Memories of a Cult

I can’t sleep, because I can’t breathe.

When did I last use my inhaler? Five minutes ago? I was only supposed to use it every four hours. Damn cat. Damn pastor who thought it was good for my soul to live with cats, when he knew full well I was allergic to them. I was sinning somehow when I had an attack, so they thought.

Well, an attack was also a sign of a serious allergy. Maybe my body was telling me to get the hell out of this place. But I came to that conclusion much later. This night, I left my living situation with a sinking feeling of failure. I was supposed to be on my way to become like Jesus: selfless and loving. To me, leaving proved I wasn’t good enough to be loved by god. (I use lower case for God when I think a false god is being invoked).

How did I get into this sticky situation? The story started in childhood. I was raised in a typical middle class family of the 50s who did the usual thing of going to church every Sunday. I loved church. I loved learning about God. I hoped to hear that God would love me in ways my parents would not or could not. They were not horrible parents. I was just never affirmed for who I was. I was always to fit myself into a mold of their making. Be a good student and a helpful, oldest child.

I was the stereotypical, hero child, except I think underneath I was a rebellious child. That, however, was too dangerous to express. I was desperate for their approval, so I did what was expected of me. I became the valedictorian of my high school class. Still, no approval. My tendency toward depression was exacerbated by this atmosphere. As such, I became the silent child.

When I was around eleven, my father told me to watch a Billy Graham crusade on TV. If you’re familiar with these types of shows, then you know they were meant to bring about deep grief regarding one’s sinfulness. The remedy was to accept Jesus as your savior and become “born again.” I accepted the argument, and became a born-again Christian.

If anything, I was even more miserable after this conversion. Apparently god didn’t love the real me. Jesus had to die on the cross, and I had to embrace that sacrifice as a salvific action in my life. I threw myself into being a Christian, but I saw myself through the stigma of being a sinner. The picture wasn’t pretty.

The book of Galatians says that the fruit of the spirit is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control” (Gal 5:22-23 NRSVue). I failed at these. I was especially anything but joyful. I was much more familiar with some of the works of the flesh: “sexual immorality, impurity, debauchery, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these” (Gal 5:19-21a NRSVue). Well, not all of them. Mostly my besetting “sins” were jealousy and anger. Of course, these are just normal human feelings. But the Bible said they were sins, so I stuffed those feelings down with the rest of the feelings I learned not to express.

At college, I affiliated with the conservative group, InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. Depression was a constant companion during those years. I was pretty much a lost soul most of the time. I didn’t even declare a major until my second semester junior year. I think I landed in the English department, because I received approval for my writing.

One thing I knew when I graduated from college: I was not moving back home to Cincinnati, OH. I managed to get a job as an accounts payable clerk, and shared living expenses with two other roommates, so I got to stay in Rochester, NY. After that first year, my roommates departed for other pursuits. One got married; one went to medical school. I needed a place to live.

I had been attending a church where being born again was understood as the basis for one’s faith. They had what they called a “live-in” program. Singles from the church would enter the program, and the head pastor would place them in a church member’s home. The couple became the person’s live-in parents. As such, they had authority over their tenant. Meaning, live-ins had to get permission to do anything outside of work and church activities. I needed permission to go to a movie.

I was also required to make regular confession of sins through daily live-in notes written to the parents. In these, for example, I would speak of my anger and jealousy: anger at my living situation; jealousy of those who weren’t single. I would also mention my rebellion around eating, since I was supposed to be following a healthy diet.

The purpose of living-in was dealing with sin. Each day was a sin hunt. The goal was to ferret out, and confess sins so that one could become more like Jesus. Having a servant’s heart was another way of talking about the goal. The ego was the enemy. Being under authority was the structure used to enable the sin hunt. Everyone was under the authority to someone else with a greater status in the hierarchy. Clearly, singles were second-class citizens. And live-ins were moved to a different home regularly.

Needless to say, my depression flourished in this setting. I had no self-respect. But I stayed with it, because I thought it was god’s will for my life. During this time, I broke up with my boyfriend, and deserted my previous friends. My soul would be damaged by those associations. However, my living with a cat was supposedly good for my soul. Since the pastor moved me to this home, it must have been god’s will.

I had developed asthma in college, and my allergy to cats, among a lot of other things, was confirmed. When I joined the live-in program, I was already taking a high dosage of asthma medication, and used a rescue inhaler. I survived the first house with a cat because of those interventions. But why was it necessary for me to stay there? Why wasn’t I moved?

At times, I would have difficulty breathing which was blamed on my being “in sin.” My ability to breathe freely sometimes returned after confession. Many times I just needed the meds to work. On the other hand, I would end up in the ER when the attack didn’t break. I was once hospitalized when ER wasn’t sufficient to clear my lungs. I was visited by a friend who asked me what I was doing in the hospital. The implication was, if I had been in the spirit, I wouldn’t have been there. Ouch.

I moved to another house with a cat. I struggled more with asthma in this setting. I finally reached the end of my tether on the night when I couldn’t breathe. I felt compelled to leave, no matter what god thought. So, I packed a bag, and walked out of the home in which I had been living. Serendipitously, I had seen a former friend previously, and had asked her if I could crash at her house, if I were to leave. I was very grateful that she said yes.

I wrote this poem about the experience.

I was in a cult.

It wasn’t all bad.

I had friends.

And purpose:

I was on a path to become like Jesus.

With a servant’s heart, and a conquered ego.

But the price of conformity was too high.

My belief in my essential worthlessness was confirmed.

My body knew before my mind.

I got very sick until I left.

I lost my friends.

I lost my god.

I lost my purpose.

The healing continues to this day.

But at last, I was free.