From Freedom to Fear

How the Fundamental Evangelical Christian Church taught me to create a life of anxiety.

Audio narration coming soon to YouTube.

I don’t think Mama an’ Daddy thought much about how this next move would affect the rest of us. Weariness an’ trauma were their motivators, plain an’ simple. Pile on their need to put a lot more distance between them an’ the family drama still goin’ on in Iowa, add Daddy’s determination to leave winter behind, an’ you got a perfect recipe for movin’ south, again. Whatever the rest of us wanted really wasn’t a consideration. We’d just have to figure out a way to endure a wild new culture that came with some wild new weather. Least it wouldn’t be freezin’ rain an’ snow.

I’s barely a year old when we put our feet on Florida soil—if you could call it that. It was mostly just sand. An’ the sand I’s standin’ on wasn’t in St. Pete. We never got that far. In fact, we barely got into Florida. Crossin’ over the Alabama state line into the panhandle, Mama an’ Daddy needed some rest. They’d been drivin’ nearly ‘round the clock since we left Springdale. An’ when you’ve got five kids in the car, one bein’ a 13-month-old baby, that’s no easy task.

We arrived in Milton, Florida by way of Highway 90. It was a two-lane main thoroughfare that cut across the panhandle to Tallahassee, the state capital. From there, we’d have another ten hours of drivin’ to reach St. Pete.

By the time we found a place to stay for a couple of nights an’ made our way through town lookin’ for a grocery store to stock up on travelin’ food, Daddy had made up his mind. St. Pete could wait. Maybe forever.

Twenty years later, in a rare moment of honesty, he would talk about the time he spent in St. Pete. I think he forgot I was standin’ there. He wasn’t really sharin’ with me as much as he was relivin’ a few years of real happiness. Maybe that’s what he’d been searchin’ for when we left Springdale. But weariness made the decision for him. When he made Milton our home, Daddy gave up more’n the last ten hours of the journey. He gave up the chance to return to a place where he had once been happy.

He would never make it back to St. Pete.

At the time, Milton felt like the fresh start he wanted. It had the small-town peace he was searchin’ for, an’ after the whirlwind of Iowa an’ Arkansas, that was all he needed. Mama agreed. Two days later, they found a small house to rent, an’ just like that, it was official. We had come home.

Milton was as sandy as St. Pete could ever be. Nobody minded. We were on an excitin’ new quest where anything was possible. Once we found our permanent home on Garçon Point, we settled into the adventure of livin’ in this wild, untamed land.

One of my fondest memories was takin’ great joy in watchin’ blue sky roil an’ boil into dark grey-green clouds, the kind that always brought calls from my grandmother to “Get back in this house. Storm’s a comin’!”

Wild downpours swept in, dumpin’ inches of rain in a matter of minutes. Hot, dry sand drank it up like a parched wino. Leavin’ the air so thick with humidity you could barely breathe, shiftin’ from cruelly oppressive to completely unbearable. But for me, that was a price worth payin’ ‘cause just before the rain started, the wind would begin to blow an’ sometimes, sometimes that wind would go cool. Like God had finally decided to turn on the air conditionin’.

An’ that’s when I would run.

By the time the 1960s arrived I’s a three-year-old whirlin’ dervish dashin’ out the door, helicopter arms extended as far as they’d go, runnin’ through our huge front yard, dancin’ in the rain. God had come to visit an’ it was time to play. I could hear my name called ever’ time those storms passed through. I wasn’t about to miss out on the fun.

Accordin’ to the preacher, God was a man. But at three, how “God” could get all tangled up in gender was impossible to imagine. That knotted-up mess would come later for me. Right now, God was a cool breeze before the rain, the warm sun dryin’ my skin after a swim.

I had one more year to enjoy childish trust before fear began wrappin’ itself around faith, when God became an angry man. At first, the thought didn’t sit right with me, an’ I resisted believin’ it. But in a split second of terror, ever’thing changed. Now, God wasn’t the one who danced with me in the rain; God was watchin’ ever’ move I made, ready to punish me for things I didn’t even know were wrong.

But the One who called me out to play in those southern summer storms was nothin’ like the angry God who lived in our church. The God who played with me in the rain? She was never, ever angry.

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I grew up in an Independent Baptist Church an’ I mean that quite literally, which is kind of funny, considerin’ that members of that denomination pride themselves in bein’ biblical literalists. This church met in our home where we lived, so I really did grow up in a church.

