On Religion I: A Heathen's Childhood Encounters with Christianity

 

            My first encounter with Jesus Christ was a moment of terror in the school cafeteria.

            I, a scrawny seven-year-old, had just dug into my sandwich when I noticed my classmates staring at me. All of them had their hands clasped together by their chins and their eyes were wide.

            “Did you pray?” a little blonde girl I’ll call Annie* demanded.

            I stared blankly at her, my mouth full of pepperoni and white bread. “Huh?”

            Beside her, my new friend Noel’s brows knitted together in concern.

“Did you pray to Jesus before you started eating?”

            I swallowed my mouthful and blinked.

“Did what to who? This is a packed lunch. I don’t have to pay for it.”

            The girls exchanged alarmed glances. Amanda, my friend I’d met in kindergarten, set her lunch bag aside as if preparing for some great task.

            “No, pray, Danielle,” she corrected. “You have to pray to Jesus and thank Him for the food.”

            “But my mom made it, not…” I was starting to get frustrated. Kid Dee had lost the thread of this conversation, “Jesus. Who’s Jesus? The lunch lady?”

            My three companions gasped in unison and my stomach twisted. I had said something wrong and I didn’t know what. I’d messed up.

            “Jesus is our Lord and Savior!” Noel cried. “You don’t know Jesus?”

            “Have you let him into your heart?” Annie demanded. “If you don’t, when you die, you’ll burn in a lake of fire forever!”

            I was shaking now, and the minimal contents in my stomach had liquified. Nausea and a weird dizzy prickling sensation with which I was all too familiar washed over me. A lake of fire? That sounded horrible. And serious! Very serious! Why hadn’t my parents told me about a lake of fire? Why hadn’t they told me I could save myself from it with this Jesus person?

            “Where is he?” I asked, feeling the color drain from my face. “How do I let him hurt my heart?”

            “He is all around us,” said Annie sagely.

            “You let Him into your heart by getting Saved,” said Noel, as if this explained everything.

            I felt my breath quickening. I didn’t understand any of this. How can this Jesus guy be all around us and I never noticed him? All of our teachers were women. Was he the principal?

            “Pray,” Amanda commanded me, “like this.”

            Like our teachers had taught us the mechanics of tornado drills, my lunchtime companions walked me through the mechanics of prayer: Clasp your hands. Bow your head. Close your eyes. I did as instructed, trying not to let welling tears spill over my eyes. Plagued by overlooked childhood anxiety, I spent my early grades constantly navigating mysterious stomachaches and terrifying thoughts that leapt unbidden into my head and rooted there for hours or days at a time. I couldn’t even picture a lake of fire, but it sounded scary, and if I didn’t do what these girls said, I knew it was going to plague my brain for weeks to come.

            “Now ask Jesus to come into your heart,” Noel commanded.

            I clasped my hands so hard they hurt. “Um…Jesus, come-”

            “No,” Annie snapped, her voice high and frantic, “Pray. Don’t say it out loud. Just think it!”

            I took a shuddering breath. Uh…Jesus? I thought. Come…into my heart? Er, please?

            I sat with my eyes squeezed shut with the girls around me sitting in silence for a beat. And another. And another. Finally I squinted one eye open. They were all staring at me like they expected me to sprout wings and fly toward the cafeteria ceiling.

            “Did you feel it?” asked Noel. “Did you feel Him come into your heart?”

            My nails bit into my clasped hands. I felt queasy. I felt shaky. I felt terrified. But I didn’t feel…whatever it was the girls seemed to want me to feel.

            “Yes?” I whispered uncertainly.

            My lunchmates visibly relaxed, as if a great thundercloud has just dissolved into sunlight.

            “Great!” said Annie, unzipping her lunch bag and pulling out a Ho-Ho. “You’re Saved now.”

            I was afraid to unclasp my hands despite my companions’ sudden ease. “I am?”

            “Yeah!” Noel bit into her sandwich and continued with her mouth full. “Only people who don’t let Jesus into their hearts go to Hell.”

            “Go to where?”

            Amanda rolled her eyes. “Hell. The lake of fire! But you’re safe now.”

            They chatted and ate for rest of lunch as if nothing had happened; as if I had never been introduced to the idea of my seven-year-old flesh burning in fire and the girls around me had so generously and expediently saved my soul from eternal suffering. It was as if I’d been let into one of the countless “secret clubs” kids that age created at will, and not like I had been in any true danger.

