Welcome!

Thoughts on lots of things, especially education, psychology, culture, religion, and personal growth.

Wednesday, January 27, 2021

The Past is Yet to Come

 I woke up a few days ago, after a long, tearful night, with a new phrase ringing in my mind:

The past is yet to come.

And then came a flood of memories that wanted to be heard again.  I can't say I know why.  I won't know until after I write it.

In addition to a personal situation making me inordinately tearful, the current socio-political situation in the United States is also bothering me deeply.  I don't know how I will resolve my personal situation, but on the political, I believe I do have something to say. Even though I do not know how these memories that surfaced recently have any direct relation to the situation I'm dealing with now, I felt an unexpected sense of calm after surrendering my mind to remembering them.  Perhaps, somehow, my own personal healing process can be a mysterious part of the healing process of society as well.


My earliest memories mostly involve church, which we attended several times per week.  I remember driving out to the squat building on the edge of town with the distinctive blue circular structure, and the letters tacked onto the side: Cornerstone Church.  At the time, I understood, that's how churches were supposed to look.  Now I know what a freakish architectural oddity that building is. Flat and plain, the building's only windows are deeply set under a long, low arch that furrows over them like a large heavy eyebrow.  At one end is a strange circular structure that looks like a grain silo has been cut in half, painted, and slapped onto the building.  

Here's how the building looks on Google Maps today:


I remember the circle tower thingy being bright blue. They, apparently, have painted it purple since then.  I think they used it as a storage closet. What else would you do with such a large circular space, anyway? It's not tall enough to use the shape for acoustic purposes. There are no windows, so it won't conform to fire safety standards.  All you can do is stuff your extra chairs and unused seasonal decorations into it.

Weird building, right?  But it boasts a certain boldness. "Dare to be different," it says. "There is an enormous, ridiculous concrete tower (that isn't even tall enough to be a tower) on one end of me, that nobody else would think to create. But we thought of it." 

Weird, bold building for weird, bold people. Out on the edge of town.  Questioning and reshaping reality.

I remember the music. Bright! Fast! Exuberant! Loud!  The singers had perms.  The guitarists had mullets. The drummer was in the center of the stage.  My mother was the keyboardist.  People waved their arms and danced in the aisles. I remember watching with fascination how the stomach of a very fat man would jiggle around himself as he danced and laughed, as the Holy Spirit washed over him and the music roared. I remember people running.  They ran around and around the sanctuary when the Spirit became especially strong sometimes.

I remember a friend my age, Jessica. Sometimes we stood next to each other during the music service and played a secret game.  We each sang as loudly as we could, and when we hit the same high note at exactly the same pitch and with a loud enough volume, we would feel the mutual resonances of each other's voices vibrate in our skulls in a particularly delightful way.  Only we could feel it, because we were right next to each other, creating it. At least, I was playing that game; I don't know if Jessica felt skull vibrations when we hit the same note. Maybe she was just smiling at me because I was smiling at her. 

I remember going to Sunday School in the side room. Sadly, I cannot remember the name of the teacher, but she had dark wavy hair. She was very nice and happy, very good with kids. She taught us songs like "The Fruits of the Spirit" and "I've Got the Joy." We often had puppet shows, and I distinctly remember a puppet show performed to "Girls Just Wanna Serve God."  (It was a remake of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," of course.  The Christian world is full of redemptive mimicry.)

I remember walking out of the building at the end of each service, and the gregarious Pastor Duane wanted to give everyone a hug or shake their hand as they left. I was painfully shy and always drew away from him, but I did trust his wife, Mary, who was also a quieter personality, and I sometimes let her hug me.

I remember church people exclaiming how much I looked like my dad, as we had the same color hair and eyes, and we both have square-shaped faces.  I had already taken society's gender messaging to heart, even at 4 years old, and I always felt pained to correct these well-meaning friends: "I am a girl, and Daddy is a boy, so we don't look alike.  I look like Mommy, because she is a girl."  (Actually, my mother and I look nothing alike; her features are fine and lithe, and her coloring is totally different.) 

I learned that the Lord is good! and the Gospel is the power of God for salvation!  I learned that Jesus loves everyone, SO MUCH, it's hard to even describe how much. Sometimes you just have to dance and shout and run around and sing really loudly, to understand how much Jesus loves you.  I learned that the Bible is completely true, and it contains absolutely everything you need to know in life.  Sometimes other people don't read their Bibles the right way, or they don't read them at all, and that's why they do bad things.  But we know that we are reading the Bible the right way.

