The UnBoxing Project: Defecting from a cult

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on March 8, 2015 as part of a series. 

Continued from Racquel’s story

Liz was part of our network that helped Racquel and Ashley as they left the cult environment of the First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs. Here is her perspective.

Photo: Wil C. Fry, creative commons license.

Nearly two years ago, I received text messages from Eleanor about a friendship between two girls that had been recently forbidden by their religious leader.

I was asked to attempt to sneak a cheap TracFone to one of the girls at her school because I would not be recognizable to her parents, who had confiscated all her means of communication. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in class that day.

Eventually, they acquired their freedom by leaving their church behind and living with friends.

Most people assume their own community has only good intentions in mind for members. Why would we believe otherwise if an overwhelming majority of us were taught that strangers are the ones who seek to hurt us?

In reality, data suggests that most cases of violent crime and sexual assault occur between people who are at least acquainted with each other or in regular physical proximity.

In spite of statistical and factual realities, we teach our children to fear strangers. We teach them to avoid the rare anomalies but fail to teach them to look for warning signs in the mundane. This contributes to the denial in identifying abusive communities when people are a part of one.

Instead, people taught to fear the outside world might think that to leave would be worse.

The philosopher Hannah Arendt says that evil is banal. It is predictable, common, and is generally perpetuated by unremarkable people motivated by their own, typically material needs.

An intense, outward adherence to a particular ideology or manifestation of a psychological condition might be present in the situation, but neither are enough to explain why communities as a whole behave a certain way.

In other words, abusers are regular people and not the monstrous caricatures we see on TV or evil stepmothers in children’s fairy tales. There might be a few narcissists and sociopaths at the upper echelons dictating the orders, but several people who are afraid of seeking out other dissenters within the group.

With hierarchy and scale, diffusion of guilt and responsibility is inevitable. Diffusion of guilt is generally paired with resistance to collective guilt that should logically follow the diffusion.

The lower end claim to be following orders, the higher ups claim they didn’t personally do it.

It’s the same garbage that makes none guilty for abuse that many participated in. It is as if people hope that with sufficient diffusion, the amount of culpability per person is rendered insignificant. Dilution of active ingredients in homeopathic “remedies” operates this way.

Abuse as a phenomena doesn’t become significant simply because the perception of responsibility among abusers is thinly spread out because there is always someone else to blame in the eyes of the guilty such that their victims somehow become responsible for their own abuse.

What I’ve gleaned from my studies in history and politics is that there is a tendency to conceal or otherwise diminish the significance of abuses as a means of trying to protect the legitimacy and reputation of an organization such as the Catholic church, many American universities, collegiate and professional sports teams, the entertainment industry, among many other examples.

When an organization cares more about protecting its own reputation than removing abusers or helping victims, there is a reason to question the validity and value of such an institution and the complicity of people within afflicted organizations.

Even if an individual abuser recognizes the harm they cause, to reject the cultural norms is to risk being socially ostracized and possibly, their standard of living. Obedience experiments by Milgram and replicated by others show that people are generally submissive to figures of authority up to a certain point.

It is likely that people from more isolated communities would escalate punishments further when commanded by members of their community than people from the general population being instructed by a stranger because of a greater sense of obligation and desire to belong in the former.

Defection is complicated. It comes with a high price tag in both an absolute and perceived sense.

People in deliberately isolated communities are generally taught that outsiders are evil, that its their own fault for being mistreated or that victims deserve it, and that the victims aren’t being treated badly in the first place. If maltreatment is believed to be normative and benevolent it tends to make victims attempt to justify what is going on as a means of internalizing conflicting messages.

The more isolated people are, the harder it is for them to recognize their own condition and the more complex the logistics of leaving becomes.

Liz received training at a local college in her hometown so that she could teach freshmen at her high school about how to avoid and recognize dating violence, local resources for victims, and statistics regarding the frequency of rape and lack of conviction. She was also a student teacher who assisted with evening adult education courses in sexual assault escape and self-defense offered by her school to the community.

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Tattoo

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.

elraen-love

Mary's tattoos. Love and Grace.
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.
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.

It’s like the ancient practice of standing stones.

In both Jewish and pagan tradition, people used stones to mark significant events, like this:

Tel Gezer | Source: OurRabbiJesus.com. Image links to source.
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.

There’s another practice in the Old Testament that interested me: piercing the ears of a slave who asked to be a bondservant for life. Because they chose it, because it wasn’t forced loyalty.

I don’t want to leave Christianity.

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.”

Jesus uses this same word for “let the little children come to me” and “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

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.

eleanor-aphes

Thanks to my friend Sam, who gave me a gift certificate to Pens and Needles.

