This Shirt Doesn't Fit Anymore
Reflections on losing my religion and finding hope, healing, and myself
I was born and raised in suburban Michigan, USA. My family was a devoted part of a local church that proudly touted itself as an “old-fashioned, independent, fundamental, Bible-believing Baptist church.” I also attended a Baptist school for much of my education.
In our small, insulated world, we believed that the Bible is the inspired, inerrant, infallible, literal Word of God, and that if anyone adds or takes away words from it, they will be stricken with plagues and denied eternal life (Revelation 22:18).
In 2 Corinthians 6:17 (King James Version), it says we are to “…come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing…” And so we did; we separated ourselves from society. We liked to say, in reference to John 17:16, that we were “in the world, but not of the world.”
For much of my childhood, we didn’t have a television. We didn’t go to movies (which we believed to be part of Hollywood’s “liberal agenda”), and we definitely didn’t dance, or smoke, or drink alcohol. We lived in a subculture within America that was shielded from the outside world by Christian music, Christian talk radio, Christian books, even Christian games. On the occasions that we ventured outside our sheltered existence to a cultural institution such as a science or history museum, we always had our guard up against the devil by keeping an eye out for references to evolution and the earth being older than 6,000 years, which we believed to be lies from the pit of hell.
My weeks started with Sunday School, followed by Sunday morning church. On Sunday afternoons, I had Bible Quizzing practice (more on that in a minute), then youth choir rehearsal and Sunday evening church, often followed by an “Afterglow” youth group activity to close out the first day of the week. On Tuesday nights I attended AWANA kids club (Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed, based on 2 Timothy 2:15). On Wednesday nights was Prayer Meeting, and on Friday evenings there was often a youth group activity. To fill the in-between times, there was prayer before each meal and a Bible reading after. For fun, we would “act out” Bible stories or do “sword drills” (Hebrews 4:12), where we competed to see who could most quickly locate a particular verse in our Bible and read it aloud. In the summers there was Vacation Bible School, as well as weeks at Lake Ann Baptist Camp and Gitchee Gumee Bible Camp. We often sang a children’s song with the lyrics:
“Read your Bible, pray every day, and you’ll grow, grow, grow!”
I was taught, even as a child, that I was a totally depraved sinner, an “unclean” person so evil that even my “righteousnesses are as filthy rags” (Isaiah 64:5-7 KJV). Perhaps most damaging to me was the teaching that I cannot trust my own mind. Over and over, I was told that I am untrustworthy, that I am easily deceived and “desperately wicked” (Jeremiah 17:9). I was warned repeatedly that Satan disguises himself as an “angel of light” (2 Corinthians 11:14) and roams the world “seeking whom he may devour.” (1 Peter 5:8 KJV). I was instructed that all authority is given by God (Romans 13:1) and so my job is to trust and obey—not to question, not to assert that something is unjust or unfair, not to point out what doesn’t make sense. And just in case I was tempted to do any such thing, I was reminded that “rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft” (1 Samuel 15:23 KJV).
From the time I was old enough to tie my own shoes, I lived in perpetual fear of a devious devil who might ensnare me, and a wrathful God who was out to punish me with everlasting hellfire for my endless iniquities.
I was never good at sports. While my classmates enjoyed basketball, baseball, football, and soccer, I either opted not to play, or played reluctantly and in predictably poor fashion. But one thing I did excel at was Bible Quizzing.
Bible Quizzing is a competitive team sport where, under the guidance of a coach, a church’s team intensely studies a particular Bible passage for a month, often essentially memorizing it, then travels to a monthly meet where they quiz against other church teams in front of a live audience.
Each quiz meet consists of 20 questions about the Bible passage, read aloud by a moderator. Each team consists of five quizzers, who sit on the stage on chairs equipped with electronic sensor-pads that trigger a system of lights to indicate which quizzer stands up first to attempt to answer the question. Judges determine whether a quizzer’s answer is correct, according to the Scripture, and keep score.
At the end of the meet, whichever team has correctly answered more questions is the winner. In addition to the team competition, the quizzers also compete individually. Five questions answered correctly results in the quizzer “quizzing out” and leaving the stage for the rest of the meet, while three questions answered incorrectly results in the quizzer “freezing out” and also leaving the stage for the rest of the meet. At the end of the academic year, the top teams from around the state of Michigan gathered to compete for the state championship.
I first started quizzing in 4th grade. My team from Grandville Baptist Church wore homemade matching shirts with a blue plaid pattern featuring a gold accent stripe. The first year I quizzed, I was very average. But something changed by 5th grade, when I became a quizzing star. That year, I believe I “quizzed out” in every single regular season meet, and my team went on to win the state championship. I was also awarded a trophy after being named the year’s Top All Star Quizzer in the state of Michigan.
