Escaping God part 1

    The origins of my journey through Christianity can be found well before my birth in September of 1986. It was the early 1980s and my mother was a teenager who had left her home in Illinois to accompany her boyfriend who had found work in the booming city of Houston Texas. She was a free spirit who had already experienced a lot that life has to offer, the childhood freedom to roam the city with her friends, the hot and crowded rock festivals that reeked of weed and pulsed with sexual energy, the spontaneity to leave her home at the age of 17 and travel halfway across the country in hopes of finding a job and good times. Upon arrival in Houston, my mother found her boyfriend strung out on drugs and living in a small barren apartment. He was an eccentric fellow who had attracted my mother with his carefree ways and charming intelligence. His further descent into addiction was no doubt a turning point in the life of my mother. She was fun and wild, but she was also smart and determined to make a life for herself. She found a job as an interiorscaper, walking around downtown Houston pushing a 25-gallon barrel of water which she used to maintain live plants in swanky office buildings and mega malls. Unfortunately this was not the only thing she found. My mom was struggling in a huge city with no connections and no friends. She was lonely, so she did what many people would do, she spotted a local ad for a free Bible Study at a pentecostal church nearby and she decided to attend. Mind you, my mother had not been raised religious. Sure, she attended mass at a young age and was familiar with the Catholic Church but her spirit was too jovial for the mindless chantings and soft choirs of a cathedral. She had seen the loud and exciting acts of worship in a pentecostal church as a child, and she was curious. 

    

     My mother grew up in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of Peoria, Illinois. 3 blocks from her childhood home was a small pentecostal church that was part of a nation-wide evangelical organization with missionaries throughout most of the world, The United Pentecostal Church International (UPCI). The organization heavily relies on community "outreach" methods such as free Bible studies, block parties with free food and door prizes, free dinners for family and friends, and youth game nights. They even offer Bible Studies to children, which my mother had attended with her friends as a joke when she was around 10 years old. The ad in Houston was from a much larger church that was part of the same organization. When my mother went to the Bible study and discovered the same literature she had been shown to as a child, she regarded the coincidence as a miracle and her faith was born. 

    In many ways, my mother's newfound religion was positive and beneficial to her well-being. The church she attended was quite large in comparison to others in the UPCI. They had a thriving young singles group who gathered together regularly for Bible study, prayer meetings, game nights, and volleyball games. My mom quickly fit in with the others who were mostly misfits and transplants, people looking for friendship and community. She had found a place where she could bond with others in the very intimate environment that religious gatherings can create. I believe this was new and exciting for her, so exhilarating that she had no complaints or objections when she realized that church expectations meant giving up her pants, makeup, jewelry, and other "worldly" pleasures. She gladly agreed to not cutting her hair or wearing sleeveless shirts, to abstain from sex until marriage, to giving up her beloved rock music. I could go on for many paragraphs about what she gave up in exchange for, what I perceive to be, her new family. I'm sure many things that she sacrificed were not, and still are not, apparent to her.

     Flash forward a couple of years and you will find my mother marrying a young man who attended a UPCI church across the city. My father had also been raised without religion and was introduced to the church by his grandparents, who were veterans of the faith. He had only been in the church a brief amount of time and was less zealous than my mother, but he was convinced of the doctrine just as wholeheartedly as she. They underwent a few pastoral counseling sessions and then, after a few short months of dating, were married in a large church ceremony complete with powder blue tuxedos and pastel puffed sleeves. My mother's pregnancy with me came a few months later, during which my father stopped attending church and resumed his previous lifestyle. This lifestyle included plenty of alcohol and narcotics, and an unhealthy habit of losing his job. I can't imagine what my mother went through at this time, as she was desperately trying to hold onto her faith while being slammed with the pressures of working a physically demanding job and having a deadbeat husband. I truly believe she held on as long as she could. She brags about how, when I was born, the ladies of the church threw her a lavish babyshower where she received many beautiful gowns for me (church dresses.). By this time my parents could no longer afford to live in the city and had relocated to a trailer park on the very outskirts of Houston. Transportation to get to church was elusive and my mother found it difficult to attend alone, as I was a very fussy baby with colic and required much attention. Eventually she stopped attending church and resumed the "party lifestyle" with my dad, who was becoming more and more volatile by the day. My mother very much regrets this time in her life and rarely speaks of it. I find it intresting that she has discussed her pre-religious lifestyle with me many times, often rather fondly, but she is ashamed to share details about a similar lifestyle that took place after finding the church. She may have been too disheartened to physically attend the building, but the church had already solidified my mother's worldviews and her departure wouldn't last long.

     I have very few memories of the 3 years my parents spent outside of the church. Their marriage was suffering due to my father's explosive temper and his drug and alcohol abuse, and I do remember one instance when we were all in the car and I witnessed a violent dispute that ended with a backhand which broke my mother's nose. In 1989 my parents moved to South Carolina where my grandparents had recently opened a wholesale candy warehouse and were prepared to help my mother start her own interiorscaping business.It was shortly after we moved that my mother was at her wit's end with my father's abusive and irresponsible behavior. She met with an attorney and served my father with divorce papers. It was at this time that my father became desperate to keep his family together and suggested that we all "get back in church." Have you ever noticed that such fundamental churches usually attract people who are at very troubling crossroads? He promised he would straighten up, stop drinking, and be a better husband. My mother cautiously agreed and so began the indoctrination of my childhood. 

     The church my parents chose was a simple building in a quiet neighborhood with a congregation of around 40 members. My father was deadset on the church being a part of the UPCI, and this was the only church within a 1 hour radius. One of my earliest memories of the church was a sunday night which usually had less attendees than the morning service, probably about 25 people. We sat on the second to last row and a young married couple came and sat behind us. As a small child I didn't find it strange that the ladies all had extravagantly long hair piled up in huge curls atop their heads. I didn't notice that they all were wearing ankle-skimming dresses and not a smidge of mascara was to be found. I'm sure if I had been a few years older I could have picked out more than a dozen oddities, but at the time I knew no difference. 

     The service began, as most do, with a prayer and song led by one man standing on a platform behind a wooden pulpit. There was a barren cross on the center of the wall behind him. Everyone stood in unison to sing. Hands were raised and everyone was clapping and shouting praises to God. During the worship service, the woman behind us started violently weeping and ran to the altar. She was wearing pants, obviously not a regular member, and her makeup was streaming down her face. As a child, I felt very sad watching this. I felt bad for the woman and I soon started crying myself. The women of the church surrounded her, the men laid their hands on her head, and everyone was sobbing and "speaking in tongues." This is the pentecostal experience. It is deeply rooted in emotion and a powerful group energy. It leaves the individual feeling euphoric and "set free." I will never deny that these feelings are real. I experienced them myself for many years and this is one of the reasons why religion is so hard to break free from. My exposure to fundamental Christianity shaped the first 30 years of my life in every aspect. During the course of this narrative, I do not wish to bash individuals, only to present the facts as they happened. This is my story. If one person can be saved from oppression, if one reader can gain the courage to chart their own life course, then I will have accomplished more than I ever did during my 30 years in the church.