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Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
#1
Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
Subtitle: And how I began to come to humanist atheism.

I was just reading this thread, and I was gonna make a response to it, but I felt it was too long and tackling too broad of a subject outside the scope of the OP so...the post gets its own thread.

When I was 15, shortly after being released from drug rehabilitation back into the "care" of my foster parents, they decided they were going to "make a change for [me], for the better." They had spent quite a bit of time constantly dragging me along to the church they attended. This was at the tail end of my devotion to Christianity, as I recall, and was probably the defining instance of my total disenchantment with the whole thing. Around this time I had begun to dress in the distinctive fashion choices I now consistently dress in, the whole goth getup. This was inspired by a sudden respect, fear, love, and loathing of death all at once. I had begun to become a very morbid individual, preoccupied with mortality and the limitation of human existence. My questions regarding Christianity were piling up and I was receiving no answers. My dress style consistently became darker and darker. It was something I took to after seeing some of the goth kids in school wearing such outfits, and my deciding that I liked the look. I spent my time in cemeteries and graveyards...not to do seances or any of that usual proto-pagan shit goths supposedly do, but to study the gravestones. I'd take sheets of rubbing paper and a stick of charcoal and go "grave-rubbing," where I'd rub in the information on the tombstones that were becoming worn away by the weather. I did this especially a lot at Arlington Cemetery, where most of the older gravestones are no longer legible. My belief in the afterlife was falling away. I didn't need to think about death to know what it meant; I just merely needed to think about religious beliefs to confirm what I already knew.

My foster parents wanted this to stop. Well. My foster father did, at any rate. He was the pious one. My foster mother...not so much. I, fact I found out recently that she's a deist with atheist leanings. Also, they had gotten a divorce shortly before being expelled from school while living with my foster mother (they both had claims of custody to me, long story about that, if anyone is interested I'll talk about it). See, I ended up getting expelled from a school for putting a knife through a guy's shoulder and side for raping my girlfriend, and had to do community service to keep out of juvie. As a result, my foster father took custody of me in Michigan (I had been living in DC with my foster mother). So, he dragged me off to church constantly, and, since I needed to serve some community service for the whole knifing-the-rapist thing, he had me go into this thing called Service Over Self, something that the Methodist Church that we went to did every summer for its youth-congregation and some of their parents. It was, perhaps, the thing that started me on my humanist ideals (though I would not come to identify them as such until years later), but it was certainly not a very good charity outreach, at least not for the charity aspect. It was a 120-hour service trip in ascetic lodgings in Memphis, Tenn. with an almost boot-camp-like thing where we all got up at 6am, donned our dull-brown shirts with the giant cross and church symbols on them, pulled on our cheap plastic Jesus-on-a-T-stick mandated necklaces, went through an hour of prayer and choirs and all that shit. Then afterwards we would go to the house we were designated to for the duration of the trip, which were houses that were dilapidated and run-down and falling apart and that belonged to those who could not afford to repair said places. We then did a bunch of repairwork. I enjoyed this bit. This bit was the part I really liked. Between the eight of us assigned to that house, within the time-frame we were given we fixed the place up pretty damn well. But then, of course, this wasn't the true goal. No, no...every day after the repairs for the day were put on pause so we could go back to the building we were staying in, we'd go around the block preaching as a group to the entire friggin' neighborhood. We were supposed to canvas every house once, starting with the closest and radiating out to the other neighborhoods to talk about "what we were doing" and how we were sent on "a mission from God," and how we were there to "bring the message to all."

I dunno what message I was supposed to be bringing, I was rapidly falling out of faith with this religion and I didn't really buy into the religious aspects of what we were doing, I was just there to serve my community service sentence two and a half times over, and I was enjoying the whole thing involving repairing a poor person's broken-down house. I was helping. After 50 hours I could've left but I didn't because I was genuinely enjoying this and I wanted to see this place rebuilt to completion.

But of course every day we were getting whisked away before and after to attend prayer groups and sing songs about how much we loved Jesus and on and on and fucking on. I was called on to sing several times; I gently refused on the grounds that I was too shy. Somewhat true, but mostly it was because I don't sing about things I don't care about.

