Upon receiving a great suggestion, I have
decided to break my memoirs up into smaller, more manageable sections, so that
reading it won’t be so daunting. (Thanks Justin) There will be a total of 14
sections, with this being the first one.
As promised, here are my memoirs – the
story of my journey from faith to atheism. There are a few things I want you to
know about my memoirs before you read them. First, they are long. Second, I
still believed in god when I started writing them. I wrote them over a period
of about six months, and by the time I finished them, I no longer believed, and
was identifying as an atheist. And lastly, but importantly – I was extremely
angry at god and christianity and christians during the time that I still
believed in god, which was for the majority of the time I wrote my memoirs.
That anger is apparent throughout much of the writing. As my belief came to an
end, I noticed something interesting taking place. That anger I had been
harboring began to dissipate, until it was virtually nonexistent. That is also
apparent within the memoirs.
I still get angry, but my anger is
directed towards religious beliefs that are harmful, such as original sin and
that we are born deserving hell, along with the misogynistic tone throughout
the bible, and the harmful way it manifests in religious beliefs and practices.
If you take the time to read the journey
of my story – thank you. Please leave your comments below; I look forward to
hearing your thoughts and opinions.
Ex-Pastor
in Recovery Gets Shit-Faced on Doubt: The Memoirs of an Ex-Wesleyan Methodist,
Ex-Evangelical, Ex-Progressive, and Current Atheist
Have you ever asked anyone the meaning of
life, or a similarly deep question? If so, I bet the responses you’ve gotten
have been varied and confusing. Now, imagine asking questions about god, the
bible, and religion. Go ahead—think of some. Now, imagine asking many more, and
receiving a maddening array of different answers, some of which are polar
opposite. And of course, there are the many answers or explanations that just
don’t make sense; logic and reason are often abandoned in the process of
answering those questions. Now, imagine that each of the persons giving you
those varied and opposing answers tells you the same thing—that they have all
studied the same bible, and all claim to have been led by the same holy spirit
in receiving those answers. Wouldn’t the fact that so many people gave you so
many different answers all while claiming to study the same bible and to be led
by the same god cause you to entertain a little doubt? If you really think
about it, you may even come to the place where those answers cast a huge shadow
of doubt on the entire bible and on christianity; it certainly did for me. If
each person claims to be right and to alone hold truth, how in the hell can you
know which one to believe, especially given the many choices—many of them
opposite, that you are faced with? Confused yet? How can explanations and
answers which defy continuity, logic, or even common sense strengthen your
faith? “Just trust god.” “God’s ways are higher than our ways.” “If we
understood, that would make us equal to god.” “I don’t understand it, but I
fully trust god.” And on and on...and—read on, it only gets better!
I am writing this in an attempt to
chronicle my spiritual journey—from faith to running from god, to coming back
to him and faith, and ultimately to atheism. The following does not represent
my entire life, nor is it intended to. Each section is written in chronological
order (where applicable), and each represents a part of my life that has had a
major influence on my journey from belief to non-belief.
If you are here hoping to read a nice,
feel-good happy story, fuck that, and fuck you. If you are still here, I assume
that means you are not looking for a happy story, and if that is the case, read
on, my friend.
My
Childhood
Proverbs 13.24:
Spare the Rod…or “beat the hell out of your kid.”
Or
Ephesians 6.4:
Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger… “Well, that pissed me off!”
Let’s just start this section by saying
this ain’t gonna be a “Leave It To Beaver” experience, nor a “Father Knows
Best” one, either. In fact, a more appropriate title may be, “Welcome to hell
kid; your childhood is going to fuck you up!”
I was conceived by a very sweet woman who
had been brainwashed early on by the religious nut jobs (good people otherwise)
from the only church she had ever attended, and a man who was mean, angry,
bitter, and miserable. She settled for him due to the fact that the people at
the church mom attended believed that the only suitable mate was another member
within their flock—one who was under the same influence, misguidance, and
misdirection. Someone from another religion, or even another denomination just
wouldn’t do; after all, they were the only “true” religion and even
denomination, and the only ones going to heaven. Enter the man who would become
my father. Surely he had grown up in the same church and drank the same Kool
Aid, right? Well, actually—no; the only reason he went to that church in the
first place was to meet the woman who would eventually bring me into that
hellhole. You might think having such insight and discernment as to understand
god and the bible enough to know they were the only ones who were getting it
right, that she would have seen through dad’s schemes. Alas, the child bearing,
biological clock was ticking ever louder, and that coupled with the dismal
selection of life partners available to her, led to her choosing this man to be
the father of her children.
I was behind the eight ball from day one.
Dad was a miserable, insecure, controlling man—not of small stature, to be
sure. He loomed over all of us at 6’4” and tipped the scales at 300+ pounds.
When he got pissed and started yelling and throwing things, terror became my
closest companion.