My grandmother taught me to read when I was 4. She had taught elementary school for decades, and she said I was her easiest pupil. She said it was more like reminding me how to read, than actually teaching me.  Of course, I immediately tried to read the Bible.  I remember an old, red, leather-bound Bible we had, with a zipper you could close it up with, on the 3 sides that weren't the binding side.  It wasn't real leather; it was some synthetic material, and it was cracking apart. The pages had gold on the edges.

I remember reading the book of Revelation and feeling a sense of suspense and wonder at the part where the Apostle John was about to write down what the voice of the seven thunders had told him, but an angel told him to seal it up and not to write it.  I remember exclaiming to my dad, "I really wonder what the thunders said!"  He responded, "you and everyone else!"

Wow. I had something in common with the rest of the world!  We all wondered what the seven thunders said!

And then I was 5. And then I had to go to Kindergarten.  It was unthinkable to send me to a public school, where the world and the devil would corrupt my spirit.  My parents had to send me to a Christian school, and there were only a few choices at the time.  The one that was doctrinally closest to the Gospel my parents firmly believed in was run by the Assemblies of God.  My dad fretted about their stance on faith manifestation and healing; mom wondered if it was too mainstream since it was part of a (gasp) denomination. But we were poor, and to get a discount on tuition we had to attend that church.  So we changed churches.


First Assemblies of God was on the other side of town and also on the edge of town at the time, but it was in the part of town that was growing rapidly.  The building was enormous. It had two stories of audience seating. Their music team included an orchestra.  They had a grand piano.  Their drumset was off to the side.  People still waved their hands in worship, but much more discretely than at Cornerstone.  Pastor Ray had a deeper voice and calmer personality than Pastor Duane.  Sometimes he said, "God works in mysterious ways," which infuriated my dad, who believed God can be known.  But still, it was better than the Lutheran school. At least the Assemblies of God people believed in the baptism of the Holy Spirit.  And it was better than the Catholic school, where they committed idolatry.  And it was, for sure, better than public school!

And Jessica was also entering Kindergarten with me.

I remember pretending not to be able to read, because I didn't want to hurt the feelings of the other kids, who were clearly struggling.  I remember making handprints in plaster of paris.  I remember circle time and nap time and "Who Stole the Cookie." I remember the feeling of dread when the teacher served bananas as snacks; I hated bananas, but I was scared to tell her. I thought it would hurt her feelings. Once I was eating my banana so slowly, all the other kids went out to recess and came back again, and I was still sitting there with the barely-nibbled banana on my desk. That's when Mrs. Borchardt realized the problem and pulled me out of the room to talk to me. "You don't have to eat anything you don't want to! You just need to tell me!"  What a relief!

I remember eagerly memorizing Bible verses, one per week, for each letter of the alphabet.

A! "All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

B! "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved."

C! "Confess your sins one to another that you may be healed."

I remember Nathan Gardner, the class rascal, bragging that he had looked ahead and memorized Q in advance: "Quit ye like men, be strong."

Be strong. I don't remember much about being bullied, but my mom says I often came home crying, because the other kids said mean things to me and didn't want to play with me.  I was weird. Maybe I was too smart, too conscientious, too shy, too poor, too out of touch.  I had strange habits like spinning my hands and walking on my toes, and I stared into space often.  I was quiet, but if I did speak up, it was usually something awkward but full of enthusiasm. I didn't understand or care about the social movements happening among the kids— who had a crush on whom and whose parents knew which important people.

There is a video of me at a friend's birthday party singing "Happy Birthday" way too loudly. After the song finished, I immediately belted out a second verse. And then a third verse.  People began to look at each other warily, or with amused chuckles.  Fourth verse. I'm the only one singing. Fifth verse. Finally I realize it's time to be done, and my friend blows out the candles at last.

Nobody was talking about autism or neuro-atypicality back then, especially not for girls, and doubly-especially not Christians. I was just "weird," and it was a label I would eventually grow to wear proudly instead of with shame.  

But I hadn't grown to that point yet.  Instead, my heart was broken.  The other kids—kids whom Jesus loved SO MUCH, and for whom I felt a glowing love as well—did not love me back.  Only Jessica played with me at recess, but not enthusiastically, once she realized I was weird. Anyway, her family moved away, halfway through the year.  

Eventually Katie started playing with me. I don't know if she didn't think I was weird, or if she just didn't care.  I don't know what she saw in me, but we clicked.  Her boisterous exuberance and my quiet receptivity were like two interlocking pieces of a puzzle. We are friends to this day.

I didn't know it, but there was a problem.  My parents had to warn me before I went to play at her house.  Katie's family was Mennonite.  They don't believe in the baptism of the Holy Spirit. They don't dance in church. They don't even have drums.  But at least we all believe that the Bible is absolutely true, and we can accept each others' differences. And Katie doesn't bully you, and it's important to have friends.

