As a young child, I attended a United Pentecostal Church (UPC) with my family. The kind of church that teaches that as a female, I’d burn in the depths of hell should I choose to cut bangs or put on a pair of Levi’s. Thankfully, my mom had voluntarily raised herself Baptist, so we didn’t practice what they preached, but there’s something about starting your life knowing that every little thing you do, from putting on a fake gum-machine ring (no jewelry allowed) to using a little mascara (no makeup allowed either), will land you amongst murderers and rapists in the afterlife. There’s something about it, and it’s not the most positive, self-loving place you can open your eyes.
Thankfully, we left that church fairly early in my life. The next church I remember was, fatefully, the church of a spotless minister by the name of Jimmy Swaggart. That religion was called Assembles of God (AG). We attended his inspiring services until I was about 13, at which time those damn “far left liberals” led to an investigation that revealed Swag’s dealings with prostitution.
We did a brief stint at another church in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, another AG church (is it me, or are these religions sort of the precursor to our necessity to abbreviate everything, like KFC?). The only thing I remember about that church was getting into an argument with a girl younger than me and scratching a cut into her stomach with a lead pencil. Good times.
Finally, we landed at a small place in my hometown, one that was “non-denominational.” I’m not sure which is more difficult: having to explain a specific religion when you’re not sure what that religion is, or having to explain what non-denominational means. The weirdest thing is that term, since “non-denominational” brings up feelings of open arms, the we welcome all believers of any kind idea. In reality, it’s the same thing as the others: the if you do anything outside of this church for recreation or enjoyment, including listening to pop radio or reading secular books, you’re sinning idea.
There’s something very odd about growing up believing that that margarita that you just sipped while eating enchiladas with your friends at the age of 22 will land you in hell as quickly as violently taking the life of an enemy. That you’ll burn if you buy a Nirvana CD the same way you’d burn if you slept with the entire football team in college, on videotape.
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Consider yourself very blessed that your parents weren't mine. It has only been in the last six or seven years that I stopped thinking every unexpected sound was "the sound of the trumpet" and that the jeans and tank tops I was wearing were sending me straight to hell.
Even more ironic, I think, is that when I worked in criminal court, there were actually men in jail going to trial for murder (for the second, third, and fourth time, in some cases) and when the jury would find them not guilty because of a technicality in the law, their family members would jump up and down, raise their hands, shout Praise God, and profess to the entire courtroom (family of victim and all) that "God answered my prayer".
I still don't get why if Pentecostalism is so holy, why does God answer the murderer's prayer, but not my mom's.
Cassie
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