact I was constantly seeing spiritual abuse in a lot of other places. Eventually, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to be part of that anymore, and I left.)

Some years later, after getting my UPCI license, I bumped into my former pastor’s wife, talked with her, and before leaving, I said, “I love you all and think of you all often.” She retorted, “Well, it was your choice to leave. You didn’t have too.” Not wanting to argue, I just replied, “Yeah, but I needed too.” She just smiled and shook her head. She didn’t get it. I thought to myself, if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be licensed, I might not even be alive.

I realize that pastors are people like you and I. They make the same kind of mistakes we do. Recognize though, that a good pastor will put your needs first. Not his. Not the church’s needs. If he is to be a good spiritual adviser, he can’t put traditions, doctrines, numbers, and his church before your own well-being. If the church is destroying your faith, someone who cares will do whatever he or she can to rebuild that faith, not punishing you because of family gossip. By biblical definition, YOU are the church. Not a congregation that meets on Sunday and is controlled by a man.

The end turned into a new beginning…

After leaving my home church, my broken heart was only getting worse. I wasn’t attending any church; I was too scared. I worked in a public place and was always seeing church folk. Some treated me like a backslider; I was in a really bad state. In the middle of one night, on the floor in my room, I just broke down and cried, and cried, and cried, like I can’t ever remember crying before. Everything was going through my mind, and I just kept asking God “why” all of this was happening.

Out of the blue, I just felt something that was so strong, it seemed audible.

“John, I love you.”

Everything changed after that. That small sentence felt more real than all of the tongue-speaking, all of the choirs, all of the crazy services, all of the preaching, all of the prayers, all of the education, all of the speeches from church leadership, and all of the study. That small sentence was the strength I didn’t have anymore. It has been my anchor in life. Through all of my trials, journeys, spiritual walk, and battles, I go back to that, and I have no doubt, He loves me. He still loves me. And as I journey on, His love will continue to be my guide.

He loves me. I hope that telling my life stories, you realize that He loves you, too. He never abandoned me. Even in the confusion and pain of spiritual abuse, and bad theology, the Love of God was still there.

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