– – – – – – – – –

P.S. This dude who blogs also has two awesome tattoo stories:

A Roadtrip. A Tattoo. A Damn Good Story.

Keep Walking

Floating on a rebel tide

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on December 14, 2014.

I’m shooting for the stars to hit the moon
Mapping out a course for both my shoes,
I’ve already practiced acting like there’s nothing to it.
Jellyrox, Rebel Tide

Some days I’m still lost.

Some days independence still knocks the breath out of me, and I’m reeling.

I’m split.

Over two years ago, I cracked, couldn’t live under the burdens anymore. And I left.

But I didn’t know how lonely I’d be, how long and cold winters could last outside in exile.

Try to hold the world together in my mind,
Try to make it snow in mid-July,
Try to prove my heart is worth the blood that’s pumping through it.

Some days I’m so cold. I warm my hands against favorite memories, hoping one day the frost will be over.

Looking for the light in the dark, the sunshine behind the shadow.

I try to keep my hopes above my doubts
Try to keep my thoughts above my mouth
I feel like a satellite just dying to leave my orbit…

I’m homesick. My friends noticed it reached unprecedented levels.

My friends have my back, my mentors believe in me. Somehow I’ll find the courage to keep walking, even if my steps are slow.

I take another shot at faking love
Miss it by a mile and then some
My insides are thirsty for whatever drink you’re pouring…

I’m tired all the time. The end of the year comes in like a tsunami, the semester drenches me. Maybe it’s senioritis, maybe the panic put a constant drain on my spirit.

I thought this biting wind would have moved on by now. Didn’t think the season would be so quiet a third time.

But they told me my freedom would have a price. Someday I’ll write about why.

And it takes you by surprise, like a rebel tide
Like lightning from the sky has been searching for you
And it splits you like a knife, the moment that it strikes
When you realize that death was looking for you.

I count the times I nearly died.

When the ether of death filled my nostrils, when I believed the only option was to slaughter my dreams, to bury them. Then reborn desires crowd around me, remind me of all the times I’d left them for dead.

Telling me my longings are real, blowing on my numb hands so I don’t freeze over.

Praying like a child Christmas Eve
Father, won’t you raise the son early?
I ask an awful lot of both my knees just waiting for you.

Help my unbelief

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on October 27, 2014.

I’m often told by friends and blog readers that my “vibrant Christianity” is inspiring, that I “maintain remarkable stability in the face of incredible odds.”

But I wonder if they’d still say that if they knew the me who sometimes wonders if spirituality is real or just a coping mechanism for survival, the me whose panic drags her to the toilet the morning of an exam. The twenty-something whose anxiety causes her to still jump and feel a rush of shame redden my ears when a supervisor approaches me at work, even if nothing is wrong.

So why do I stay? Why do I cling to Jesus?

The other day, I admitted to my friend Cynthia Jeub:

tweetI explained it to my friend Aaron, who recently wrote a blog series on coming out as an atheist, like this:

“I know none of the things my heart wants to be true can be scientifically proven. I believe there is a God because I think I have experienced His presence. And I really admire this guy Jesus whether he was God or not. I think he was an incredible guy who didn’t take religious bullshit, and who wanted justice for the oppressed. And more than anything? I’d like to be like him and to shake the world up. But that’s all I know for sure anymore.”

But this is my story, and my other friends have different stories. I am finding healing within the context of Christianity, and my fragile faith is becoming my own. But not everyone does.

I’ve heard many people say your view of God is nearly identical to your view of your father.

So when friends have needed to leave their dysfunctional homes, sometimes their healing journey makes it necessary for them to leave Christianity entirely.

One friend described it as “ditching God” to “unravel the Good and Bad Shepherd.”

R.L. Stollar, community coordinator for Homeschoolers Anonymous, writes in his post The Scarlett Letter of Unbelief: “It’s hard enough on its own, this thing called belief. Life is filled with pain and suffering and when those elements get overwhelming, they reveal how fragile belief can be.”

Like my friends, I have tossed out all but the raw heartbeat of my faith, eliminating the poison for the cure. Finding what remained after the shattering. And only now can I safely rebuild.

Modern evangelical Christianity often values faith so highly that it fears the doubters. But as I commented on R.L. Stollar’s post last year, “the church needs to recognize that it is okay to be sad and okay to be messy and okay to be broken.”

What shows a “doubter” the Jesus we’ve read about more: an understanding hug, a cup of hot chocolate and Kleenex, or some memorized Bible verse thrown at them over and over until it has lost all meaning?

I don’t know how to explain the beautiful friends who were Jesus for me after I got kicked out of a church two years ago: some were agnostic or Buddhist or Catholic or Baptist. One of them was my pastor friend who played Jesus over 20 years ago.