Eventually, we gave our house an’ the property it sat on to the congregation. They added a steeple, built a small Sunday school wing on the southern end, an’ raised a big white sign with large black letters out near the road so people would know where Garçon Point Independent Baptist Church met for worship.

It wouldn’t be long before they added the word Fundamental to that sign. By 1963, It seemed an important distinction to make, seein’ as how the world was startin’ to go crazy an’ all. We’d be stickin’ to the fundamentals of the faith as laid out in the King James Version of the bible. That’d keep us on solid ground while the rest of the world went headfirst into sinkin’ sand.

Nothin’ was mysterious in this solid-ground world. We were Independent Baptists an’ we had it all figured out. Who needs mystery? An’ if you didn’t agree with us, there wasn’t nothin’ more to talk about ‘cause we were right an’ you were wrong. We were also evangelical an’ in that world, you couldn’t be evangelical without bein’ fundamental. These terms were essentially interchangeable, which, in itself, says a lot about how fundamentalists view bein’ a Christian.

It goes like this: There is one strict interpretation of the bible as set forth by the Independent Baptist Church, an’ there is one strict interpretation of what it means to be evangelical, an’ if you don’t follow that interpretation, you don’t belong. Those rules pretty much applied to just about ever’thing in the fundamentalist community where I lived.

It was our job to evangelize the whole world. We had the truth an’ it was up to us to get the message out there. But the only way to do that was by followin’ the fundamental teachin’s of the Bible as laid out by the Independent Baptist Church. Does anybody else see a cat chasin’ its tail here?

But there’s more. Whatever you do, you must always remember this: the Independent Baptists of the south are not Southern Baptists. These two denominations are not the same. You assume that they are at your own peril. Just because you’re a Baptist church in the south does not make you Southern Baptist.

Southern Baptists are a denomination all their own, a convention of local churches led by elected officials, settin’ down rules an’ confirmin’ doctrines that each congregation is expected to follow. The Independent Baptist Church wanted nothin’ to do with that kind of nonsense. For them, each congregation was autonomous, self-directed, an’ self-rulin’. No convention was gonna tell us what to do.

There were non-negotiables that ever’body agreed on. First, there’s just one way to get to heaven: accept Jesus as your personal Lord an’ Savior through his shed blood on the cross an’ you are in. If you don’t, you go straight to Hell when you die. No second chances.

Second, God is a man with all the equipment to prove it. Jesus was God an’ he was a man so there you go. It’s settled.

Third is the Chain of Command: God comes first, he’s the head of Christ. Jesus comes second; he’s the head of the Church, Then there’s the husband. He’s the man an’ the head of the woman. That means he’s the boss.

Bottom line? Women are at the bottom of that line, towin’ the line. A wife serves at the heart of the family; she’s a role model of purity an’ grace for her husband an’ their babies. ‘Course, in the bedroom she’s supposed to turn into a wanton tiger an’ fulfill her man’s ever’ sexual desire. Even those that she finds intolerable an’ offensive. ‘Cause it’s only when a woman makes her husband happy that God will be happy.

Besides, that’s the only way her man can stay on the straight an’ narrow. After all, we all know that when a husband strays, the problem always leads back to an inattentive wife.

The key to a happy home is a woman who knows her place an’ keeps her mouth shut. Especially in church.  The Bible says, “Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission…” If they needed to know anything they could ask their husbands when they got home. He’d take care of things there.

Ever’body knows men are smarter than women, right? Hadn’t the Devil, dressed up like a snake, fooled Eve into eatin’ the forbidin’ fruit first? An’ it was only because of her devilish manipulation an’ sexy ways that she was able to fool Adam. Eve stood there all naked an’ spicy, an’ he just couldn’t help hisself.

That’s why it’s the woman who’s always guilty for a man’s sexual indiscretions. An’ I mean all of ‘em. It’s her responsibility to dress modestly an’ behave with purity so men don’t totally lose their shit an’ do what they all want to do ever’ minute of the day, ever’ time they see a pretty girl. Men can’t control those urges so it’s up to women to make sure ever’thing stays zipped up an’ soften down. That kind of power is always held by the weaker sex, right?

Southern Baptists an’ the Independent Baptists of my childhood agreed on these issues and a lot of other things, but not ever'thing.

Take Holy Communion, for instance.

Some folks are surprised to learn that, back in the first century, Christianity was a Jewish sect that worshiped in the temple on Saturday, the Sabbath. (Seventh Day Adventists got nothin’ on us!) On Sunday, they’d meet for a Communion meal to remember Jesus’ crucifixion an’ celebrate his resurrection. But when Christianity spread to far-flung places like Corinth in Greece, the Communion ritual that was sacred to Christ following Jews blew up into a full-blown frat party.

