First Disillusionment

My faith heritage comes entirely from the Southern Baptist Church. Where I grew up in Kentucky that was pronounced “babdist” and nearly everyone I knew attended some incarnation of the Babdist church.

All during elementary school I knew a girl named Andrea who I envied. She had curly hair that hung in perfect ringlets. I never remember Andrea coming to school in jeans. It seemed that she wore a dress to school every day. Often they were little pinafore dresses. My favorite ones were plaid. She had patent-leather Mary Janes that she wore with short white socks that had ruffles around the top.

I thought Andrea was perfect.

My admiration of Andrea reached its peak when we were both in the fifth grade. She rode my bus and when we would drop her off at the end of her very long driveway, you could see their beautiful house at the top of the rolling Kentucky farm where they lived. It was an immaculately maintained home – massive and historical.

Andrea had a lot of brothers and sisters. She was the youngest and I always wondered if she was lonely in that huge house with no one her age to play with.

I never really talked to Andrea all that much. It wasn’t that I was too shy or that I didn’t WANT to talk to her. It was that my church had slyly implanted feelings of fear about Andrea into my head. Mixed with those low-grade fears were mild feelings of moral superiority and a breezy attitude that I had the upper hand in all things God related.

Andrea’s family was Catholic.

Looking back, my childhood envy of everything that was Andrea, colliding with my inbred fear of all things Catholic, began my first disillusionment with evangelical Christianity.

I had been taught that God wanted everyone to become a Christian. Every sermon had been peppered with phrases like “accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior,” “invite Jesus into your heart” and “get right with God.”

I had also been taught that if a person didn’t become a Christian during his or her brief stint at life that he or she had bought a one-way ticket to hell. This wasn’t a concept to be debated or questioned. It was a literal place where those too stubborn (or too stupid was always the implication) would roast for eternity.

And my church had been clear that Catholics were on the first train car, in the first-class compartment on the express train to H E double toothpicks.

Let me be clear about how confusing and tumultuous this felt for me. The people at my church were good people. They hugged me and loved me and encouraged me. They praised my successes and spurred me on when I could do better. They taught me Bible stories and songs in Sunday School and helped me make shoebox dioramas of missionary heroes in GA’s on Wednesday nights. (GA’s were “Girls in Action.” The male version were RA’s, “Royal Ambassadors.” Yes, they were separate classes. No, I won’t think about the sexist bullshit right now. . .) They taught me that God loved everyone – if they would just get saved.

They also taught me that it was my job to tell the people I knew that Jesus had died for their sins and that they could go to heaven too if they would just pray a simple little prayer with me. It was my job to lead people to the Lord and I better get right on with it – because there were heathens living all over the place. And there were Catholics on my bus.

Imagine how this felt to a sensitive, thoughtful, young girl. I truly wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to make Jesus smile and my church love me more. I wanted to please my parents and my teachers. I truly wanted Andrea to go to heaven too.

As I turned out, I never did “witness” to Andrea. Perhaps it was that I was too afraid. (Jesus is frowning as I write this even now.) Maybe I didn’t confront her because my Mother told me that I could never be friends with her – and I never was. (Jesus is still frowning.)

In my heart of hearts however, I know that I never witnessed to Andrea because I was just beginning to understand that everything wasn't as black and white as my church had taught. (A slow smile spreads over Jesus’ face as he quickly shoots me a wink and a knowing nod.)

This epiphany is what keeps me searching for the face of God – to this very day.



Georgetown Baptist Church – where I was a G.A. and learned the value of all things potluck!