Oh My God

Today I stumbled across a movie that's out right now called "Fireproof." It's one of those religious flicks that stars Kirk Cameron. As I was watching the preview, I found myself tempted to actually watching it. It seemed -- dare I say -- good.

Then I made a discovery that sent me running from the Web site as quickly as my finger could click. It was made by a church I used to attend -- a church that changed my views on organized religion entirely.

Admittedly, religion is something I've always struggled with. I was raised Christian by a family of Baptists. When I was small I went to church religiously (pun intended.) My grandparents – especially my maternal grandmother – believed in forcing Christ down the throat of her family. If her adult children missed a day of church my grandmother was so embarrassed she would actually LIE about their whereabouts rather than let anyone in that small community church think HER clan was less than holy. Even when I was a little girl the irony of telling a lie to cover for a "sin" you did not commit was not lost on me.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my grandmother. She was a kind and loving person. I was spoiled rotten by her and my Papaw and I was devastated when they died. I don't blame them for raising us in church. I think it was absolutely the best thing that they could have done. It helped teach me so many things about respect, love and morality. I just wish it hadn't been delivered in such a hypocritical way. I was lucky because my parents taught me the difference. They instilled tolerance in my sisters and myself. They also taught us to question things for ourselves and to never just blindly follow. That bit of education has served me well.

Regardless of my struggles to figure out how Christianity to fit into my life, I never turned away from it completely. I always believed in God. I always believed in purpose – in a higher being. For years I drifted in and out of churches, never really sticking to one specific congregation or attending regularly. Mostly because I never stayed in one place for very long. I moved around a lot. When I arrived in Georgia five years ago and fresh out of college, I felt completely lost and alone. I hated Albany, the town where I worked at the local newspaper. It was a dirty, soulless place. I didn't fit in or have friends. Everyday I contemplated quitting my job and returning home to my mother.

A few weeks into my stint in Georgia, I accepted the invitation of a coworker to go to church with her. It was my first experience in a church with over 100 people. This church literally had thousands of members. When I went for the first time I had no idea how gigantic it was. Regardless of its size, though, I was made to feel welcome and enjoyed the experience. I went to Bible study classes regularly and even wanted to become involved in some of the youth initiatives, teaching young children. For the first six months I was happy as a clam.

Then I started dating the Aggie. This did not affect my attendance at all. I still enjoyed going to church and socializing. One day someone asked me about my new boyfriend and I happily spilled a few of the details about him. No, we weren't serious, yet, I said. No, I didn't meet him at church. Yes, he's a believer. No, he's not Baptist. Yes, I could see myself having a future with him. Etc. Etc. Etc.

A week later I was having dinner in a local restaurant with my new boyfriend. I was sipping a glass of red wine and having pasta when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was one of the ministers that I had spent some time with at the church. He said hello awkwardly and I introduced him to the Aggie. After the initial pleasantries, he went on his way and we continued with dinner. The following day I received an urgent phone call from the minister's secretary asking that I stop by the church that afternoon. She said the preacher had something he wanted to ask me.

On my way home, I stopped by as requested. I never thought for a moment it was for anything other than discussing my desire to teach one of the youth classes. As I entered his office, it became clear that this was not a pleasant meeting. The minister sat at his desk with folded arms and stared at me. He did not greet me in anyway. He simply sat and stared for a moment, then gestured for me to take a seat. It was very much like being called to the principal's office and not knowing what crime you've committed. Finally, I broke the silence.

Not one for beating around the bush, I asked: "Pastor, they said you had something you wanted to ask me?"

"Yes, I do," he said in the most condescending tone I have been spoken to in my life. "I wanted to ask you one simple question: Are you prepared to spend eternity in hell?"

I laughed out loud. Surely this man was joking.

"A soul damned to an eternity in the fiery pits of Satin's kingdom is nothing I would be laughing about, young lady," he said, his face turning red like 'Satin's kingdom.'

"Excuse me, sir, but what are you talking about?" Again, I'm not one to dilly dally around the subject. Lets just lay it out there.

"When I ran into you this weekend you were partaking in drink -- the devil's drink -- and what disturbed me most is you showed no apparent shame at being caught behaving that way."

"Drink? Behaving what way?"

"Consuming alcoholic beverages and engaging in drunkenness."

"Whoa there buddy. I was having a glass of wine, but I was in no way drunk. One glass of wine doesn't do that to you."

"I KNOW exactly what drink does to people. It snakes down inside you and wraps itself around your soul. It destroys you slowly, taking you apart piece by piece until finally it claims your home, your job and everything you hold dear," he said. I sat there staring at him wondering if he'd woken up that morning and ate a big bowl of crazy for breakfast.

Finally, he continued speaking.

"You are on the path to hell. You will not be my sister in Christ when I enter the gates of Heaven and this saddens me. There are things in your life that you need to get rid of if you want to have a future with God at the helm."

Well, hell, he had my attention. I was too dumbfounded to say much or even really react so I just sat back and listened. I wanted to hear what other kooky ramblings he had saved up.