The Apostle Paul intended Communion to be an act of worship, reflectin’ love an’ unity among members of the Body of Christ (another name for the church). But Corinth, a city that loved to walk the razors edge of immorality an’ lewd behavior, made an easy jump from Holy Communion back to wicked pagan corruption. These folks knew how to throw a party, an’ bread an’ wine were always on the menu.

It got so bad that the Apostle Paul had to write ‘em a letter, waggin’ his finger at the rich for eatin’ high on the hog an’ gettin’ drunk while the poor stood by with nothin’ but rumblin’ bellies. The rich turned Communion into an exclusive event, servin’ themselves a feast while the poor stood by, hungry an’ humiliated. Paul called this “despisin’ the church of God.” That’s where the idea of takin’ Communion unworthily came from.

After layin’ down the law, Paul wrote: “So anyone who eats this bread or drinks this cup of the Lord unworthily is guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord.” Accordin’ to my church, that was blasphemy. An’, boy, oh boy. It came with judgment. Paul said each man should “examine his own heart,” but the leadership of the Independent Baptist Church needed to morph that into somethin’ they could control.

In my church, bein’ a member in good standin’ was your ticket to a gold star. Attend church ever’ week, give your tithes an’ offerings, an’ offer some kind of service. Do all that, an’ we’d slap a gold star right on your forehead. Joe Blow, walkin’ in off the street, might say he deserves a gold star, but how could we know for sure? An’ we had to know for sure, ‘cause anyone who eats or drinks unworthily brings judgment on himself an’ the church that served ‘em.

To be guilty of sinnin’ against the body an’ blood of the Lord was no small accusation. You might as well have been the one who put Jesus on the cross an’ drove in the first nail. Time to bend over an’ kiss your ass good-bye.

Southern Baptist Churches had the audacity to let anybody who walked in the door an’ professed faith in Jesus Christ take part in Communion. They served anyone who said they’s a born again, baptized believer.

Southern Baptists trusted people to tell the truth an’ if they’s lyin’ then it was on that person’s shoulders. It wasn’t the church’s responsibility. I guess they hadn’t taken that scripture about blasphemy quite as seriously as we did. It was all just a little bit too liberal for our likin’.

Then there was the money. Ain’t it always about money? If you’re in the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) you gotta pay dues. The SBC set themselves up as a mission that ever’ local church was required to support. Like sendin’ money to orphans in Africa or China, only it wasn’t goin’ to orphans. It’s called the Cooperative Program. A pretty name for a pretty shady system accordin’ to the Independent Baptists I knew.

The church I went to wasn’t about to cooperate with that kind of foolishness. Once you sent in the cash, you had no say over how it was spent. Who knew what they’s doin’ with all that money. The Fundamental Evangelical Independent Baptist Church was absolutely certain about many, many things an’ money was at the top of their list.

For some folks, that kind of certainty creates a sense of security an’ safety. For me, it’s where I first learned fear: fear of disagreein’, of standin’ up to authority, an’ especially fear of thinkin’ for myself.

But even from a very young age I knew that our absolute certainty wasn’t always right. The God I‘s gettin’ to know in those wild southern summer storms was much bigger than the pitifully insecure deity that demanded fealty from the folks in my church.

My chubby little three-year-old legs would run like the wind tryin’ to get away from the forces tryin’ to hold me back. I never thought about bein’ safe. Danger was an unknown entity. Even in the midst of hard-core structures that kept me well inside the boundary lines of my mother’s fear, freedom was all I knew. It was a marvelously liberatin’ place to be.

But they’s always gettin’ in the way of my adventures, actin’ like I couldn’t take care of myself. Didn’t I know? This world is a bad, scary place where little girls are held captive by fire breathin’ dragons an’ gobbled up by long-fanged wolves. Our only weapon was an all-consumin’, overwhelmin’ fear, demandin’ blind loyalty.

But honestly, those first few years of my life, I never felt alone. I resisted the call to fear as long as I could, but by my fourth-year, fear had sunk its fangs into my thoughts an’ I finally understood what Mama meant when she told me to be a good Christian girl. An’ maybe more importantly, what it meant not to be.