            I grew up in a very small, very rural township about an hour outside of Cleveland a few of us affectionately nicknamed “The ‘Bury.” Insulated by forest and farmland, the ‘Bury was (and remains) a tiny community with more cows than people. The population is overwhelmingly white and conservative with most being either working class or upper class, with a significant dip in numbers in between. The only children of color were foster children or came from “The Condos:” a neighborhood nestled in a wooded community with townhomes that were incredibly nice for government housing, but were treated as a lawless ghetto nonetheless; much more despised than the multiple far more run-down neighborhoods in which most of my white friends resided. The school, which finally closed in 2020 with just over 200 students K-12, was small even then: I graduated high school with 56 people, most of whom I had known since at least elementary school.

If one were to drive through the ‘Bury today (or rather, when I started writing this a few months ago,) one would see lush farmland, vast swaths of green yard with huge houses (the less savory neighborhoods are tucked away in wooded areas off the main roads,) various forms of wildlife fearlessly traversing the road, the occasional building that is either a church, bar, or our iconic lone-standing restaurant, Mangia Mangia, and sign after sign after sign after sign printed with “TRUMP/PENCE 2020: KEEP AMERICA GREAT!” “PROMISES MADE: PROMISES KEPT!” and “PROTECT RELIGIOUS FREEDOM!”

            Looking at me now, decently tattooed/pierced and wearing fishnets even as I write this, one would think my childhood in a place like the ‘Bury was inconsolably miserable. You’d be wrong. Though I’ve always been, to quote an icon, “strange and unusual,” I was also the very social creature I am today, and I got along with just about everyone. It helped that I didn’t fully develop into this eccentric Freak Butterfly until well into my college years, spending my adolescence in Dollar Store clothing and hand-me-downs from my female cousins without much care for my appearance. I was also, in childhood, unintentionally sheltered from any true discussions of racial inequity, sexism, economic inequality, and other social ills about which I care deeply today. Like I said, the ‘Bury was white, Christian, and traditional. There was rarely any discussion of anything outside of that box. Safely insulated from most of this, and largely free of bullying due to my friendliness, I spent my childhood roaming the woods, writing stories, and creating plays and movies with my creative core of friends.

            Also, I won a chicken flying contest when I was 11. It’s not relevant to anything in this post, but I so rarely get to bring it up. Let it be known: This humble weirdo is the chicken-flying champion of the 1999 Geauga County Fair. Best show your respect.

            Anyway, though my childhood was by and large a comfortable one, I did hit some snags, and most of them were in the form of religion. I was raised in a family where religion was just…not a thing. My parents never declared us “atheist” or “secular.” They didn’t pull us aside to explain why we don’t go to church like my friends did. They never spoke out against Christianity or religion (until we were in high school, that is.) We just…lived our lives. You know; Dinner, but without praying. Sundays were only different from Saturday because it was chore day. My brother and I read Animorphs and Goosebumps instead of Bible stories watered down for kids. We were taught to be polite, treat others with respect, and be kind, simply because that’s how to be a decent human being. Just as race, class, and social issues were not discussed in the community at large, religion was not discussed in my family when we were children. It was like it didn’t exist.

            As you can imagine, growing up in the ‘Bury during the rise of Evangelicalism, the George W. Bush era, and eventually 9/11, knowing fuck all about religion led to more than a few odd and awkward moments in my life.

            Just for fun, I’m going to list some in no particular order:

-As a young child, I ended up unconsciously forging an association between Santa Claus and Jesus/God. Both were built up by parents as omniscient adults who monitored and judged your actions, and there were consequences to their judgment. Having not grown up with the Santa Claus lie (my parents just said, “No, guys, Santa isn’t real. Your Grandma just likes to put that on the gift tags because it’s festive” and that was it,) when the kids around me stopped believing in Santa, I naturally thought they’d stop believing in God, too.

-When I went to my first Roman Catholic funeral (my immediate family is secular, but I am Italian and therefore have more than a few Catholics in my extended family,) I felt like I was playing Simon Says in a different language—and losing—because the priest kept telling us to sit, stand, and kneel for reasons I could not decipher. I was constantly one step behind everyone else in the pews, like the kid who obviously missed choreography day for the school musical.

-A friend of mine described a typical Sunday at their church, during which parishioners frequently fell to the ground, trembled violently, and spoke in tongues. My friend tried to explain how these moments were miracles of the Holy Spirit, but I could only conjure up images of the horror movies I’d seen about demonic possession.

