Perhaps it is because we live in a predominantly religious society, but it seems almost expected that when parents are raising their children they have them be involved with some form of religion. So perhaps it is more normal than I originally thought that while I was growing up going to church was nonnegotiable. Starch white scratchy tights, perfectly brushed and braided hair, and just a hint of blush, your uniform is set. Anything more would not be age appropriate.
Every Sunday, 9 a.m., my dad would pack his brood into our cherry red Tahoe, Chory and I complaining the whole while. Thus, we would make our pilgrimage to the local Church of Christ. A stark boxy building where maybe under a hundred individuals gathered to “worship.” Every Sunday, right on the dot, we would roll up and join the small groups of people staggered throughout the parking lot on the trek to the front door.
Let it be clear, I am not a morning person. To say I detest waking up early is an understatement; so waking up and going to church was always an issue for me.I enjoyed the lessons but it was so hard to completely wake up, and I just did not want to go. Often times when we finally made it into church I was able to get away with snuggling against my stepmom and snoozing through the service. If I particularly did not care a certain morning I would stretch as far as I could along the pew and just straight up go back to bed. I rarely succeeded in getting away with this certain stunt.
Could they blame me though? Everything at that church was so bland, monotone, and monochromatic, it just was so easy to let the allure of sleep seduce me. However, as I grew older I never let myself fall again. I finally was old enough to become aware of the feeling of something being off. I always knew I did not feel totally comfortable there, a feeling in my stomach that would not go away; deep below, it was a feeling of something that let me know I was not safe.
You see it was not the people I had an issue with, they were okay, and while I do consider myself a Christian and I do believe, there was just something there, at that church that made me never want to return. It made me want to run as far as I could in the other direction. Yet, every Sunday, 9 a.m., we would be dragged back to that prison and the same uneasy negative emotions would overwhelm me as we would approach that set of clear double doors. Doors that clearly defined where you left your freedom and when you became utterly powerless.
As the doors would open, it was as if a vacuum sucked all the air out of your chest and no matter how much you fought, you could never get it back. As you cross into the foyer it gets worse and worse, the closer you get to the only figure in the space. The creator of that feeling. The preacher. Middle aged, morbidly obese, triple chins, a face as round and red as Santa Clauses’, a jolly fellow. The pinnacle glue that held that church together, an individual who made it a weekly ritual to give every child that walked through those glass double doors, a long and tight hug. A ritual I dreaded.
It is funny how observant children can be; how they can see through façade, see the good and evil that lies behind the mask. But the power of observation can only take you so far, without physical power your observation schools wont do shit. That is what makes children such easy targets. When I think back to that church, I cry at how lucky we were to get out when we did, and I cry at what would’ve happened if we had stayed.
It was a couple months after we had left that we learned the truth; that that Santa Clause preacher that emitted an evil so intense a child could sense it, was a pedophile. All over every channel his fat sweaty mug shot shown like a beacon. Child pornography found on his church and home computers, and the naked photographs of a young boy from a bad situation, a boy whom the preacher had taken under his wing. This is one of those times I am not happy that I was right.
Years later I still have trouble going to churches. Nothing happened to anyone in my family, but there was still an impact left on our lives. I had been close to an evil so powerful that I can still feel its aftereffects ten years later. It is sad that because of one man I do not feel safe in that atmosphere. That he took that feeling of safety from me; it just brings that sick feeling and a bitter taste to my mouth. Goes to show you that people will always abuse power. I still consider myself a Christian, I always will, but I will never feel safe or comfortable at a church again; although, now that I am in college I am curious to see if that feeling will find me at a youth group? Perhaps, I will test this and give it a shot. Besides, the monster is out of the picture now, he just haunts my dreams.