At the end we had this thing where we were supposed to hammer a nail into this giant wooden cross and just say a few words about the experience of the trip to everyone else. Something just kind of clicked at that moment...

My turn came up, I stood up, walked over to the cross, stared at the nail, and sat down on the stool without banging it in. I continued to stare at the nail. It's worth noting that I always wore these impenetrably black shades. Prescription glasses but they had little sunglass-clipons for them. This had been a thing shortly after I got out of rehab. It seemed to put other people off...which I really didn't mind. But there I am, wearing my spiked leather bracelets and goth-pants, this silly, non-matching brown shirt on, a black spike-studded collar on my neck, my black hair all spikey and shit, staring at this nail with this cross, this symbol of a torture instrument, laden with nails, laid out before me, before a group of people who had supposedly come here for charitable purposes, but whom had put three times more energy and passion and enthusiasm into singing psalms and going around preaching than they had repairing the houses they had been sent to. My group was the only one to finish the project they were assigned to, and I had been doing most of the work.

The skinny, pale-skinned ex-junky formerly-drug-dealing goth-kid had put more work into repairing a house than the minister's own damn son...who was in my fucking group...and said son's best friend.

I finally pulled the sunglasses off my specs; I've always been a bit of a fan of dramatic flair and setting moods, and I don't mind admitting I was laying it on with a trough at this point, but I had been feeling more and more frustrated with this group as time had gone on...so setting the mood, I felt, was necessary. I looked at everyone else. 60 people, all told, including the church's staff.

This is one of those moments in my life that comes up very vividly in my memory, because of how much intensity I felt as I spoke. I told them I didn't understand why it was called "service over self," because it seemed like they were choosing themselves over the service they were there to provide. Smiles and expectant stares turned to stunned silence and bemused ogling. I went on and told them that I believed that they believed all that they said, but that what they believed was something that was unique to them. What they felt may not necessarily be shared by others, and that they had put much more energy and passion into preaching and singing songs and doing their devotional stuff than they had actually doing the service they supposedly had come to perform. I hastily added that, yes, they were doing some service but they were indulging in the self far more; indulging in their own beliefs, shared though they may be among themselves, but clearly not concerned for the beliefs of others...spreading only THEIR idea around the neighborhoods and, here I coldly added, "as if you are all merely pointing to the houses you've been working on to say 'here, see what good we do? Take us as your example on what is good and moral!' As if you are guilt-tripping the rest of the neighborhood into your own beliefs."

I remember looking around and everyone was starting to look uncomfortable, angry, or sad. With me or themselves, I cannot say. Maybe a mix. I couldn't help continuing the dig. I told them all I had endured. I laid it all bare. Rape, molestation, being beaten within an inch of my life several times, and many more terrible things, all the way up to the deaths the reason for why I was there, the drugs, the rehab. Almost all of it. I told them that this was my last attempt at faith. This was my attempt to see if I could find a way for god to explain to me or show himself or let me feel his presence, to let me know that all I endured had had a point. I had not. And I told them this. I told them I had put more time and energy into repairing the house I had been assigned to than everyone else in the group. I had been the one plastering the holes in the drywall, the one who had gone into the crawlspace (defying my extreme arachnophobia to do so) to resupport the sagging structure with a set of jacks so I could prop concrete foundation-blocks against it so that the sagging would cease and the floor wouldn't cave in. I'd been the one to do most of the roofing, the one who had done most of the replacement work on the pipes running through the house, and I had been the one who painted half the entire house on my own while seven other individuals supposedly here on a "mission from god" dicked around and took forever to do the other half. And this includes primer AND paint, by the way.

And despite that...I never felt a thing. I felt good when I was working...but the good I felt came from the tearful smile that the old lady had given us when we had finished the repairwork. It came from her heartfelt thanks. It had come from her bringing us all lemonade that she had squeezed and sugared herself to keep us cooled off since it was Tennessee heat and she did not have air conditioning. Oh that reminds me about how I had fixed her ceiling fans... But looking upon the chapel's cross, when I'd heard the songs, and trailed after everyone during the preaching shit, I had felt nothing. Not contempt or anger or sadness or "understanding," just...nothing.