I had finally found something I was good at.
I recently listened to a podcast interview with a woman who had left her church, and she said one of the reasons she left was that “Asking questions was encouraged—as long as such questioning didn’t lead to any conclusions that contradicted what they taught us!”
Though many years have passed, I remain haunted by the fundamentalism of my youth. As I look back, I realize that my emotional development was severely stunted by the crippling fears that accompanied my religious beliefs.
While as a child I was a devoted follower, I was also always curious about the larger world around me, and I wanted to go discover it for myself. I’ve spent decades doing so, while striving to take stock of my own remaining beliefs, or lack thereof.
I still believe in many of the values I was taught as a child, and I remain committed to them. Things like doing good, standing up for what is right, seeking truth, and advocating for those the New Testament refers to as “the least of these.” But now I come at them from a different point of view.
Because I have grown, I have changed, I have matured.
I’ve been confronted by questions I had simply never thought of before and had no answers to. I’ve realized that the subculture in which I was raised had deliberately kept me from being exposed to such questions, because they had the potential to blow up my worldview. I decided I no longer wanted to live that way, so I haven’t.
I’ve reckoned with the fact that I can’t believe something just because my family and friends believe it, or my teachers and professors believed it. But it has been, and continues to be, a real struggle for me to be true to myself, to not sell myself short in order to keep other people comfortable or make them happy. There is a risk in speaking my truth, but there is also a part of me that is eager to be seen for who I really am, particularly after spending much of my life closeted, terrified to disclose the fact that I am gay.
As I learned more as an adult about other religions—particularly ones that would be considered by many Americans to be “cults,” such as Scientology, Mormonism, and Jehovah’s Witnesses—I had an uncomfortable realization that there were aspects of my own religious upbringing that were decidedly cult-like.
Different scholars identify different characteristics of what constitutes a cult, but the ones that resonate with me include:
Authoritarian leadership
Fear of the outside world, and withdrawal from it
Manipulation, indoctrination, and mind control
Opposition to questioning, doubt, dissent, and critical thinking
A “we-they” philosophy: We have the truth, they do not
An “us-versus-them” mentality: The idea of being “at war” with the outside world
An obsession with the “apocalypse” or the “end times”
Aggressive conversion efforts, particularly based on fear
At some point in my 40s, prompted by something I no longer recall, I realized that if I had to choose just three words to describe my childhood, they would be fear, shame, and guilt. To be clear, I’m not saying those were the only things in my childhood. I’m not saying there wasn’t love and laughter and family and friendship and fun; of course there was. But if I had to describe the three dominant themes, I would choose fear, shame, and guilt.
A few years ago, I read a book entitled Leaving the Fold: A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving Their Religion, written by a therapist named Dr. Marlene Winell. I found it to be enlightening but also very challenging; it was often too intense to digest more than a few pages at a time before I had to put it down. On several occasions it felt absolutely revelatory and caused me to wonder how it was possible that I was in my late 40s and no one had ever said such things to me.
While I was reading the book, I googled the author out of curiosity and discovered that she lived in the San Francisco Bay Area (where I also lived at the time, though we’ve both since moved away), and that her specialty was working with those struggling with what she coined “Religious Trauma Syndrome.”
(Like the word “cult,” the word “trauma” is also a loaded word, and I don’t use either lightly. But the fact that, decades later, I still consistently struggle with the religious indoctrination of my youth assures me that it is not inaccurate to label my experience as trauma.)
I contacted Dr. Winell and we had several therapy sessions. In the middle of one of them, I blurted out to her that I didn’t think I was a Christian anymore, and in the space of less than five minutes, we talked through it and I realized that indeed I was agnostic. By that I mean that I think there may be a God, or some sort of higher power, or there may not be; I don’t think we can know for certain. Oddly, somehow this realization didn’t feel that monumental in the moment, but with distance in the rearview mirror, I’ve realized it was a significant turning point for me.
Over the last decade or so, numerous surveys have shown that the percentage of Americans who identify as Christians has dropped by about 10 points, while the percentage who identify their religious affiliation as “none” has grown by about the same number. I now count myself among the latter group.
There is great difficulty associated with that seismic shift; at times, it has felt as if I’m in mourning. I feel like the world I grew up in has been turned upside down. I was always led to believe that I was on the team of “the good guys.” We were the ones who were right! We knew absolute truth! We were on God’s side (or perhaps He was on ours?). That sense of certainty has evaporated for me, bringing great relief, but also confusion and grief as I’ve opened myself up to being called wayward, backslidden, an infidel, a heretic by people I love and care for.
