I often muse on my childhood, looking to it for inspiration in writing and for topics of conversation. Generally, I turn to the subject of being an older sibling to many little siblings, growing up in a divorced household, or living in New Jersey, but the subject of religion often leaves me in a tizzy. I’ve written before about faith and where I found myself, and now find myself, dangling between my father’s Unitarianism and my mother’s Christianity. However, speaking specifically on my mother’s then-church and the Evangelical services I once begrudgingly sat through is something I try to stay away from, in fear it might be too touchy or too objective or too confusing.

It wasn’t until recently when I stumbled across comedian Pete Holmes that I decided that maybe we should open the discussion of non-denominational Christianity, or at least my experiences at The Church of “Grace and Peace.” Holmes uses a lot of faith-talk in his podcasts, TV show, and comedy. I think it can be useful to open up the conversation like he does and to allow other people who are struggling with the ideas of Evangelical and non-denominational religion to be able to participate in the discourse of experience. So, without further, ado, let’s journey to the Underground.

I know a lot about Catholic guilt— growing up in Central New Jersey, most of my friends were Catholics and almost all their parents were crippled with Catholic guilt. Growing up I didn’t feel Catholic guilt, instead I felt something of an entitlement. That is because Evangelicals, as opposed to most other sects of Christianity, preach that we are supposed to feel grateful, and live graciously, free from guilt, so long as you pray and listen to the New and Old Testaments.

That being said, you don’t feel guilty about thinking that your friends and coworkers and teachers who practice alternative, non-Christian/non-Jewish/non-Jesus religions, will inevitably go to hell. They had their chance to convert, and they blew it, and the only thing you can do to save them is Spread The Word of God. Sometimes this message is direct, sometimes it is indirect. Sometimes it comes in the form of your mother telling you that, yes, so-and-so is going to Hell even though they have kids and family and practice a morally correct life.

Growing up Evangelical was interesting, especially when it came to non-denominational culture. For me, 8 to 13-year-old me, that meant no Halloween, no Santa, no “worshipping false idols” (which includes Justin Bieber), and no Harry Potter. That also meant watching lots of Christian-centric films, listening to lots of Christian rock, and reading lots of C.S. Lewis (perhaps the least regrettable of the consequences of Christianity). It meant Wednesday nights at youth groups and t-shirts that said “Christ Saves!” Casting Crowns, a super cool Christian rock band that I highly recommend to anyone looking to prematurely lose their faith in humanity, was my first concert. While I wasn’t consciously aware that it was an experience I was supposed to remember for the rest of my life, I have, and will, and it's an unfortunate circumstance.

Imagine your friends winning tickets to see The Jonas Brothers and getting Hannah Montana tickets for Christmas, and there you are sitting silently in a lime green t-shirt with a Jesus fish on it.

Perhaps the worst part is the fear, not the guilt, that comes with being a member of the Evangelical Church. It's the late nights in The Underground, which is a euphemism for the basement of the church where they keep all 27 kids who have to go to youth group, with dark grey walls and black lights and hardcore Christian rock. For me, it was the fear of not being able to be saved, because I couldn’t speak in tongues and I didn’t “feel the Lord” in the place of worship.

I feared that somehow I couldn’t be saved because sometimes I didn’t believe that God was real, because if he was real why was he letting my mother fall into such unfortunate circumstances? It wasn’t until I was 14 that I decided there was nothing to be afraid of, because I had, at that point, been convinced by a slew of Wikipedia pages that all religions were the same and if God was real, he totally wasn’t the miracle-providing, immaculately conceiving man I read about in “Prims”— something of Girl Scouts for young Evangelical girls.

Perhaps I was lucky, because my father kept me slightly removed from the church, that I didn’t fall into the cycle of naive intimacies with Christ. Or perhaps it was that I loved my extended family enough to believe that they wouldn’t go to Hell, and that would mean there was at least one fallacy in the argument proposed by the non-denominational. Or perhaps it was Joel Osteen, whose lectures made me want to put a head through my wall, and whose private jet left me feeling queasy. Whatever it was, I am happy that I came out alive and fully conscious. I can only hope that someday we’ll be able to open the discussion and understand each other’s past experiences and why they’re toxic and why we should just love each other.