I do not know why Katie's parents chose the Assemblies of God school instead of the Lutheran school, but I'm glad they did.  With Katie, I had to pretend not to care about the baptism of the Holy Spirit, but it didn't end up mattering. There were games to play, nature to explore, other conversations to be had. And at the end of the day, we each believed that Jesus was the only savior of the world, the Bible was the foundation of truth, and God was the ruler of the universe. That's what mattered.  And from that place of trust, we went on to build tree forts, play on tractors, wade in creeks, go on long bike rides, dress up in fancy clothes, bike by ourselves to the convenience store several blocks away, sing karaoke, bake new recipes, make crafts.  After setting aside doctrine, we were able to engage with reality in a beautiful way.

I mostly hate looking back on my past. It's not that I had any major traumatic experiences— I didn't.  It's just that I feel like most of it was a huge waste. I gave myself 110% to a belief system and way of life that was ultimately toxic and empty.  Instead of learning how to relate to the world in healthy ways, I was off exploring vapid theologies and working out details of irrelevant doctrines.  I can never get that time back, and that makes me angry and sad.  But I am grateful for people like Katie who grounded me and accepted me and explored the real world with me, with gusto and love.  She redeems my story, makes it not a complete waste.

I want to pivot here, to a commentary on the political happenings today.

Back then, all the churches were pretty insular. They tolerated each other and worked together when they could, because they shared some common goals, like developing viable Christian schools.  But generally, each church had its doctrinal reasons to disapprove of all the other churches, and to believe that only they were getting it truly right. Each church was located on the edge of town, each in their own weird little building. Suspicious of the town. Suspicious of each other.

Over time, many of these very different streams ended up coalescing into a political entity now labeled  Evangelicalism, which has become a mighty, fearsome political force in the United States. I actually do know how that happened, but I don't want to focus on that right now.  I want to focus on some of the unspoken animus behind the violent and intractable rebellions that Evangelicals are displaying.

What is going on? Why do they refuse to accept science, facts, and reason?  Why did they gather around someone who is the antithesis of Christ? There are many theories, but here's my analysis.

Although Evangelicals collectively make up one of the largest religious and political groups in the United States, individually, they each still feel like that little church isolated on the edge of town. Nobody can accept them, because they are weird. They've never been able to fit in, and actually, they don't even want to.


Unconsciously, the Evangelical worldview is nihilistic. It rejects reality —ostensibly in favor of a different reality called "the kingdom of God," which they define as relationship with God, mostly at the individual level— but this kingdom has absolutely no basis in any of the five physical senses.  Evangelicals are explicitly taught to ignore or reject any reality that does not conform to God's kingdom.  Eventually, after death, when we go to Heaven, the material and spiritual realities will be in harmony, but in the meantime, there is a split that cannot be resolved. Ultimately, their sense of reality rests on an elaborate structure that is actually nothing. It's all abstractions and doctrines and mental extrapolations; there is no real experience to undergird it.  That's why I say it is nihilistic. Evangelicals believe in nothing.  It's a twisted nihilism, though, because they believe that they believe in something... but really it's nothing. (I am wildly over-simplifying this, for the sake of my point. There is so much nuance that I'm glossing over)

If their nihilism could speak, it might say, "the world exists, but it shouldn't.  I exist, but I shouldn't.  I do not know how to reconcile these things, and that fills me with rage."

Denying reality is fundamentally painful.  It puts you on the edge of town. It labels you as hopelessly weird.  You can learn to identify with that weirdness and wear it as a badge of honor, but deep down, the separation between you and the rest of the world hurts like hell.  Humans are meant to be connected— to nature, to each other, and to the real world.  Separation and isolation are inherently and inescapably painful.  Most evangelicals keep that pain buried and are not aware of it.  But it is always there, waiting to be tapped.

I think Evangelicals are acting wild and irrational because their biggest secret, which they've kept even from themselves, is finally being exposed: their entire existences have been built around nothing.  They would rather go mad than face that fact.  They would rather burn down the entire world.  The idea that their entire lives have been a waste of time, ultimately toxic and empty, is horrifying.

Somehow, Evangelicals need a Katie: someone who can love them for who they are. Who can inspire them to set their doctrine aside and jump into the joy and messiness of experiencing and embracing the real world.

Perhaps this is what the voice in my head was referring to in its prophetic numinosity:

The past is yet to come.

The world is often a hostile place. But there are people like Katie who will come along and see something that nobody else sees. If it happened before, it can happen again.  And if it happened for one little girl, it can happen for an entire movement of people.  I don't actually know this for sure, but I desperately try to believe it... the past can be redeemed.