I remember everyone looking at one another, and the Minister himself telling me that that was enough, but I told him to let me finish, that this was my time to speak, and that everyone else had been allowed to do so, everyone else had preached, now it was my turn. He relented. A couple of those in the group left, unwilling to hear me continue. I looked at the nail again, then at the cross. I remember shaking my head and putting the shades back on. I didn't need to let them see my eyes anymore. I'd spoken to them all I'd needed to. The last bit was for myself. And I remember it with more clarity than most every other memory I have.

I said, "I know what this symbolizes. This nail, I mean. And the cross, of course. They are symbols of how we're all guilty in Jesus' death and how we must accept his death as a sacrifice to us all for our sins or something like that. Putting the nail into the cross is an admission of this guilt, with the 'service,' which consists less of the physical service and more of the preaching service, being our way of atoning. But I did not drive a spear into his side in spite, I did not hammer the nails into his palms and ankles. I did not put a wreath of barbs upon his head, and I did not jeer and chant for his death. I am guilty of nothing. If there is a god he is guilty of visiting far worse upon me for the entire course of my life. I will not apologize for what happened to his son two millenia ago, because I was not there." A few more left. I waited for them to go, then continued. "I came here to see if god would show himself in some way, would give me some connection to him, to show me that it all had some purpose...and you know, I have to thank everyone here, because I did find some purpose. I found happiness in helping someone who is impoverished and in need of help. But I don't need all of this to feel it. I can do it on my own. Hell, I practically did. I'm not beholden to a god that remains silent through my suffering or in the face of my pleading for a tangible sign." I stood, flicked the nail away, and shook my head. Then I walked off, didn't look back. I didn't return to my bunk for fear of retaliation in the night.

I found a bench in a park in the ghettos of Memphis safer than my bunk back with all those "loving" Christians. Some of those stares... I've seen similar stares in the eyes of men with murder on their mind.

Next day we all got on the chartered bus. I sat in the back. Nobody sat next to me. Not even my foster father, who opted to sit next to some 17 year old Asian girl whom he chatted with in a disgustingly animated fashion...especially given he was in his mid-to-late 40s at this time...

Anyway. We got back to Detroit, and my foster father just would not speak to me for a week. Finally, when he did speak, it was on Saturday. "We're going to church tomorrow," he told me flatly. "And you're going with me, and you're not saying no. If I have to, I will physically drag you there. You're going to apologize to EVERYONE there, and then you're going to apologize to me for embarrassing me in front of everyone. I've been a member of that church for 20 years. I've NEVER felt so humiliated in my life."

I just shrugged. The next day, against my desires but unable to really do anything about it, I was dragged into the church. I was sat up before everyone else at the pulpit, and I was essentially heathen-shamed. I was told that I was touched by a demon and that it needed to be removed, that I was touched by the Great Deceiver himself, pretending to be a Christian and man of service to better spread lies to the faithful. In hindsight maybe I should've just stayed silent during that whole cross-nailing thing but, you know, I don't regret it. This next two hours of being declared a heathen and a liar and a man of false morality was worth it. They did this whole thing where everyone did this chant to expel the demons while I just sat there and rolled my eyes and kept checking my watch to see if the service was nearly over with yet. When it was clear it wasn't going to end any time soon, I merely stood up and walked out of the church to a bunch of the congregation hissing and jeering at me.

A month later my foster father sent me back to live with my foster mother, who had moved out of DC to Arlington. And that's the end of this recollection.

You see, what Christians do when members of their congregation turn so very, very "bad," (at least in their eyes at any rate) is they do little more than a giant slut-shaming. They cast them out so readily and eagerly, as if to prove they are True Christians™ where others might not be; they will tolerate no heathens nor heretics amongst their number! Come out as gay even if you're still faithful to their religion? GET THEM THE FUCK OUT. Come out as a disbeliever who dares criticize "the flock?" DEMON-POSSESSED/HERETIC/HELL-BOUND-HEATHEN!

