I’d been playing down the street at a friend’s house and returned home in time for dinner. The screen door was unlocked and the wooden door was open. I walked into the kitchen where lights were on, dinner sat atop the stove, and the sound coming from the television in the next room was audible. I searched the house for my parents, only to realize I was home alone. I was twelve and used to being home alone—that, in itself, was no big deal. But my parents were supposed to be home, and my surroundings suggested they had disappeared. Panic struck as I began to search the empty yard, returning inside to call neighbors. I was on the verge on frenzy when my parents appeared at the door from a quick, evening walk.

The reason for my fear? I was terrified that I’d been left behind . . . as in, the rapture had occurred, Jesus had taken away all the people he truly loved, and I’d been left to be tortured in an evil world. It’s crazy, right? But I’m sure you can see how believing that would scare a child. That makes sense.

But it didn’t end there. After I married my husband, a similar incident happened in which I couldn’t find him, and once again, I was afraid I’d been left behind. Then, a year or so ago, when my children weren’t in the house where I expected them to be, well, you know . . .

I lived nearly forty years in fear at the hands of the church. Now I’ve traded my old fears for new ones.

*****

When my girls were little, I was terrified for them to miss church. We rarely skipped a Sunday or Wednesday evening. Skipping Sunday mornings were out of the question. I’m not sure what harm I thought skipping an occasional service would do.

These days, I’m afraid of the church. I’m afraid of its power, its leaders, its ability and willingness to invalidate and harm people—in the name of God, of course—without a second thought.

I’m terrified that attending one service will have lifelong consequences for my children. My girls are old enough to think for themselves, to question what they’re told, to carry on intelligent discussions. Still, when they ask to go to church with friends, my fear kicks in to overdrive. I fear they’ll be too afraid to question or trust their instincts.

I’m afraid they’ll believe what church leaders tell them. I’m afraid they’ll get caught up in the emotionalism of worship. I’m afraid they’ll learn to feel guilt and shame every time they “sin” instead of understanding that mistakes are part of being human.

I’m afraid they’ll be told that an open mind and tolerance is dangerous. I’m afraid they’ll be blind and vulnerable to spiritual, emotional, and verbal abuse.

I’m afraid they’ll end up believing that the purpose of their existence is self-sacrifice to the point that they don’t know how to find their own happiness. I’m afraid they’ll trust their lives to some church leader who doesn’t think twice about discouraging their passions by telling them they are better suited for other ministry opportunities.

Mostly, I’m afraid they’ll be indoctrinated like I was. I’m afraid they’ll live forty years in fear. I’m terrified that they’ll get so deeply involved that it will take years of their adult lives to rip out the roots.

Maybe some of my fears seem a bit extreme (especially to folks who don’t have a fundamentalist-religious background), but they’re certainly not irrational or unfounded. I lived them.

I won’t deny my girls opportunities to attend church with friends; neither do I encourage them. I keep thinking that a little exposure can’t be all bad, and that the girls can choose their own beliefs about god and religion when they’re older. For now, I’m thankful they don’t have to live in fear (especially of being left behind).