Lookin’ back on it now, I’m appalled at what I’s taught to believe. Women of intelligence an’ good common sense in nearly ever’ other circumstance, were submittin’ themselves an’ their children to a harsh an’ burdensome life. All I see are Patriarchal bullshit lies that purported men to somehow be better an’ naturally closer to God than women. These men must be obeyed no matter what. I suppose the fact that they believed God to be a man brings some light to the very dark pit women were subscribed to. But how a penis an’ a pair of testicles had that much power, I do not know. Bein’ born with a vagina, the greatest portal known to humankind, I might add, made you one hell of a danger, an’ we were all scared to death.

This fear fueled our anxiety an’ energized our need to change the world an’ spread the gospel. Scriptures were twisted like a pretzel; some eliminated all together in service to those doin’ the preachin’ an’ teachin’. ‘Cause anyone believin’ any doctrine other than the one we pounded from the pulpit would burn in the fires of Hell forever.

People had to be told the truth. An’ if you were unlucky enough not to believe anything a ‘tall? Well, get ready, ‘cause God was preparin’ an even hotter place in Hell just for you an’ your kind. An’ all true believers would be there to happily watch you fall in.

Our false concern for lost souls masked our sweet anticipation of finally bein’ proved right. That sweet moment of ‘I told you so’ would crown a life full of bitterness an’ anger as unbelievers went tumblin’ into the Lake of Fire.

It may be hard for some to believe but these are – nearly word for word – the things I heard preached from the pulpit ever’ Sunday. I’s five years old when I witnessed Brother Jack Smith screamin’ at the top of his lungs.

“For wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in there at: Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” (Matthew 7:13-14, KJV) 

We were the precious few, the ones who had found the strait gate. We had found the way to please God an’ ever’one else was frolickin’, cavortin’ an’ dancin’ down the broad way, bouncin’ in an’ out of the ditch, havin’ the time of their lives. An’ God wasn’t the only one angry. We were all pretty damn mad about it.

This was the Christian culture I grew up with in the panhandle of Florida, also known as the Buckle of the Bible Belt. I’s force fed a lie about who I was as a woman, an’ who God was — as a man — all while bein’ warned to stay away from anyone who taught differently. They’s goin’ straight to Hell an’ if I listened to ‘em, I would too.

It was an ingenious strategy. Anyone lookin’ for a way of escape, would find themselves on a long, slow march out of the depths of racism, sexism, legalism, an’ nearly ever’ other ism that could be held up an’ masqueraded as the holy will of God. As a woman indoctrinated in this kind of theology, I’s paralyzed by fear. An’ if perfect love casts out all fear, as 1 John says, it’s probably equally true that perfect fear casts out all love. Fear became the foundation of faith, leavin’ little room for love to grow.

With images of January 6 firmly planted in my nightmares, seein’ fear masqueradin’ as faith, it’s not hard to see that professin’ to be a good Christian who follows Jesus is more’n a little subjective. I love Jesus an’ I do my best to follow what he taught. I mean, it’s hard to top that love-your-neighbor-as-yourself command.

But I’m convinced if you asked the folks screamin’ on the Capital steps that day, they’d say they marched an’ stormed an’ built a gallows for the very same reason. They were followin’ Jesus, lovin’ their neighbor, an’ settin’ things right ‘cause Jesus wanted Donald John Trump to serve a second term as President of the United States. They knew this to be true ‘cause their prophets an’ preachers had told ‘em so. Trump was God’s man of the hour an’ Satan was killin’ an’ eatin’ babies in Washington, DC, pizza parlors where the forces of evil were plottin’ to take our guns away.

Fear used to control us in church had grown into a weaponized force stormin’ the Capitol that day.

It sounds ridiculous to many, but this outrageous lie was built on a generations-long foundation of fear an’ isolationism where even the leaders were convinced it’s true. That’s what made it so damn powerful.

Stiflin’, oppressive, foul air fills this place, but when you’re born an’ raised in that kind of environment, especially in the pre-world-wide-web days, you have no perspective. You have no way to comprehend the concept of somethin’ better. For that matter, you have no way to comprehend the concept of anything else a’tall.

This.Is.Your.World. where authority stood at dizzyin’ pulpit heights ferociously declarin’ ever’thing outside the church’s domain to be under the devil’s control. Out there, fire-breathin’ dragons an’ long-fanged wolves gobbled up happy little girls innocently dancin’ in the rain.

So, brothers an’ sisters, you know what that means? In this crazy, scary, sin-filled world, the Fundamental Evangelical Independent Baptist Church is the only safe place to hide.

Audio narration coming soon to YouTube.