And as I replied to Cynthia Jeub:

tweet2

Emotional Hypothermia, Part 5: This is your life

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on October 6, 2014.

Continued from Part 4

 

I remember when
We used to drive
Anywhere but here
As long as we’d forget our lives
We were so young and confused
that we didn’t know
To laugh or cry
Those nights were ours
They will live and never die
Together we’d stand forever…
Skillet, Those Nights

The first week of February 2014 at around 4:30 am, I was driving my little white Toyota sedan that I named Journey somewhere between east Houston and Beaumont, Texas, floating through bayou fog and the darkness before dawn.

I adore roadtrips. Few other activities allow my brain that raw time stretching as far as the humming asphalt between my tires for pondering my life’s direction and my purpose.

No school, no work, just hours and hours of listening to music and calling friends or chatting with anyone in the car I’ve managed to kidnap. I can just be and enjoy existence. Roadtrips make me feel alive.

Two of my housemates traveling with me had fallen asleep in the backseat a few hours before. Our little escapade is still nicknamed “that one time we drove an extra 15 hours to have a 20 minute conversation with Mullet Jesus.”

We’d left Colorado Springs around 11pm Friday night, arrived in Dallas around 1pm, napped and visited friends, and now I was in the 4th hour of the 6 hour drive that Saturday night stretching into Sunday. The remaining itinerary involved church, a 9 hour drive to Lubbock to see Skillet at the Rock and Worship Roadshow, then 7 hours back home.

Despite the Monster drinks and beef jerky, I knew I was nearing my limits. I turned up the speakers and scrolled for Switchfoot’s Beautiful Letdown on my iPod.

Don’t close your eyes, don’t close your eyes / This is your life and today is all you’ve got now / Yeah, and today is all you’ll ever have…

The rhythmic, deep buzz of the opening notes blended with my thoughts. Don’t stop feeling this semester. Don’t forget how you learned to be alive, I reminded myself.

This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be? / When the world was younger and you had everything to lose…

I imagined my 5-year-old self. What would she think of adult me? She’d be slightly ecstatic, I decided. I was finally going on adventures my heart longed for, and at last I had friends.

– – – – – – – –

Since recovering from repression, emotional honesty has been crucial.

My counselor told me summer 2013 that other people, including my parents, wouldn’t understand me unless I told them how I felt.

And I’ve found abundant, vibrant life in community and artistic expression.

Late nights driving around town with my friend MangyCat and the Midnight Muse writers and making miniatures in my friend Kim’s cozy basement were staples of my first year living outside the box.

But last spring, I took an entire semester of courses for pure enjoyment: Acting, 2D Art, Koine Greek, Poetry Workshop, and Choir.

My heart is in theater, both inside the church and beyond it, which I admitted to my friend Cynthia Barram last month when I volunteered to act for Haunted Mines, a local haunted house.

“Honey, everybody uses theater to work out their emotional problems,” she replied.

Slam poetry, which I discovered 6 months before moving out, became my catharsis, a safe place for open and honest expression. Almost like a new form of church.

My two favorite slam poems are Confession: For the Christian part of me (Joel McKerrow) and Letter to my 10 year old self (Susan Peiffer, of Hear Here, the Colorado Springs local slam team).

I heard Joel perform his poem live at an open mic in the campus pub one Friday night in October 2012. He said he felt privileged to perform it in Colorado Springs, among all the religious tension. He begins:

For the Christian part of me,
not for the Christ, but for the Christian,
I am sorry.
For when I look at the book and look at my life,
when I look at the Christ and look at the church,
the two are as black and white.
So for the way I have silenced you,
with words that I thought were the only truth,
for every preacher that has yelled at you
every Bible that has been quoted at you,
every megaphone that has damned you,
every friend that has judged you,
every parent that has guilted you,
I am sorry.

And Susan’s poem sparks new beginnings for me through my old scars. I love how she ends:

And Susan, one day, occupy your body again.
Realize and understand the gentleness of touch.
And let this realization convince you
that you are much, much more than a product of your past.
You are the manifestation of some dream whom destiny means to last
and you will always have words.
Words will never leave you.
I don’t have much else to tell you, Sue,
because it gets better, yeah, but it gets worse, too.
Remember, beloved, you are made of poetry.
Stardust, wanderlust.
[….]
You will fall in love, and you will be partially fixed.
And if you miss your youth one day,
You are secure enough to say
You feel twelve again
All over like it should have been
Even if it takes ’til 36.

One day, I want to shout out my story as they have, unashamed and no longer silenced. But for now, I am learning how to feel every day until it’s like breathing.

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