It's such fucking bullshit. I don't care that they cast me out, I was on my way out anyway, all they did was hasten the process and leave a bitter taste in my mouth, but the fact is they do this all the time, oftentimes to people who don't even deserve it. It's fucking atrocious, and tells a lot about how underneath all those smiles, they're just a bunch of scumbags waiting to sucker-punch you for the sake of their own egos.
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#2
RE: Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
Horrible situation man, I am sorry to hear such abuses. I must inquire what trip was that in Tennessee?
[Image: grumpy-cat-and-jesus-meme-died-for-sins.jpg]

I would be a televangelist....but I have too much of a soul.
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#3
RE: Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
What bullshit. I realize that not all churches are like that - but to those that are: have a nice big hot cup of fuck you.
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#4
RE: Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
It's good you got out of a dysfunctional church like that one. But, now what? Does one group of people put you off to all people who fly that flag forever? If that is the way healthy people worked everyone in England would be speaking German today, and we would not have imported toys and movies about giant robots, and cool electronics.

Treat this experience like any other. Do not stereotype a whole planet's worth of people because a handful of people in that group are not who they say they are. Take solace in the fact that God hates hypocrisy as well, and is not fooled by what we call ourselves. At the same time we are still expected to seek Him out even if the church of our fathers, falls far short of our needs.
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#5
RE: Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
1 word. Assholes. I mean, calling You tainted for having more respect for humans than they did? What. The. Fuck.
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#6
RE: Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
(August 26, 2013 at 9:54 pm)Drich Wrote: It's good you got out of a dysfunctional church like that one. But, now what? Does one group of people put you off to all people who fly that flag forever?

Do not stereotype a whole planet's worth of people because a handful of people in that group are not who they say they are.

You really think that it's just the one church which has members who would act like that?
Christian apologetics is the art of rolling a dog turd in sugar and selling it as a donut.
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#7
RE: Christian "charity, priorities," glad-handing, and guilt-tripping.
(August 26, 2013 at 9:54 pm)Drich Wrote: It's good you got out of a dysfunctional church like that one. But, now what? Does one group of people put you off to all people who fly that flag forever? If that is the way healthy people worked everyone in England would be speaking German today, and we would not have imported toys and movies about giant robots, and cool electronics.

Treat this experience like any other. Do not stereotype a whole planet's worth of people because a handful of people in that group are not who they say they are. Take solace in the fact that God hates hypocrisy as well, and is not fooled by what we call ourselves. At the same time we are still expected to seek Him out even if the church of our fathers, falls far short of our needs.

I'll be honest, I hear about this kind of shared experience from others often enough that I genuinely question most churches' priorities and faiths quite strongly. There are plenty who actually are accepting and don't hold so fast to the old testament and I've got no beef with them (hell, recently I saw a picture online of a church board that said "We're sorry the acceptance of gay marriage violates the sanctity of your fourth marriage," which had me wishing more would emulate that kind of mentality), but the ones that DO pull this kind of bullshit utterly disgust me. I hate glad-handers, I really hate guilt-trippers, and I hate slut-shamers, and fuck me if there aren't a healthy helping of church congregations that do one, some, or all of those things. Insecurity runs rampant among many Christians, leading me to suspect that quite often their facades of piety only become so vehement because they are noticing that despite all the warnings the bible has put forth, the world isn't falling apart at the seams and societies where Christian values have historically been very strong and are now very weak, faint, or completely irrelevant are not degrading or receding but are socially, economically, and technologically advancing at an exponential rate.

When so many turn from your view of the world, a view that has stated that the lifestyle of your worldview will be the one to bring prosperity while others suffer and fall apart, and they do not suffer and fall apart, and those who share your worldview are lagging behind, losing steam and generally going to shit, it's easy to see why they're so insecure; human sensibility (and that soft, persistent voice of reason) begins to come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, you're horribly, horribly wrong, and you're wasting your time and your finite time on this word. When your prayers go unanswered, and you or your loved ones continue to suffer despite a life of humble devotion, and the invisible hand of God seems to instead be aiding others (at least in this particular mindset, it will seem that way), one begins to think, quite reasonably, that perhaps nobody's listening...perhaps even if there IS someone listening, they're a colossal dick for letting you and others suffer despite your devotion and faith.

As the supposed Christ-figure once said, according to one of the Gospel-writers, "Oh father...why have you forsaken me?"
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