"You need to find other people to spend your time with. Your boyfriend is clearly a bad influence. He is leading you down the wrong path," he said, standing up from his desk and walking over to take my hand. "Sister in Christ, you are better than the life you are choosing. Turn away from the sins of alcohol, premarital sex and profanity and turn to God. Turn to us. Turn to your church family. Find the spouse God has chosen to lead you."

Oookay. I had just about enough. Something about that last bit kind of – how should I put it – sent me over the edge. I was suddenly so enraged I couldn't see straight. I had what I like to call a case of the mean reds. Just as I was preparing to open my mouth tell this guy where he could stick it, the pastor grabbed my free and leaned in closely to me.

"Until you are on the right path, I'm afraid you can NOT work with the children in our church. They need a leader who serve as a moral example."

Oh. No. He. Didn't.

Momma Pug snapped.

"Now you wait just a minute there!" I said. "In the process of trying to save my soul you have just called me a drunk, a whore and a horrible role model. You have judged me unfairly and not in way I think God would approve of. And while you may very well be right about me, the one thing I am not is a hypocrite. Nor do I keep the company of -- much less worship with -- hypocrites."

I stood and turned to leave, rather proud of myself for not telling a man of God to kiss my drunk, whorey ass. Clearly underestimating the self control I was exerting, the pastor stepped in front of me, keeping me from exiting his office.

"Wait," he said. "Please, I am only trying to help you. Let's sit down and talk some more. Let's discuss it rationally."

"Sir, we have not been engaging in rational or, for that matter, civil conversation. You just spent the last ten minutes chastising and judging me. You have condemned me to hell several times and told me to dump the ONE person I've connected to in healthy way in my entire adult life. So, no thank you. I will not be staying to 'talk.' Or returning to any of your services. This isn't the home for me. You aren't the spiritual leader I want or need. And having me as a part of your congregation isn't my loss, it's yours."

And with that I pushed my way past the fine reverend and marched out to my car and left.

This should be the end of the story. I should have been able to walk away from the church and never looked back. Because this is America and we are allowed to pick our religious affiliations. Yet the story does not end there. The next day -- before I could even share the experience with the Aggie -- I arrive to work to find my paramour in a bit of tiff. He was red-faced and sitting very still at his desk. My intial thought was: Oh no, what have I done? After a few moments of stewing, the Aggie approached. Just before I arrived at work, that preacher had called the Aggie and informed him that if he was concerned about my spiritual well being, he would terminate his relationship with me.

WHAT?

Are you shitting me? This dude called my boyfriend, at work no less, to tell him he needed to dump me because I was going to hell. Lord knows I have enough trouble keeping a relationship in tact without crazy calls from religious zealots. Well, if it weren't so infuriating it would just be comical. In my day, potential suitors were ran off the old fashioned way -- by my daddy with a shotgun. The preacher didn't get a vote.

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"To look in the fucking mirror," the Aggie said. "I told him that I didn't need or trust the opinion of any church that has a bookstore in the lobby. That's like moneychangers at the temple. Then I told him not to call me ever again, unless he wanted an old fashioned Texas ass whooping."

Fair enough. Boundaries were being crossed. Perhaps the pastor needed a stronger approach. Later that afternoon my phone rang. It was the secretary that had summoned me to the meeting the day before.

"The pastor wants you to come by and pick up your letter," she said.

"My letter?"

"Yes, when you joined you moved your letter of membership from your church in Mississippi," she said. "You need to stop by and pick it up."

Now call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure this was just a ploy to get back into Brother DoRight's office. And that was one place I wasn't prepared to go back. Aside from chapping my ass real good, the whole exchange was wearing on my nerves.

"Mail it," I said. "You obviously have my address because I get tons of propaganda from yall."

"Uh, oh, well, I'm afraid I can't do that," she said finally. She was not expecting me to refuse their demands to come by.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Uh, well, it's just that he said you had to pick it up," she said. "It's policy."

"Well, seeing as my old church mailed it to you, then I'm pretty sure it's not a Southern Baptist policy. Go ahead and mail it, it what Jesus would do," I said.

"I can't," she replied, obviously wanting to get off the phone with the sinner.

"Look, I'm not stepping foot inside that church ever again. So you can mail me the letter or throw it away or burn it for all I care," I replied.

"Oh, no! You can't let your letter be thrown away!" she exclaimed.

"The fate of that later is on your shoulders, hon. Personally, I could care less. When I die and go to Heaven I really don't think St. Peter is going to be asking for that slip of paper," I said. Then I hung up.

---

That's been about five years ago. In those years I married the Aggie. And I became Methodist. I will never forget my roots, and maybe it's all the brainwashing, but I don't begrudge the Southern Baptists. They believe what they believe and it turned out that as an adult their docterine didn't fit my beliefs. I have some very good gay friends and I don't believe they are destined for hell. I enjoy a nice glass of wine and -- gasp -- sex. But you know what? I am who I am today because of them and I think I turned out okay. I haven't gotten it all figured out for sure, but I am confident that being a Christian is a personal relationship with Christ. It's like marriage -- it works best if you're just honest with each other and don't pretend to be someone you're not. And Christ and I are pretty happy together. Sometimes we even laugh at the same inappropriate jokes.