Fanaticism always
had a place in my life. When I was young, my mom would watch Reverend Price
parade his pin stripe -suited self and his lively hand-waving flock all over
TV. We weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons because Bart saying “don’t have a
cow” was disrespectful to Marge in ways only the devil's hands could guide. We
had bibles and devotional books, Jesus coloring books, and crosses made of
palms, the rolling paper of the Lord.
Primarily, we
attended a Calvary Chapel, a collection of poorly organized and un-funded
churches known for their acceptance of bikers, derelicts, and all manner of
regular sinners. Pastor Pete (there is no better name for a Pastor than “Pastor
Pete”) was a medium built mustached man, full of himself and the Holy Spirit.
He lived with his wife and half-dozen children in a broken house on a broken
street next to the broken church building.
In the entertainment
arena, Pastor Pete's kids had it worse than us: we weren’t allowed to watch the
Simpsons, but Pastor Pete’s kids weren’t even allowed to watch live TV.
Although I'm sure he controlled what shows they could watch, it wasn't the
shows themselves that were the reason for the live TV ban: it was the
commercials. Pastor Pete didn’t like the negative effect they had on his
children, so he pre-recorded everything they wanted to watch, dutifully making
sure he didn't save the commercials. For Pastor Pete, it may have been that a
desire for tinker toys could lead to a hankering for ungodly things. Or maybe
it was less divine than that: maybe Pastor Pete was sick of being asked for
things he couldn't afford, and wanted to kill the desire at its informational
source.
At some point in
time, Pastor Pete had disappeared suddenly, on the overnight. Apparently he had
fled in shame after approaching a woman in the congregation and making a failed
attempt to convince her to run away with him. On her decline, he ran, leaving
his wife and children in the broken house. Some time later, he was welcomed
back as a forgiven sinner, no different than the drug addics in his
congregation.
Religions have used
many weapons over the millennia, but none have worked so effectively as fear.
Fear is the slow-burn chemical weapon that destroys top-down from within,
wreaking havoc on the mind, the heart, the spirit. Fear was pumped from the
pulpit of Calvary Chapel in clouds of poison gas disguised as hope,
forgiveness, and grace. The insistence that we were harboring sins which might
prove unforgivable was a fear instilled in us quietly. Vague notions like,
“blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is an unforgivable sin” tossed children in
the congregation (audience?) into a cloud of mystery and the fear of eternal
damnation.
I am 35 years old,
and there is still a nagging voice in me, daily, that I am going to spend
eternity burning, then burning again, and again, and again without end, all
while looking up at people in heaven swimming in pools of perfect water and
riding on the backs of lions.
But then, I am also
filled with a happiness and hope that I am, despite the threatening notions
pressed into me when I was a child, finally in control of my own destiny; that
I am free. For some reason which is odd to me, many people seem to fear nothingness
after death. For me, there has never been anything that has lifted more weight
from my shoulders than the thought that one day I will just power down and
cease to be: no promised land to miss out on, no hell to burn in, no regrets -
just The End. Just, nothing. That I am the captain of my own ship and the idea
that my actions may not lead to a positive or negative reaction from some Holy
Ghost hovering above me is incredibly liberating.
Make me free.
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