Why I Joined A Cult – Part 1 – The Stage

I am not sure quite what overcame me as a pre-teen. I lived what I thought was a very normal life. My fun doting marijuana/coke-addicted alcoholic step-father was around enough to make me feel cared for (when he wasn’t hanging out with his drug-dealing buddy named Flipper). My overstressed super-sensitive mother was left to deal with the emotional baggage accompanied with marrying a jacked-up man who was frequently followed home by city police and state troopers. Needless to say, she wasn’t always the most pleasant person to be around. How could she be, considering the hand she’d been dealt?

My live-in grandmother, who regularly cussed me out like a drunken sailor, was honestly the highlight in my life. Not only did she almost completely care for my daily needs but also was around for a great prank or to pull my chain. Plus an array of sexually aggressive chain-smoking step-sisters (whom I long ago lost contact with) were in the picture enough to add a little needed drama around the house. Then there was my lil’ sis whom I tortured as a sport, like any normal loving brother should. Seriously, I didn’t know that what I was experiencing was anything but normal. Yet in my kegger-filled paradise, I knew, “something was not right in pleasantville.” But it wasn’t them who I thought were “off.”

It was me.

My neighbor buddy was a great kid. I loved the guy. His family probably thought different of me though considering who I was (you know what I mean, the kid from the messed up family next door). It didn’t help that I had a really bad habit of wandering over to his place around 6am on Saturday mornings to score free white-people breakfast (we ate beans & eggs or chorizo, they ate chocolate chip waffles and poached eggs). We watched cartoons on their huge TV. His greatest influence on my life, which will be felt into eternity, was his invite to church on Sundays where his dad served as a deacon (which must have given him the OK to sleep on the back pew).

Every Sunday morning, a big white bus would make the rounds about town picking up latchkey children and poor families to bus to church. My buddy and I would make the ride. It was fun. I got to see parts of town I had never seen. Plus I got to go to the biggest church in town where they had donuts and OJ before Sunday School, plus a little snack during the church service they liked to call “communion.” It was enough to tide me over till lunch, especially if I grabbed a handful of the little wafers (which was frowned upon for some reason).

After months of Sundays I started feeling really strange when hearing the often repeated altar calls. I’d get really anxious. My heart would race. I would sweat. So I told my Sunday School teacher; she didn’t know what to do with me. She walked me down to the Senior Pastor’s office who was in prayer or something. After waiting in the office, he asked me if I knew Jesus. I said, “Well yeah but I have some questions.” I rattled off a few things that seemed kind of tricky to me. “Um, what’s the Trinity? Someone said something about justification. What’s that? Is there a Holy Ghost? Is he gonna haunt me? Is that cool? What is a deacon? What happens when you die? During the service on Revelation, I was curious about the number of the beast, 666. The Bible said he who had wisdom could figure out who the beast is. And, well, I don’t wanna be near the beast when he jumps out of the ocean so can you help a brother out?”

After laughing at me, the pastor patted me on the head, literally patted me, and said, “It’s gonna be OK, you’re thinking too much. Just sit in the service, here’s a tape recorder you can have. And here’s a tape album, and a whole bunch of blank tapes. Just record my sermons and listen to them at home. They’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

And with that, I was sent on my way. No answers.

After chasing down a few of my next-door neighbor’s dad’s buddies, who were also deacons, I discovered they weren’t any better at answering questions. One guy literally said he didn’t know what I was talking about. He pointed me back to the pastor.

Since the church was going through a teaching of the Revelation of John, and I was a faithful attendee, who paid attention, my questions only got hairier and hairier. That anti-Christ guy wasn’t anyone I wanted to tangle with, but I wanted to know, “Who is he? Ronald Wilson Reagan, 6-6-6?” The Whore of Babylon had an allure in a I’d-like-to-check-her-out-like-sneaking-a-peek-at-a-Playboy-but-I-don’t-want-to-get-to-close sort of way; after all, she was a whore. So, “What does getting drunk on the blood of saints mean? Is that a mixed drink you get at the bar where my dad hung out?”

This stuff was way more interesting and dramatic than the stuff going on at home. Unaware to me, my home was literally imploding on itself. All the while I was inextricably drawn to be at the church every time the doors opened.

But honestly, it was a very disturbing hanging out in a place full of people that had absolutely no answers concerning all the things being taught from the pulpit. That didn’t make sense.

To be continued…