Growing up Christian, I was programmed from a very young age to care about other people: To love God - love your neighbor - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The problem is that the "love yourself" got lost in the translation. This is standard fare for all Christians, the nuances of how and what it means can be translated a multitude of ways.
Growing up denominationally schizophrenic, my Christian upbringing bridge two major theological schisms in modern theology. Dad was Apostolic/Pentecostal/Assembly of God. Mom left the liberal Methodist church before it became liberal and deemed herself a staunch Southern Baptist. From the cradle, my spiritual development stood between the Holiness Movement of the late 1800 and the unemotional, logic of a fear based theology. Here I stood -
Pentecostal - "One could fall from grace." One had to be consistently repentant and aware of one's fatal flaws.
Southern Baptist - "Once Saved - Always Saved."
Salvation, being the most important was the least interesting of the topics of conversation. It was a mystery only God could solve.
The hot button topics surrounded on how to worship. Quiet, obedient and studious or emotional, expressive and speaking in tongues touched off a religious stand off of Biblical proportions.
My first inkling of trouble began in my early elementary school years.
I was blessed to have Grandmother Avy. A beautiful Christian soul, survivor of the Great Depression and birthed 9 children - eight survived. She had 24 grandchildren. We were all special. Fortunately for us, she lived in Fort Worth, Texas. On weekends, dad would pile the three of us in the car and take us to grandma's for the weekend. It was as though we had been sent to a four star resort.
Grandma made each of us our favorite dishes - mine was rice and gravy. Aunt Katherine made awesome cakes and the lack of demands made Grandma's house an oasis from the crazy world of home.
Except for the missing "devil box" (TV), we were blissfully content. No matter where we stayed on Saturday night, Sunday morning meant church.
Going with my grandmother, aunts and uncles to church was vastly different from going with my mother.
At Beverly Hills Baptist church, the three of us - Steve, Sandi and I (Fred was yet to be born)- would dress in our finest, go to Sunday School and sit still in the pew every Sunday. Our dear pastor would give us a piece of gum if we remained quiet during worship. We were rewarded for quiet obedience.
At my grandmother's church, we entered into another spiritual realm.
People prayed out loud; spoke in tongues; shared their sinful secrets out loud and an emotional release carried worship into another time and place. A controlled chaos of spiritual and emotional energy engulfed the spirit - especially the spirit of a young child. I felt like an outsider and never really belonged to this "church family."
Their standards of Christian conduct went beyond the norm. No TV (devil boxes), women had to wear their hair long and in buns. Pants, shorts and especially bathing suits were not allowed. Medical care was frowned upon - only God heals. Offerings were mandatory and women had to have seams in their hose. I have yet understood how this became a holy mandate and not sure I want to know. There expression of faith was to separate themselves from the world and identify with one another to be one with Christ. They were good loving, Godly people being led by a charlatan.
The setting of the sanctuary was like an auditorium. On the chancel/stage, two huge throne like chairs stood where the pastors would sit. On the wall behind them, two huge pictures flanked the sides of the church. Both had lines of people - the one - the most frightening one - was of the pit.
The scene was the fiery pit of hell. Dark clouds of smoked blocked the sun. The pit was long and deep. People crowded, standing at the bottom, arms lifted up for help that was not to come - a long line of people standing at the edge of the deep abyss. God/Jesus/Peter - not sure who - stood at the edge pointing/pushing people in the line - forcing them to jump into this hopeless, desolate, dark place of fire, ash, soot, and suffering. People at the bottom, people falling, people being pushed - it was a frightening, sinister picture. The other side depicted a sunnier landscape with God/Jesus/Peter pointing up a hill to a narrower path where only a persons were allowed to pass toward the light. Interestingly enough, those being sent to hell and those to heaven had the exact same facial expressions.
It was up to us to decide our eternal fate.
At 54, I have found myself thinking about death and resurrections. Wondering about paths, pits, and consequences of choices made and unmade, I look forward no longer fearing the fiery pits of hell, but fearful of expressionless faith.
I tried to live my faith as an ordained minister- to share the Gospel - to do what is good and right and just - I feel like it all backfired. The attempt to help others help themselves proved to be a fatal flaw in my career choice.
The pit I am in is filled with sorrows not of sins, but of a deep sadness of disappointment.
Letting go of the disappointment is my first step. I'm ready to start.
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