-Speaking of possession, my high school boyfriend’s bestie pulled my boyfriend aside one day and suggested he take me to the friend’s church for an exorcism. The friend believed I was possessed by the devil because I listened to…wait for it…Ozzy Osbourne. Ozzy freaking Osbourne. This was during the height of The Osbournes reality show, which portrayed the performer more as a toddling old man picking up Pomeranian poo in his backyard than the Prince of Darkness. You can’t make this shit up.

-I didn’t discover Veggie Tales until I was 12 years old and it is still THE. BEST. THING. EVER. to come out of Christianity. To this day, I sometimes start singing, “If you like to talk to tomatoes! If a squash can make you smiiiile!” while in the produce section of the grocery store. And, of course, the Where is my Hairbrush song is frequently performed in my bathroom.

-Some of my Evangelical friends tried to introduce me to more “wholesome” music than the scary stuff I listened to (like Ozzy-gasp!) These wholesome bands included some secular stuff, like Weezer, but also Christian bands like Reliant K (who still slap, btw. Sadie Hawkins Dance remains amazing,) and an Evangelical boy band who was best known for a pro-abstinence song whose chorus I still remember: I don’t want it, want it, I don’t want it. I don’t want…your sex right now! We did also listen to NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, mostly in secret until my friends’ stricter parents quietly gave up that particular battle.

I found the song and it is the most cringey Evangelical 90s gloriousness!

-I was dragged to a Sunday mass by my high school boyfriend’s family. After once again losing the Jesus Says game (Jesus says stand! Jesus says Sit! Kneel! OPE! Jesus didn’t saaaay!) everyone in the pews rose and started walking to the front of a church in a neat line. Trying to be a good little tourist, I followed suit. The priest gave me a bland little cracker and a sip of grape juice. At 16, I vaguely knew that this was a thing Catholics did, but had no idea why. After the mass, my boyfriend was horrified when he learned I wasn’t Catholic, but I “took the eucharist” anyway. “You’re not supposed to consume the flesh and blood of Christ if you’re not Catholic!” Oops. Bad heathen! No sacred cannibalism for you!

-When Hot Topic finally came to our nearest mall, most of my friends were expressly forbidden to go anywhere near it because, to quote one of the moms, the storefront “Looked like the Gates of Hell.”

-When a bunch of friends came to school late on Ash Wednesday, I told at least three of them they had something on their face before I realized it was purposeful.

-The only one that isn’t funny: In high school, our librarian, Mrs. A, was unconcerned with the fact that she was in a public school. She put Biblical youth magazines on the shelves and often dismissed us from library studies class—which was right before lunch—one by one, only after we each recited for her a Bible verse. Unsurprisingly, I was often the last student dismissed.

 

            Encounters like these helped shape my early view of Christianity as a bizarre and often comical exercise in make-believe in which adults also participate. Unfortunately, it wasn’t all silly fish-out-of-water moments. 9/11 and puberty hit at roughly the same time for me, and with those monumental shifts came a shift in my experiences with Christianity toward the malicious.

Hitting puberty in the age of Evangelicalism’s obsession with “Purity Culture” was, um, not fun. Purity Culture took America’s already massively problematic view of gender roles and sex and weaponized it.

In fifth grade, we were separated by chromosomal sex and taken to adjacent classrooms. We ‘girls’ were taught that blood was going to start pouring from our genitals every month, and with it might come pain, mood swings, fatigue, and other such joys of menstruation. We were told to “celebrate” this as a milestone of womanhood—but not to talk about it. Bring an extra pair of pants to put in your locker, have pads on hand, and above all, be discreet. We were told to celebrate and actually taught to feel shame. Through the wall, we could hear frequent bursts of laughter coming from the ‘boys,’ who later told us in between high-pitched giggles that they had learned about “boners.” Neither group were taught about both topics—divided by sex, our bodies’ new changes were “our problem,” and not to be discussed with those of differing chromosomes.

            Anyway, then came Junior High—which I recently learned schools that weren’t stuck in the 1950s called middle school. In the ‘Bury, as in most other schools, Sex Ed was taught in Health Class. We learned about genital anatomy, finally learned about menstruation and erections, and different “family structures” throughout history, with the nuclear family, of course, being held up as the ideal.

