In the name of...

One of the most memorable occasions in my life was the time I attended church with my third grade pal, Angela. I felt uncomfortable with religion even in my early years, so this was something in which I did not typically participate willingly. However, it was one of the few times my parents had allowed me to venture away from home for an entire evening. At the age of eight, that was a privilege that I thought was an adequate trade for one hour of my time in a place I did not with to be. Angela and I could make up for it later at the pizza place. Going out for pizza was a real treat!

My mother snickered as I left the house that afternoon. “Have fun,” she laughed. Completely ignorant about the evening’s activities to come, I was unshakeable. My mother knew only too well what I was about to experience. She was raised by a mother who was a member of the Church of God, similar to the Assembly of God I was to attend that evening.

It was not long until I discovered why my mother was laughing as I left the house. The service began as the other Protestant services I had attended. However, it soon became apparent that this was a whole other ball game. The preacher began to wail and speak in tongues. The congregation reciprocated with tears and a chorus of syllables I am still unable to fathom. Crying women fell to the floor in what appeared to be a dead faint. Children cried because they were supposed to cry. Men, hands in the air, cried out to their God for salvation, mercy, forgiveness, and whatever else came to mind. I was completely horrified at what I thought was erratic, illogical behavior. I have always been a sort of Mr. Spock. One eyebrow raised, hand in a Vulcan greeting sign, I would spout, “That is highly illogical!” to anything with which I disagreed. I decided right then that I would never be tricked into attending another church service. It took four pieces of sausage pizza and thirty-two years of avoiding evangelicals to heal my mental wounds that evening. “Very funny,” I grouched at my mother. She just laughed.

Several years ago, my cousin invited me to attend an event with her in Oklahoma City. Unaccustomed to the boredom of living in a small town, I happily agreed. I asked her where we were going, to which she replied, “We’re going to see a speaker for women.” I expected a feministic sort atmosphere, like the ones I witnessed at events for women in Austin before my move. However, I neglected to ask the appropriate questions, such as, “Where is the event being held?” I doubt I would have gotten a truthful answer anyway.

As we approached the huge, obvious mega-church I felt a sudden desire to bolt from the car and run to the nearest store to call for help. I could not, though, for the sake of keeping the family peace. Inside, I felt trapped. Church in a basketball arena, loudspeakers everywhere, obvious fundamentalism pervasive in the crowd, there was nowhere to run. I took the attitude that I would watch people as if I were at a circus or a Medieval Fair.

Joyce Meyer was the “speaker for women.” I recognized her face from sessions in which my friends and I would flip through the late-night cable offerings looking for something funny. TBS and its evangelical television peers were always among the funniest programming available. First, there was Tammy Faye Baker. Then, after Jim’s downfall, there was the lady with the pink wig who managed to outdo even Tammy Faye’s tasteless wardrobe and makeup.

Joyce Meyer proceeded to whip the crowd into a feverish, fanatic frenzy. They wailed, they cried, they prayed while the television evangelist plied them for offerings. When she began to speak in tongues, I decided enough was enough! I looked straight into her eyes (probably my favorite church-related moment), gave her a look of utter disgust, rolled my eyes, and, turning to my cousin, excused myself to the hallway, where I remained for the rest of the evening. I never again went anywhere with my cousin unless I knew exactly where we were going and that it had nothing to do with religion.

I suppose I find fanaticism, in any form, to be completely disdainful. To me, religion is deeply personal. It is not a circus, not a show for the benefit of the entertainment of others. No one should approach me and say, “Welcome to our town. What church do you attend?” That is the fastest way to get me to respond with something atrociously vile. I do not think a place of worship is a place to socialize. I believe that prayer or meditation should be silent or inconspicuous. I do not care to know a person’s religious affiliation, and I do not wish to wear my beliefs on my sleeve.
Through my study of religion, I have discovered that there is no single path to heavenly reward. It is certainly not through ceremony that one reaches Nirvana, Heaven, Paradise, or whatever one wishes to call it. It is through the common ethical basis of religion that people are rewarded. Every major religion teaches its followers some semblance of the Ten Commandments. Do not steal, do not kill, be chaste, do not drink or take drugs, be truthful, honor your parents, understand that there is a higher power or higher goal to be attained, do not worship (or become overly attached to) material things. These are the lessons that are lost in the rituals that go along with religion. I have seen the destruction that accompanies religion when its followers decide to exalt their religion above that of others. I am adamantly opposed to fanaticism.