Who I am at 51 is not who I was a year ago, or even a month ago, and it’s not who I will be a year from now. There are many things I don’t have answers for, and I’ll no longer claim that I do; that shirt doesn’t fit anymore. Life is amazing, complicated, mysterious, often unfathomable, and that’s enough for me.
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” 1 Corinthians 13:11 (KJV)
Afterword / Acknowledgements
This is one of the most personal things I’ve ever published. While I owe a great deal to a great many people for helping to get me to where I am, both as a person and as a creative, I’d like to offer a few specific shout-outs here.
First, I’d like to thank you, the readers. I know there are a billion demands on your time and attention, and I value each and every one of you. Writers want to be heard, and I am grateful to you for coming along on this ride with me!
Second, I’d like to thank Dutch artist, designer, and curator Erik Kessels, who spent much of the month of May working with me and the other Master in Photography and Master in Visual Design & Communication students at Raffles Milano Istituto Moda e Design. This was our last major class before we begin work on our final thesis projects, and it was life-changing for me. Erik is a visual artist, not a photographer, so this class was not focused on photography per se, but rather on helping us produce projects that show a side of ourselves we don’t usually reveal. Erik was adept at pushing and prodding us in ways that empowered each of us to dig deep and pull something out of ourself that was very personal. In my case, it resulted in “This Shirt Doesn’t Fit Anymore,” which is part of an exhibition at Raffles that opened on May 25th. (It’s still up, if you’re in Milan and want to stop by!) After our first week with Erik, I realized that I was thinking like an artist, not like a “photographer.” While many people throughout this school year have pointed and nudged us in that direction, Erik actually got me across the finish line, and I feel liberated. I trust this mindset will stay with me for the rest of my creative life. Thank you, Erik!
Third, I’d like to thank my classmates. Your friendship, humor, critiques, and encouragement have made this year unforgettable. I’m not looking forward to the day we all go our separate ways.
Fourth, I owe special thanks to my wonderful husband, Andrew, for his insights, suggestions, and practical support as this project was birthed. None of the last year would be possible without you, and I’m forever grateful. I love you!
Finally, I would like to dedicate this project to American author Joyce Maynard. This will doubtless come as a surprise to her, so let me explain. After the Frontyard/Backyard exhibition opened, I found that instead of being excited to share it with my Substack audience, I was nervous—to the point that I considered not even publishing it. I had the feeling that somehow I was doing something wrong by sharing my story. (There it is again: the unholy trinity of fear, shame, and guilt.)
As luck would have it, I learned that Joyce was coming to Italy this week for a tour to promote a new Italian translation of one of her novels. Joyce has published nearly 20 fiction and non-fiction books, her first in 1973 at the age of 19. Some years ago I read her profound memoir The Best of Us, which chronicles the loss of her husband Jim to pancreatic cancer. I began following her on Facebook, where she frequently writes lengthy, engrossing posts. (She’s one of the reasons I’ve never followed through on my threats to quit Facebook; I would miss her frank, bold, vulnerable, and personal writing too much. My favorite posts of hers are the really long ones, where she begins, “You might want a cup of coffee or a glass of wine for this one.”)
I saw Joyce be interviewed on Tuesday night at a bookstore here in Milan, and we had a nice chat after. She was, I told her, exactly who I thought she’d be, based on her writing: real, personable, approachable, disarmingly normal. I enjoyed the experience so much that on Wednesday I traveled to Como to see her be interviewed by a different author for the final night of her Italy tour. She was again refreshingly open, vibrant, and alive, taking a genuine interest in each person she spoke with.
Anyway, as I was saying…I was hesitant about publishing my project. Joyce and I did not discuss that either evening; she had no idea what I was struggling with. But I felt very inspired by her, both as a person and as a writer. And as I researched more about her last night, I came across a few quotes of hers that convinced me to go ahead with publishing my project. So I want to share them here:
“Having been much criticized for lots of the things that I've talked about actually is a very liberating thing. If you make everybody happy, you'd be saying nothing of substance. I don't think there was ever a moment that I wasn't afflicted with the sense of having to keep something hidden, and that's everything that I try not to experience now. I began to tell more and more truths about [my] struggles...I like to turn the lights on. I find it immediately less frightening to confront a difficult and painful experience and talk about it...The wonderful simplicity of simply telling the truth...What's the worst that can happen?"
Thank you, Joyce. I’m a forever fan.
The suspicion of thinking, the idea that thought may be the devil’s entrance, explains a lot of our “irrational ” political choices here in TN where I live and breathe —we’ve been trained already.
So good. Right there with you, Michael.