It must’ve been around my pre-teen or early teen years. I stood in the back with a friend. It was where the restrooms were located, and where people stood to listen when they got tired of sitting. Those sermons could go on and on and on. I’m convinced some of the people who got excited and started running the perimeter of the building and jumping pews in the name of praising Jesus were really just tired of sitting.

I digress.

It was past the day’s scheduled lunch time at the week-long campmeeting, and the preacher was still hammering away. I don’t have a clue what his sermon was about, but if I had to guess, I’d bet it included a long list of dos and don’ts (that’s what the Independent Baptists are best at preaching). Anyway, I leaned over to my friend, and whispered (apparently too loudly) that I wished he would wrap it up because I was hungry.

The stranger standing on the other side of me quickly reprimanded me: “Young lady, do not speak against the man of God. God punishes people who talk badly about preachers.”

Now that wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. In fact, it had been pounded into my head as far back as I could recall. But that was the first time anybody had specifically addressed it to me. I nodded my head at the lady, but stood there thinking I just wanted the man to hurry up because I was hungry. That was all.

All these years later, the guilt and shame that come with being misunderstood and misinterpreted still haunt me. Oh, no, not over just that one incident. Unfortunately, there are many more, the most recent being the one that weighted down my heart so heavily I couldn’t take anymore.

I’ve endured a lifetime of emotional and spiritual abuse. (And if you think for one second those don’t do some damage, you are wrong!) I’ve been beaten up and beaten down by people who believe themselves to be God’s personal bodyguards and the local church’s bully representatives.

These days I do a lot of soul searching, a little bit of praying, and a whole lot of reading through articles that help me make sense of where I am in my journey. I’m at the intersection of I don’t know where to go from here and I refuse to go back to where I was.

My husband often comments that I’m a strong person. The truth is that I’m often weak and vulnerable, and the religious crowds I’ve been part of have taken advantage of that weakness and vulnerability for as long as I can remember. Hell, they’ve even taken advantage of my strength. I was just too blind to see it because it was all done in the name of obedience to God and submission to authority. 

Call me names, question my faith, pretend I don’t exist if that helps you sit contentedly with your blinders in place. I know that’s the easiest thing to do and is the path of least resistance. But the chains of religion and abuse have rubbed my heart bleeding raw, and I am fighting for my life. I’m fighting for freedom and healing and broken cycles. I’m fighting to keep a tender, sensitive heart instead of a hardening one.

I can’t help but wonder what Jesus would’ve said had He been in that campmeeting service all those years ago. I imagine it would’ve gone something like this: These people are tired and hungry and weighed down with religion. Quit talking, let them rest, and feed them!