From as young as I can remember, until I
moved out, dad would yell and scream at me, saying wonderful things like,
“You’re worthless”, “You’ll never amount to a hill of beans”, “You’re so
stupid”, “You’re a sissy”, You’re a crybaby”, and on and on. Lovely things for
a young boy to hear over and over from his father, wouldn’t you say?!
While the psychological/emotional abuse
was the worst, there was more; he was physically abusive as well. From the
belt, to a “whith”—a branch I would have to get off the tree (and it better not
be a little one!), to the occasional shoes or fists, or—whatever was handy and
nearby that would accommodate his fits of rage. Unfortunately, I was most often
the object of those fits of rage. I can remember being so terrified by his
presence, that I would come close to peeing myself at times; the mere presence
of my father would send me into sheer terror!
Another thing that I have come to realize
that was occurring, is that, from dad’s perspective, I served no purpose. As a
kid, I had no value—nothing to offer, and as such, was a mere pain in the
ass—an annoying bratty “in-the-way” kid. By the time I was 15, he would go into
one of his infamous fits of rage and tell me to leave home. By the time I was
15 (and probably earlier), I was unwanted (by my father) in my home.
Growing up, there was never any real
relationship between my father and myself—just me being in the way and a
nuisance, oft-interrupted with fits of rage leading to abuse. Those “whiths” I
had to get off the tree—they would be viciously “applied” to my bare legs. When
a fast-moving tree limb collides with a young boy’s flesh, guess what happens?!
Suffice it to say that each of those “disciplinary sessions” would result in
blood running down my legs. I often had no idea why I was being punished—I was
unaware of what I had done to provoke such horrific anger. To this day, I still
have no idea.
Now—add to this hell the “religious” side
of dad. He was a “Christian”, a “Christ-follower”, or as he often put it, he
was being “Christ-like.” We’ll take a closer look at that in the section
wherein I delve into the horrors of the church/religion in which I was
raised.
My mom, on the other hand, was rendered
pretty much impotent by their stupid religion. Wives—submit to or obey your
husbands. Through their lens of that scripture, this meant that the wife was
impotent in any decision-making processes and served certain specific purposes,
beyond which she was to be quiet and remain in line. She had little to no
effect on the severity or frequency of the abuse that came my way. She truly
loved me, and hated that I was being abused; however, the god of their
“understanding” was a misogynist, women had their place, and they better not
cross any lines. True to form, she was a “good christian woman”, and remained
within the confines of the structures that their religious system both decreed
and created. This “neutering” of her paved the way for my father to continue
making my life hell.
My mother received no real support from
my father. As I grew older, I began to fill a role no son should have to fill.
Since dad was emotionally unavailable, my mom began to lean on me emotionally;
I became her “emotional husband.” Whenever she was upset or needed someone to
talk to or to lean on, I was the first person she called. When my maternal
grandmother died, she asked for me before she asked for dad.
Then, if there wasn’t already enough,
there was the weight issue. Because of their goofy religion, everything was a
“sin.” Therefore, we could do nothing. Except. Eat. And by god, did we fucking
eat!! Every Sunday was the equivalent of a Thanksgiving dinner…ham or roast
beef, tons of sides, homemade rolls or bread, and often not one, but two
homemade desserts. Mom made a huge meal and a homemade dessert every night of
the week, as well. Everything we ever did centered around eating; mom’s “love
language” was food. Then, after eating all that food, and after having sat in
church all morning, we couldn’t go out and play, and instead, had to take a nap
during the afternoon. Somehow, the “gluttony” thing in the bible never was an
issue—perhaps they ignored it, perhaps mom’s cooking was just that good?
By the time I was three, I was fat. I was
the fattest kid in all of school, beginning in kindergarten. What a dubious
title to carry—the fattest kid; not just in my class, but in the entire fucking
school. Of course, this became a huge (pun intended) problem for me. My weight
and size made me the subject of many kids’ ridicule and the butt of their
jokes. My weight became my identity. Very few people could or would see the
real me and saw me only through the “fat” lens. I quickly became the fat, lazy,
and worthless (sound familiar?) kid. I rarely made friends, because no one
would take the time or put in the effort to get to know me. I was the grade
school boy with tits—the fat-ass, useless kid. No one wanted to get to know
me—perhaps because doing so would subject them to the same ridicule and teasing
that I was receiving. I remember once during grade school, coming home, crying.
Mom asked me what was wrong, to which I answered, “The kids are making fun of
me because I’m fat.” Her response and solution— “Aww…here honey, let me make
you something to eat.” It certainly
didn’t help that in addition to all of this, my mother fed me a bottle of sugar
water between each feeding while I was a baby and an infant.
Another time that sticks out all too
painfully vividly took place during Junior High School. The bus was nearing my
stop, and I got up and began to walk to the front of the bus, to exit. From
somewhere on the bus, I heard, “Bus will now be tilting to the right”, followed
by lots of laughter. I was entertainment for many an asshole. Between being
made fun of by peers and the abuse from my father, I was doomed; there was no
way I was going to grow up to love or like myself. ~continues in Part Two
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