            Oh, the sex part? Well, there are forms of protection, like condoms and birth control, but condoms fail, birth control has scary side effects, and the only true way to stay safe is abstinence. Seriously, kids, you can even get “into trouble” with just heavy petting. Don’t you think it’s best to touch dirty, dirty genitals with someone you know is committed to only you for life? Anyway, here are some slides we found of the most horrific cases of untreated genital warts imaginable and a video of an unmedicated woman crowning. Still feel like having sex? We didn’t think so!

            Don’t laugh uncomfortably. We’re all mature adults in this class.

            That was the extent of our “secular” public school education on sex, but not to worry, my friends’ churches helped fill in the gaps. I heard discussions of the infamous sucker, used tissue, worn shoe-type conversations—basically, Who would want a sucker that’s been licked/used tissue/worn shoe? It’s the same with virginity! STAY PURE OR YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND WILL REJECT YOU AS FILTHY DAMAGED GOODS! discussed in various youth groups and Christian summer camps. Luckily, only one or two friends talked about the whole “purity ring” saga, and I only remember one friend trying to explain to me how she “gave herself to her dad” to protect her virginity until marriage, which I definitely misunderstood until it was explained to me in a bit more depth. Apparently rather radical Christians would hold a youth dance, like a prom, where girls would promise their dads they would save themselves for marriage, and their dads would somehow protect their daughters’ virginity until then? Yeah, I still don’t fully grasp this whole pseudo-incestuous patriarchal dumpster fire, and I’m relieved it was a rare occurrence amongst my religious friends. Because what the actual fuck was that about, early 2000s Evangelicals?

            The hormonal confusion of puberty was further exacerbated for me by 9/11, of which I was too young to fully grasp the implications. I was also too young to understand the bizarre mix of jingoism and religious fervor that infected out culture in the immediate aftermath. Suddenly my friends and their parents were talking about being American with the same love, pride, and superiority as they talked about being Christian. More than a few of them talked about Bush like they talked about Jesus, further dragging their Christ away from “meek and mild” pacifist to some sort of hyper-masculine military-wielding warrior who will lead the charge against the [so, so many Arabic racial slurs] and lead His chosen people—apparently, Americans?—to swift victory!

            [Insert bitter laugh track here.]

 

War criminal and former President George W. Bush.

 

I understand that a few of you might be decrying this post. “But Dee,” you say, “many of your experiences have nothing to do with Christianity, but our culture in general!”

This is half true, my invisible readers. My reason for lumping in so many of these experiences is because Christianity has shaped America’s culture in almost every way. From the forming of the country itself, to our dark history of slavery, to our views on women’s rights, sex, race, hell, even the economy, all of it is influenced by Christianity, which has been and remains the dominant religion in the United States. It’s inescapable. I’d say ‘for better or worse,’ but I think it’s obvious on which side of that phrase I stand in this case.

Growing up a non-Christian surrounded by Christianity from an early age, and coming to a formative developmental milestone at the height of a Christian fervor, has had a massive impact in shaping my views on religion. As I grew and learned more about the world, our history, and how religion shaped my culture, my vague cynicism grew a bit more hard-edged. Reading chapter after chapter of historical instances of religion being weaponized to manipulate the poor into complacency (ex: morality plays in the Middle Ages,) justify wars when they were actually about resources or expansion of power (obvious ex: Crusades,) murder innocents (ex: witch burnings all over Europe and the Salem Witch Trials here,) and repress groups, races, sexes of all sorts (ex: US slavery, Christianity’s long stance against LGBTQ existence and rights, history of battling racially blended marriages and relationships, Biblical justifications for oppression of women,) and battles against science (ex: the countless philosophers and scientists put to death by the Catholic/Christian church throughout history; the anti-evolution sentiments that persist to this day,) puts a bad taste in your mouth about Christianity, and religion in general.

Now I’m an accepting little heathen. I’m very tolerant of other religions and fairly tolerant of Christianity, though my criticism of the latter gets louder depending on the cultural moment. I understand the comfort that religion brings to people: Ritual, community, answers to unanswerable questions, etc. I don’t fault people who turn to religion, nor do I consider myself superior to those who are religious. I just knew from an early age that I would never be religious myself. I knew I would never be a part of a religious organization.

 

That is, until the 2016 election happened.

 

    That’s right, bitches, this is a two-parter.

*I changed all names in this story because I’m fairly positive none of these folks would be thrilled if I used their real names to illustrate something that happened decades ago.