I was an old soul as a child. I liked to talk and would have deep conversations with adults wherever I went. My aunt and uncle, who was a preacher, often picked me up to stay with them for the weekend. They had only one son, much older than me, and they seemed to enjoy having me around.
I went to church with them when I stayed with them. As a five-year-old, I loved church. I enjoyed the songs with actions, where you could march around and move your arms. Usually, the sermon’s cadence was soothing to me.
I especially liked night church in the summer, and the way a halo surrounded the lights, and the breeze came in through the darkened windows.
One Sunday night service, however, changed my life. Aunt Ruth had played the piano. I sat in the front row, and the windows were open.
All seemed normal until the visiting preacher stood up and began to preach. My memory of him is so vivid that the first time I saw Chris Farley play the man down the river living in his van, that preacher’s image flashed before my eyes. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt that pulled on every button.
He wore a skinny black tie, sported a crew cut, black-rimmed glasses, and a floppy Bible. He had a white handkerchief with which he regularly mopped his face as he built into a frenzy.
Immediately, I knew I did not like how he made me feel.
I obviously cannot tell you everything that was said that night, but I remember it being about women and how they are the reason men sin. What I took away from that event was that my mom made me wear shorts, and I was going to hell. As a five-year-old, all I knew was that hell was a terrible place, and somehow I would be punished for my sinful attire.
Aunt Ruth dropped me off at my home as if everything were okay, because, I guess, it was nothing new to her desensitized soul. I went to bed, and somewhere in the middle of the night, I woke in a panic, crying and calling for my dad.
It is still so vivid to me, even 60-plus years later. He quickly appeared at my bedside and tried to soothe me, asking what was wrong. I looked at him and said, “I am going to hell, and it is all Mama’s fault.” He stood up and called out, “Mama, you need to come in here.”
I appreciate that my dad did not offer me platitudes or tell me it would be all right, but let me express my panic and deep pain. My mom quickly appeared by the bed, and Daddy said, “Tell your mom what you told me.”
I looked up at her and said, “Tonight, the preacher said that if I wear shorts, I am going to hell, and you make me wear shorts even when I want to wear a dress.”
My very young mother looked at me and said, “Well, I guess what I thought was that God would rather see you with shorts on while you are on a swing set than have your dress fly up and show your underwear.”
That simple explanation made sense to me and reduced my anxiety, allowing me to drift off to sleep. There was a resolution for me that was important.
To a casual observer, this is a simple story from a little girl’s memory, but it was so much more. It was a story of empowerment, of being heard and comforted rather than placated and dismissed.
I did not have the maturity or words to articulate what happened that night, but the seeds that were planted flourished into several blooms of wisdom:
- Trust my heart to know what feels wrong
- Blaming someone else for your weakness is wrong
- Just because a man is talking from a pulpit does not make it true
- Someone cannot replace my understanding of God as love with their need to exert power over others.
There was no declaration or mandate, but by my choice, I stopped spending as much time with my aunt and uncle, and the breach in our relationship did not improve over the years.
Liberation and Lessons
In the South, when you have a male relative in the “gospel ministry,” he is allowed to be the spokesperson for Jesus. He says the prayers at meals, makes definitive statements that are to be followed, and is permitted to chastise younger family members for unseemly behavior.
That experience as a five-year-old freed me from my uncle’s power over my relationship with Jesus and, in many ways, over my life. There was no head-on confrontation, just subtle resistance. I was unwilling to go into my grandmother’s house and change out of my shorts when he showed up for Sunday lunch, as many of my cousins were expected to do.
My mother once told him, when he was in one of his tirades, “Rudy, you must have the dirtiest mind in the room to see the filth in as many places as you do.” She said it with a smile, but her point was made.
When I was fourteen, a health crisis in our family meant that my sister and I had to be farmed out to family members on weekends, and the dreaded weekend at the preacher uncle’s house had arrived.
With my parents’ permission, I planned to attend a school dance. I had a ride to and from the event with a friend’s mother. However, when I let them know of my plans, my uncle told me I could not go and then explained the evils of dancing, saying that as long as I was staying with him, I would not be attending.
Nine years of resistance quietly solidified in me, and without raising my voice, I told him this was not his decision and that if he needed me to stay over with my friend that night, I would be glad to do so. Years later, my sister reminded me that I had taken her to the guest bedroom and calmly told her this was not going well, that I hoped she would be OK, but that I was going to the dance.
My family is not a fighting family, but they are stubborn. For the remaining forty years of his life, he never spoke to me, and it was not subtle. He would walk into a room, shake everyone’s hand, including my husband and children, and skip me.
I held him no ill will. He tried to convince my daddy to dissuade me from attending seminary and pursuing ministry as a calling.
His efforts, however, taught me much about the fundamentalist perspective and spirit, born of deep and debilitating fear. As much as he would hate it, he and men like that evangelist from so many years ago prepared me for my role as a minister in a less-than-hospitable world for women.
Neither shunning nor frontal attacks deterred me from my life’s calling. I did not relish either scenario, but I knew I could survive because people have always needed help finding their voice, passion and calling.
My five-year-old self’s discernment and resolve, encouraged by parents and others who trusted me, enabled me to face middle school and, obviously, so much more.
For all those reasons, fundamentalists do not scare me, but their impact on others who have not been empowered does. The antithesis is to speak and act in such a way that you do not waste your power on people who will squander it or use it against you.
By all means, use your power, but fearlessly share it where it can bring healing and hope.
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Retired campus minister, campus ministry coordinator for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship of North Carolina, and Collegiate Specialist for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship.