losing my religion
a case of the exvangelical blues
I have lived with God for a very long time — I am baptised and confirmed in the Anglican church, firstly, but there is also a sharp strain of evangelism on one side of my family, and Catholicism on the other. My grandmother, for example, does not believe in dinosaurs, but is a fervent supporter of exorcists. My father would not step foot into a church for a very long time, but still said the Lord’s prayer to me every night, recited psalms over me. I remember him laying his hand on my head, blessing me. I remember my crazy ass stepmother squeezing my hand so hard it bruised during communion.
I drank the wine; I ate the bread. I went to church. Body and blood. I read my Bible, my daily devotionals, my Girl’s Guide to Scripture. Are you Ruth or Salome? Are you a Proverbs 31 woman? Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting, but a girl who fears the Lord is to be praised. I did not eat the bread of idleness, and my clothes were woven from strength and dignity. I could laugh at the days to come. I talked to God and he talked back. He was my friend when I was lonely, and my backbone when I was weak.
Right up until he wasn’t.
The last time a pope was being elected, it was 2013 and I was fourteen. When the smoke turned white on the television screen, my stepmother started to cry. Jorge Bergoglio, like her, was Argentine. The first Latin American pope. But he was in the Vatican, and we were in Perth — so what did it have to do with us, really?
Watching Pope Francis’ funeral and upcoming papal conclave now, I find the ornamentation of Catholicism alluring but ultimately evil. The aesthetic’s resurgence in popularity kind of proves my point, I think — it’s so beautiful, the perfume and gold filigree and nice vestments. It’s easy to slip on and off, to take on all the appearance of goodness and then go into the confessional and get off scot-free from whatever shit you’ve done that week. My brother started to take confession at eight. What the fuck can an eight year old do that needs absolvement? He used to tremble at the guilt, wracking his brain for all of his sins. Leave him alone, I wanted to say, except I didn’t know who I was trying to talk to.
It irritates me to see e-girls and clout-chasers attach themselves to this version of Christianity — Catholic or Orthodox, really — because it seems utterly performative, made for coy selfies with veils and headscarves. They like the rosaries and the ornate communion ceremonies; they like the grand churches and the affectation of grandiosity. But in this day and age, knowing the devastation that the church has wrought upon so many millions of children — knowing that women are barred from leadership, that many Catholics are violently homophobic and hateful — I do not understand conversion for the sake of aesthetic. There’s a reason they’re not converting to FLDS or whatever fuckass ugly Baptist church is down the street: it doesn’t look cool enough.
My grandmother is neither Catholic nor Anglican; she in fact thinks both of these strains are heretic. She is a full on evangelical — world created in six days, dinosaurs are fake, bad dreams are Satan trying to get into your head. She called an exorcist on my dad. She tried to get a pastor to come and rid my five year old brother’s mind of the devil’s influence (aka TV!). The Lord’s name can’t be taken in vain, you can’t sleep in the same bed if you’re not married, and Jacob should become a Messianic Jew because otherwise he’ll burn in H-E-double-hockey-sticks for all eternity. I will not talk about the speaking in tongues.
It was evangelism that I think had the most profound effect on me, because it was the most extreme strain of belief I was exposed to. I was told I was sinful simply for existing — dirty and tempting, just for the fact of being a woman. I was told the world would end very soon, and that rapture would come, and I found the strange beauty in all of that rhetoric — because it does exist, the beauty — and held onto it very tightly.
High Anglicanism isn’t much better than either of those, of course, but women can be priests and I can kiss girls without being sent to hell, so it seemed a better choice when I was younger. I was confirmed as a teenager, in a ceremony I can barely remember. The sensation of oil on my forehead, though, is one that stands out luridly. The priest that confirmed me would shortly be fired under mysterious reasons — nominally, his wife was sick — but I happen to know they checked his computer and he fucked off pretty quickly back to England. Uh oh! Guess that’s why he always used to sit on our desks and drop pencils for us to pick up.
My faith started to flag in my late teens, not long after that. Adults in my life — people I’d thought were ordained — were failing me. My father divorced my stepmother, the most devout person I knew, and she did things I found unforgiveable. More abuse scandals; more evil brought to life, and all committed under the banner of Christ. Where was the goodness? Where were the fucking consequences? I began to wonder if this was all just a story we were telling ourselves, unable to bear the cold logic of science. Maybe the church had one thing right: we are made from dust, atomic dust, and to dust we would return. I put my cross necklace away.
This prompted me to conclude that what drew me in about God was primarily the Bible. I was caught by its poetry, its literature and philosophy and history. To this day, I think it is the best and most moving book ever written. It introduced me to desire; wrath; love; divinity. It also introduced me to rhythm, style, and translation. It offers any writer the best and most thorough lessons on plot and character you could ever be fortunate enough to receive.
Today, the vestiges of religion remain in my life. I will always go into a church if I need rest, or a moment to think. I can stay for hours on a pew, thinking and reflecting. I find most forms of worship beautiful, and most sacred texts incredibly moving. Yeah I listen to Ethel Cain. I am a regular on the r/fundiesnark subreddit (someone commission me to write about this!), an addicted consumer of any fundamentalist media (I watched Keep Sweet on Netflix about five times) and I know way too much about evangelical sects across the world. I can recite much scripture by heart, and I always, always repeat the Lord’s Prayer when the plane is taxiing or taking off, accompanied by a short prayer of thanks and hope for the pilot’s mental clarity and health. If I were to meet a member of clergy, I would probably ask for a blessing.
This is crazy, obviously. I can let go of it all now — I live in sin! I drink, I take drugs, I commit various acts of heresy. I don’t go to church anymore, and it has been many years since I took communion. But oh, there’s just something in me that misses the certainty of belonging and faith. The sense of the divine; the holiness. I’d like to be sure that there’s a place we go, where rights are wronged and love is eternal; where we can see loved ones again, and live in perfect peace.
That’s the real draw of religion: it offers a destination for this strange journey we’ve found ourselves on. I guess no matter how long humanity has been here, or how advanced our world becomes, there’s a part of us that’s just waiting for dad to come home and tell us that it’s all going to be okay.
I’m reading On the Calculation of Volume by Solvej Balle — my International Booker pick.
I’m listening to Gigi Perez’s debut album At the Beach, in Every Life. Now that’s an exvangelical girl I can get behind. Sugar Water fucks me up every time.
I’m watching Settlers, the new documentary by Louis Theroux. I didn’t need to see it to know what it would be like, but I was still gutted and stunned all the same. Watch it to understand the role of religious fanaticism in propping up ethnonationalist states.
That second to last paragraph is the hinge upon which the rest goes. I read it a few times to remember being in that place. You’re close, until then peace be with you.
Sincerely,
¡¿RUCRES?!