I was part of the [ICOC church](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Churches_of_Christ), often called the "Boston Movement", which was started when a charismatic preacher (isn't that how it always starts?) named Kip McKean split with the Church of Christ in Boston due to irreconcilable differences. (Pretty apt to use a divorce metaphor considering the church is supposed to be Christ's wife, I guess.)
There was a lot of hoopla surrounding him, but I never really heard about it. One girl who was in the church her whole life had heard about it but told me it was kind of a long story. He eventually resigned from leadership when certain members of the upper-ranking fellowship felt he was being too prideful and arrogant and diverging from their dogma. Anyway, that's all backstory.
I was involved for nearly four years. I was very excited at first. I started a new job and was immediately invited to church by a pair of twin brothers who I thought were really cool and friendly. (They were, and still are, however much I now disagree with their brand. 'Cause in the end that's what any denomination is - a brand they're selling you. "Leading experts all agree, ICOC saves twice the souls at half the price!" etc) They invited me for Bible study, and as I was searching and quite curious about God for the first time in my young life (I was 18), I agreed. They were awesome.
We talked about a lot of deep stuff - life, death, morality, spirituality, all the kinds of things I felt like no one else ever wanted to discuss, preferring to talk about the latest episode of whatever hit TV show or what this month's hot pop star was wearing or not wearing that scandalized the nation's right-wing fundies. I felt like I was dying of thirst and these guys were giving me water. Their friends, other people in the church, were very inviting and made me feel at home, like I was part of a family, the kind of family I never had growing up. I loved the sense of community, of belonging.
We studied the Bible - they had a fairly rigid formula, divided up into lessons, from Jesus's character to his mission field right up to his death on the cross and what it meant for us lowly sheep. One of the latter studies was sin, where we had to write down and confess the sins weighing on our hearts, what we'd done in our lives to separate us from God. I confessed a lot - homosexuality, childhood molestation, incest, as well as your bargain bin sins like pride and envy and anger. Everyone was accepting.
They said to be saved I had to repent of these sins and go through water baptism, and pointed out the scriptures that proved baptism was absolutely essential to salvation, no debate. (This was a stumbling block for many people we studied with. There is a lot of debate about what kind of baptism is sufficient or if it is necessary at all.) I felt like what they were saying was totally true. I consented, repented, believed and was baptized.
I enjoyed a wonderful first year. I quit smoking, drinking and drugs, stopped hanging out with most of my old friends to avoid worldly influences, began proselytizing to friends and family and coworkers (shyly, and haltingly - I was, and am, an introvert to a ridiculous degree). I was in it to win it. I was running the race Paul talked about, and damn it, I was gonna make it to the finish line if I had to crawl. And they were all there to cheer me on and pick me back up when I fell down! What more could you ask?
As time went on I became disenchanted, not only with the church but with the fundamental essence of Christianity, of praying to a God I couldn't see and feeling so disconnected from him, unable to see his presence in my life except for contrived coincidences. I hated reading between the lines.
Why couldn't God appear before me and remove all doubt? But that's not the point of faith, they said. It wasn't just that. They were very involved in the concept of a self-contained church. The preacher would hint heavily every week that this was the only church, that our growth was proof that God was on our side, that we did things differently. There were the religious, and then there were *us* - the true believers, not bound by silly Pharisaical dogma! We were saved by the blood of Jesus, not by the Law of Moses.
But this was mostly talk. I felt a great deal of pressure to conform - to contribute, serve, go on double dates to encourage the sisters (I was gay - I had no interest, but I did it out of the hopes that God might change my heart, and to make the sisters feel appreciated in a world that degraded and objectified them), share my faith, read my Bible daily, reach out reach out reach out. The mark of a successful disciple, as we called ourselves, was who he brought to heaven with him. One guy got up to the podium to share his testimony on Sunday and said he wanted to bring a whole busful of people to heaven with him. That was his goal.
One guy grew a beard and vowed not to shave it till he'd baptized twelve men. The numbers game was a powerful motivator, a New Year's Resolution for the faithful. We had accountability partners, disciplers, people who prayed with us and advised us and helped us in our spiritual journey. We were supposed to be bare and vulnerable with them, to stay humble and to make sure no sin went unaccounted for.
I spent a lot of time hating myself because of all my sin. I sank deep into depression. I had stopped believing at around the two-year mark but went through the motions because now I lived with these people and had forgotten what it was like to be outside of the church. There was a subtle aggression to conform, to go to events and be unified with the body.
Independence was not encouraged because if you cut off a finger and don't reattach it soon, it dies. And you're depriving the body of you, the precious finger, just as much as you're depriving yourself of the body. How selfish of you! My depression did not go unnoticed. I was told I had to get on medication and go to a Christian therapist who would help me sort out my gay hang-ups and help me move past my old wounds and be a stronger spiritual soldier in God's army. If I didn't, they'd have to kick me out, because I wasn't following the Bible anymore.
There was no joy in my life, and I didn't want to help anyone in the church or be a part of it. I felt like no one cared and everyone was very superficial. Like you had to put on a happy face and be constantly seeking a goal, telling people things were getting better and you had faith and God was so awesome, when really you felt the opposite.
In the end I told them I couldn't do it anymore, I didn't want to follow God or be a part of their church. I was kicked out five minutes later, on a work night. I drove to a friend's with all the stuff I could fit in my car and we had Chinese food and commiserated. Then I drove to my dad's house and said, "Hey, can I move in?" Luckily he welcomed me home, but advised me never to let other people tell me how to live my life.
They weren't a cult like you hear about in broad strokes in the media. No sexual abuse, no money laundering (that I knew of), no big stuff. But a lot of mind control, guilt, shame, fear, elitism and othering. I still love some of the people there, the ones that I really connected with, who didn't love me just because Jesus said they had to. But I don't talk to them much anymore. They're busy with their church lives, I'm busy with mine. Such is life. I don't regret the lesson I learned, but I miss the sense of belonging. Sadly it was an illusion that didn't sustain itself. Most of the people didn't know I left; they didn't know me at all.
One guy recently asked me which region of the church I'd moved to, because he hadn't seen me in two years. I told him I'd *left* two years ago and he looked suitably embarrassed and apologized. I don't know. I can't put the blame squarely on them, that'd be easy. I had faults, too. But of course so did they, because they were humans, some of them trying the best they could with the materials they had. Some of them were fake, but I know plenty of fakes outside the church as well.
I'm on the fence about God today. I was told not to throw the baby out with the bathwater, but most days I want a house with no bathtub. We'll see. If there's a God, I hope he understands.
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