As I said in my last post, the memoir I just finished writing (which may morph into a novel), and for which I’m seeking an agent, is about my life when I was young. It focuses, in particular, on my experiences at the evangelical church my family attended when I was a teen, It was there I was ostracized for having questions about the rigid roles prescribed for women. What follows here is a little about my religious background and spiritual journey.
When I was tiny, my family went to a Methodist church in the East Bay. That’s where I was baptized as a baby and later attended preschool. When my family moved to the South Bay after I finished Kindergarten, we joined another Methodist church. My favorite thing was watching the baptisms of babies. I tried very hard to remember my own baptism but, even at age five, it was hard to imagine I’d ever been a baby.
I was an extremely shy child. Today,I would be said to have a condition called “selective mutism”: I was completely tongue tied around people I didn’t know, but could be goofy and animated around those with whom I felt comfortable. I don’t remember having any friends at that church.
I was a curious child, and peppered my father with questions: Daddy, why is the sky blue? Daddy, how do they know the Earth is round? Daddy, why do stars sometimes fall? Dad, being a good engineer, would explain the answers to me in scientific terms that I did not understand. He tended to talk quite a bit once he got going, and after several minutes, I would try to extricate myself without hurting his feelings.
At night before sleep, even when I was very young, I would ask God, in the person of my Sleepyhead doll, all my questions. Why can’t we see you, God? Why do parents die? (I’d learned this terrible fact when I saw the movie Bambi.) Why is God a He? Why do boys think they are so much better than girls? When I was in sixth grade, I wondered, Is it possible that, when I see something green, if I could see that same thing through your eyes, it might look orange? Or blue? But because we all call it green, we think we are seeing the same thing? This question terrified me, and I couldn’t wait to ask my friends if they’d thought it, too. But the next morning, when I did, they said, “You’re crazy, Janette! Green is green and orange is orange!” and went back to talking about boys. Because I had not been able to adequately explain what I meant (otherwise my friends would have understood and been scared with me) I felt ashamed, and decided I had to keep the question to myself. I did not consider asking my father, who would probably write down some mathematical formula in response. What did it mean if everyone’s perception of life was different? What does it mean? To me it felt as if the floor of our house suddenly gave way, and I was falling and falling, with no solid ground in sight. It was my first experience of what Kierkegaard called existential angst.
Later that same year, at my parents’ insistence, I joined them and left the Methodist church to join a Southern Baptist congregation. I felt greatly wronged, as Dad agreed that my sister and brother could stay at the Methodist church; they were already involved in the youth group there. In less than a month, I would graduate sixth grade, after which I’d also be able to join the youth group. But no amount of pleading could change Dad’s mind.
It was at the Baptist church I learned about original sin. Even at age eleven, I could not believe babies were born sinful. It seemed like an absurd concept, like if someone had told me the sky was down. I loved babies! How could they be sinful? I tried to believe what the Baptist minister preached, because I was supposed to, but I couldn’t manage it. When the minister said that God sent His only Son Jesus to die on the cross so that I might have eternal life, I was confused. Did that mean I was guilty for killing Jesus, because of mistakes I’d made, or times I’d disobeyed my parents? How could I have killed him when I wasn’t even alive during His life? When I was twelve and couldn’t sleep one night, my father asked me what I felt guilty for; that was the only reason he could imagine a child not being able to sleep. I wasn’t a perfect kid by any means, but on that particular night, as I searched myself and reviewed my recent words and actions, I could come up with nothing I’d done wrong. Just in case, I clasped my hands and closed my eyes and asked God (and Jesus) to forgive me.
Other questions frightened me, too, and weren’t explained in church: If God is a loving God, why are some children starving to death, while I have all I need? Why would a loving God send babies to hell just because they haven’t heard about Jesus? Was it their fault they were born into a country where no one was Christian? They’re babies! Another question that burned at me, was about animals. It may not seem related to my topic of religion until you read Genesis 1:26, where God gives man dominion over all the animals. I saw animals as being here on this planet with us, not under us. My question was: Why do people insist animals don’t have feelings? This one seemed obvious to me. Even though my siblings and I were not allowed to have pets with fur (Dad was allergic) I knew beyond a doubt that animals’ personalities were as unique as our own, and that included feelings. Every day on my walk home from school, a beautiful long-haired cat would come trotting down her driveway to see me. I’d sit there and pet her and talk to her until my butt was numb and I knew it was time to go home. When I learned she belonged to one of my classmates’ grandmothers, I felt betrayed; I’d been thinking of her as my cat. I also fell in love with a neighbor’s collie, Lady, and would ring the family’s doorbell to ask if I could take her out for walks, or play with her in their backyard. She was shy like me, and I sometimes had to tell the other kids on our street to back away because they were scaring her by crowding too close.
One Sunday when I was eleven, Mom left early for choir practice, and I picked out my own clothes for church: my nicest pants and a matching short-sleeved sweater. As I sat on the cushioned pew next to Dad, dozing a little as I leaned my head against his shoulder which was scratchy as his beard from the wool of his jacket, the Baptist minister said to the entire, enormous congregation, “What is this world coming to?” His eyes roamed from one person to another to another, then focused on me. He shook his head sadly, his face stuck in a perpetual grimace. “What a sacrilege it is to see a young lady wearing slacks in church today! It is disrespectful, and not how we treat this godly place.” It was the first time I hated an adult.
That same minister also said baptisms of babies are meaningless, because babies can’t accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior. I wasn’t sure this applied to me, but a school friend, who also attended the church, grabbed my arm and hissed into my ear.
“How can we convince Annie [a mutual friend]to become a Christian if we’re not Christians ourselves?” she said.
“I’m a Christian!”
“Weren’t you listening to what Pastor said? We’re not Christians until we’re baptized by immersion.”
The next Sunday, we walked down the interminably long aisle to accept the altar call and tell the pastor we wanted to be baptized. And suddenly we were enrolled in weekly classes, as interminable as the aisle had been. They were taught by the minister who had shamed me. (Strangely, neither of my parents said anything after that horrible incident.) Mom, who would be immersed on the same Sunday as my friend and I, urged my father, who had been “sprinkled” when he was in the Navy, to be baptized by immersion with us. But he insisted that his baptism had been meaningful to him and he felt no need to do it by immersion.
I began thinking about what he said, and about my own baptism as a baby (had it been meaningful? I wasn’t sure), and considered dropping out of the classes. But how could I? Mom was taking them, too. When, several weeks later, we were finally dunked in the little pool behind the altar, I didn’t feel any different. Wasn’t I supposed to feel “filled with the Spirit?” What was wrong with me?
To be continued.
Again, an excellent article. The first Ladies Bible Class I attended here in Sebastopol, after Bob became the preacher, I wore slacks. It was 1975 and I was 24. Immediately the ladies in the class (mostly elderly) pointed out that I was wearing men’s clothing, which was a sin. I was pretty outspoken at that time, so I calmly told them that I thought Jesus had worn robes, not slacks. It did not go over very well. But I continued to wear slacks to that class. However on Sunday mornings, I did wear dresses and skirts. I grew up in the Methodist church and loved it. My first introduction to the Church of Christ and the attitudes of its members was when Bob and I were dating and I was 16. His father told me one night that I was going to hell, because I was a Methodist. I retorted that I would never attend a Church of Christ. Unfortunately, years later I ate those words.
What a great story, Patti! We are more alike than I realized. Thank you for sharing.