Losing My Religion

A memoir about my experiences with religion as a child.

My mother was ecstatic when the Rocky Creek Baptist Church opened its doors less than a mile from our house. She was raised a strict Baptist, and her mother was raised a Baptist, and her mother before her. We weren’t always able to attend church as a family because my father, though god-fearing, was not an avid church goer, and my mom worked nights as a dialysis technician and slept through most Sunday mornings. My older brother and I were encouraged to read the bible and attend church as much as possible, so with the church moving in down the street we were expected to go to services with regularity. My mother would wake up at nine and French braid my hair until no strand could escape and my forehead was pulled taut. She dressed me each time in the same pale pink dress with white lace embroidery at the hem. She said it was the only one I owned that was fit for God to see. Then she would send my brother and I off with a hug and a kiss to be educated in all things biblical before returning to her slumber.

I sat in the pew each Sunday morning, small and insignificant in the eyes of a God that I was told existed. I was six years old and I desperately wanted to believe that there was some all-powerful being watching over me and caring whether my goldfish died or if I got an A on my Math test, but my silent prayers often began with “God, if you’re out there…” Each Sunday I sat and contemplated as well as a six year old can, the mysteries of the universe. I watched as the adults around me poured their every ounce of devotion into uncertainty and called it by a name: Faith. Generally the preacher would speak for what seemed an eternity about things I only partially understood, and when I did receive the message, it was one of admonishment and threat. Sometime during each service a plate was passed around and each person was encouraged to give all they could afford to God and the Church. They gave their earnings away readily, sometimes so much so that an additional plate was needed. They thought they were buying the love and favor of the deity they worshiped, but it seemed that they were only succeeding in buying the suit the preacher would wear the preceding Sunday.  Each service concluded with an invitation to accept Jesus as your personal savior. Most Sundays a person would take what seemed to be a daunting and laborious trip down the aisle to meet with the Pastor. A piano played as they made their journey, a holy soundtrack to the momentous occasion at hand. The journey ended with a prayer between preacher and inductee. As the person made the journey back to their seat, I could see that their eyes were overflowing with tears. I pondered what it was that caused them to swell with emotion. Even the burly men in wranglers and steel-toed boots wept like children as they descended down the aisle to what they believed was a new life, a new eternity even. I wondered if it was the trip itself that made the people weep. Perhaps the pastor said something meaningful as he prayed, or released the answer to a question only he knew.

One day I decided to find out for myself. The preacher extended his invitation just like he did every Sabbath, and I stood on wobbly knees. I stumbled slowly down the aisle, acutely aware of eyes following my every move. “Do they know I’m an imposter?” I thought. I reached the pastor, and we prayed. I don’t remember the words we uttered together. They were supposed to be words of hope�"words of regeneration. But they held no significance for me. When I arrived home, my mother inquired about what I had learned at church and I replied “Nothing”.

Reviews

[Thoughtfuleducator]

Edit: The word preceding should be following.

[FirasJanabi]

Very well written. I enjoyed reading that piece. Seeing religion through the eyes of a child with the pressure of their parents. Nice to see minds can be critical at such a young age. The hardest truths for us to accept as lies are the ones our parents, and their parents, died believing.

[Thoughtfuleducator]

Thank you for reading. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Memoirs are interesting because they occupy a place on the very blurry line between fiction and truth. Often times, we remember things the way we wish they would have happened. That's the case with my story. In reality, I always had doubts, but I didn't confess them in any real way until about eight years ago when I was about 18. I think the story is so much better when I resist indoctrination and absolve myself of all the nonsense from the very beginning but, unfortunately, I wasn't thinking so critically yet. And you're right, it was difficult to accept the truth, and even harder to tell my family and the world that I had found them out.