Religious Autobiography

This is a paper written for the entry level course, Intro to Religious Studies. The professor wanted to hear our religious journeys up to the Spring of 2008.

The Father

My mother quit attending church during her childhood. Her family abandoned the institution when my grandmother was reprimanded by the pastor for lacking the fruits of self-control and peace. She lost her temper with a smart-mouthed Sunday school student and used words and phrases that would make a sailor blush. Over a decade later, my mother had children of her own. My brother was eight and I was four when my mother saw Satan emerge from a magic mirror. My mother was at the movie theater when on the screen before her the Dark Lord stepped out from a mirror being viewed by a young girl. By coincidence at that precise moment the lights flickered and the theater lost all power. As my mother sat there in the quiet pitch black, she began to ponder eternity.

The next Sunday my mother took my brother and me to Harrah Friendly Free Will Baptist Church. After overcoming the initial shock of my mother’s departure to “Big Church”, I enjoyed myself. I ate a cookie, made a craft, drank some Kool-Aid, and before I knew it my mother had returned. My brother chatted excitedly on the way home about all the things he had learned.
We returned the next week and the weeks after that. Eventually my father began to attend church as well. My parents were well-liked by the members of the church, and soon church wasn’t just a Sunday ritual. We were there on Wednesdays for bible study, Fridays for volleyball league, Saturdays for softball league, and Sunday evenings for choir practice, more bible study, and the occasional baby or wedding shower. My father used the old church goers cliché,”…everytime the doors are open.”

My father was devout. He carried a New Testament in his back pocket. He taught the pre-teen “Big Church” alternative. He and my mother were known for their elaborate vacation bible school lessons. He was in it to win it. He was running the race. He was fighting the good fight (a metaphor he particularly adored because of his own boxing career). My father seemed obsessed with another metaphor. My father was fixated on the “thorn” in Paul’s side. My father would ponder aloud this mysterious hindrance of his biblical hero. While my father took long morning prayer walks, I had a thorn of my own festering inside me. At an early age it was easy to ignore, but as I grew older I became increasingly aware of its presence.

When I was a teenager, the church’s deacons informed my father that he was one of two men being considered for the position of deacon. My brother and I were apprehensive, for we knew that being a deacon’s kid would put us under constant scrutiny of the watchful eyes of the congregation. My father was honored to even be considered for the position, but I sensed that my father was holding back his true feelings. However, my mother was ecstatic. My father was reluctant to accept the position. It was as if every time my mother mentioned his possible deaconship I could see my father pick at his inflamed, metaphorical thorn. In the end due to a possibly unethical plot carried out by the church secretary who happened to be very close to my mother, my father became a deacon.

The next communion service was monumental for my father. He was now one of the men charged with the duty of passing out petite, bland pieces of the Christ and plastic cups filled with a sip of the mouth puckering blood of the Son of God. I usually giggled during this solemn service from the sight and sound of everyone chewing and smacking in unison, but I didn’t that service. I was too focused on my father. His expression was not solemn; it was forlorn.

My mother’s pride became despair when she realized that the office of deacon was not only prestigious but also taxing and time consuming. Tensions rose within the house and soon my father resigned. Shortly after his resignation, my father removed the thorn from his side. He divorced my mother. His long morning walks had consisted of pleas to God to release him from the burden of his 21-year marriage. His guilt over this and his adultery drove him out of our church and out of our home. The religion that was once his glue now tears him apart.
I took it well. I hardly skipped a beat. My grades remained high, and my mood remained stable. My faith in God did not waver. I had bigger fish to fry. I was going to hell.

The Son

I never had an “Oh God, I’m gay!” moment. It just was, always had been, and still is, yet for as long I knew that I also knew Leviticus 18:22 by heart. I had read in Christian literature of ministries that claimed to renew homosexuals and make them ex-gay. I had a friend with the same “struggle” and his parents enrolled him into one of these programs. After a few weeks in the program, he quit out of frustration and lack of hope for any change. My own hopes were dashed. I decided that in order to change I would have to blaze my own path.

It came time for me to choose a college. After hours of prayer and meditation, I decided that God wanted me to attend Hillsdale Free Will Baptist College. I felt that if I pursued God at Hillsdale we would heal me of my condition. I expected to learn and grow at Hillsdale but never in the way I did. My fundamentalist upbringing was shattered the first day of class when I realized there were two creation accounts in Genesis. This piece of information was fascinating to me, but none of my classmates wanted to engage in discourse. They acted disinterested or threatened. It was ironic to learn that a literal 6-day creation was not biblical in an institution whose faith statement includes a clause stating that Hillsdale, as an institution, believes in the doctrine. I began to realize that humans and their institutions believe what they want to believe. To reconsider beliefs could potentially chip away at a long-held worldview. That’s when things began to change for me.

Giving Up the Holy Ghost

The next two years of my life held some of my darkest hours. I felt my very existence was immoral, but I refused to share my true feelings about my doubts of Christianity and the truth of my sexuality. I felt such shame that I began to develop self-destructive behaviors to punish myself. Being at Hillsdale was going to kill me, so I decided to transfer to OU where I felt free. I continued my personal research on religion and finally decided to walk away from Christianity. It wasn’t easy. A few months later, I decided to come out to my friends. It wasn’t any easier. I am frequently accused of breaking away from Christianity so I could lead a guilt-free “gay lifestyle”. This isn’t the case, because, while religion and sexuality are related, one is not the result of another. While at Hillsdale I extensively studied the topics of Christianity and homosexuality and found that there are churches and doctrines that allow the two to coincide.
A few weeks ago, I was having dinner with a former professor from Hillsdale. He posed the question of why I felt the need to no longer practice Christianity while I studied other possibilities. It’s hard to start a journey if you never leave home. He encouraged me to return to “the fold”. Were sheep created for the shepherd? At one point in time sheep existed independent of the shepherd and his dogs. The grass is greener on the other side of the fence, but the shepherds constructed the fence. I’ve come to beware the sheep in shepherd’s clothing.

Critical Analysis

Before writing my religious auto-biography I had never realized how much of an impact my father had on my personal religion. Only in the past year have I even come to realize how much of an impact my parents’ divorce had on all aspects of my life. I’m left questioning if perhaps some of my discontent with Christianity lies within the patriarchal tradition. Could I be resenting God the Father because of the perceived failings of my own father? If so, could patriarchal tradition attract others due to broken relationships with their fathers? If God had been presented to me as a maternal figure would my journey have ended any differently?

When I tell my story most people can’t get past what role my sexuality must have played. I assure everyone who asks this that the two are not inseparable and that my sexuality really had no bearing on my final decision, but I do often ask myself the same question. Am I perhaps repressing the truth of how my sexuality has affected my religious journey? How much does my sexuality affect how I view the world? This question may be impossible to answer. How can that even be gauged if I’ve never known different? Can I look past the embitterment that has been caused by religious communities who seek to harm or hold back homosexuals?

Attending a small, slightly fundamental Christian college definitely affected my religious journey, but how much should I allow it to affect it? Is my questioning of religion valid or am I inspired by a personal resentment towards the institution that failed me? Had I gone to a more liberal Christian college or a secular university would my story have a different ending? Had I spoken out while at Hillsdale what could have changed? Would I have been happier? Would professors have offered answers to my questions?

I use the term journey often when speaking of my religious experience, so where is my journey taking me? Have I given up on religion for good or is this just a temporary wandering? I do feel that I could possibly return to a Christian church one day, but I know that things will never be as they once were. I’ve made my feelings about organized religion clear, but what about my personal theology. What I do I think of the possibility of God? Do I think He is non-existent? Does She seek to have a personal relationship with me? Can I come to know Them without adhering to an established religion with an organized code, creed, and cult? Am I a sojourner or a drifter? Am I a prodigal or an apostate? I do not know the answers to these questions.