Son of a preacher woman

Whenever a roomful of people shut their eyes, mine would stay open. They remained open long enough to survey the expressions on the devoted, the desperate. A pastor would then assume a tone that rose and fell in militancy and a whisper of vulnerability. Similarly, hands were raised and suspended as if ready for combat or the reception of airborne aid. 

This was prayer to a congregation of Born Again Christians. Or how I remember it at least.

I have not been to any rooms, any auditoriums composed of the near-tearful and declaratively thankful in over two years. Yet I had seen the inside of these rooms countless times, raised amid the chime-prompted church hymns that were popular in the ‘80s and the PowerPoint-supported sermons churches used in the ‘90s. I practically live in one, if you can count the occasional assemblies of the faithful in my home’s dining area, where a modern crusade for world spiritual “transformation” is a favored topic.

Growing Up Godly

The fact is, my mother is a woman of God. More than that, she is a supreme warrior woman of God; what one would call an evangelist. One who, as far back as I can remember, had her lamplight switched on and Bible cracked open daily as she pored over passages at the crack of dawn; one who made sure our family verbosely thanked the Lord before every meal; one who has the tendency to apply Samuel L. Jackson’s scripture-quoting fervor in Pulp Fiction to work scenarios — a firm believer in instilling a lot of R (Religion) to her company’s HR (Human Resources) department.

To her children, TLC was considered Tender Loving Christianity. There was less Looney Tunes and more lessons from Bible story animé like Flying House and Superbook, as well as The Gospel Bill Show, a sort of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood but with Stetsons and a lot of scripture. Before I’d discovered Dr. Seuss’s rhymes, my favorite book was Revelation, the illustrated version, with fireballs hurtling down towards the earth and all the good, dead people of the world getting sucked up towards the heavens.

Maybe that sort of imagery messes a six-year-old up, I don’t know. One day, I was God’s little soldier; the sort of kid who, at 10, had picked up a stray copy of The Seduction of Our Children — its author citing the Beastie Boys, LL Cool J, and Christian singer Amy Grant (this was the ‘90s!) as one of the devil’s pop music paratroopers — and nodded vehemently to it. The next, I was a 15-year-old who knew the words to Intergalactic, had a copy of LL Cool J’s “Phenomenon,” and believed that listening to rock, much more Christian rock, was something you couldn’t disclose to 2Pac’s disciples (this was the late ‘90s!) at school.   

OH, CHRIST…

I’m not sure how someone weaned on copious amounts of The 700 Club ends up a nihilist. I guess that when you’re surrounded by a whole lot of preaching, much more, preachiness, you’re bound to embrace the egalitarian and experimental commandments of rebellion. Anything goes.  

The coy schoolgirl — usually Catholic — has been the poster child of this theory for some time, its most recent representation in the film Youth in Revolt. For his naughty neighbor Sheeni Saunders, Nick Twisp (Michael Cera) decides to press the eject button on morality in order to be with her — in both ways. “You have to be bad, Nicky. Be very, very bad,” Sheeni coaxes, dangling sex as an incentive; the same girl who admits, “My parents are religious fanatics. They’re exhausting.” 

Maybe this exhaustion was what pushed a friend of mine — the son of a pastor, naturally — towards an appetite for whore-administered hand jobs and cocaine. The deviated septum he acquired from his habit is probably a good indication of his deviation from the faith of his father. Have I done any better myself? The car I’d wrapped around a road divider sometime mid-last year would disagree. Blame it on the alcohol.

When, exactly, did my wide eyes of childish devotion end up rolling in disillusionment? It could have been the time I’d become a freak to kids at an Opus Dei school ‘cause I was “Christian” and, at 13, hadn’t been “confirmed” as Catholicism would have it. Of course, the rebuke from Christianity’s end was encouraging, too: God hates fags, Harry Potter, yoga (even for exercise), and the option not to get knocked up at 15. 

This was the big Christian/Catholic/whatever conundrum, I suppose. Why is there so much condemnation from a church that is supposed to be more compassionate? Especially at a time when Islam’s got guys gamely strapping bombs on their crotches and Vatican priests are unable to resist those of choirboys.

I believe I’ve gotten my act together. I haven’t been this sober or hopeful in a while, and without the hypocrisy of the holier-than-thou, the mechanical mass, the mob mentality, and the patronizing gaze of a pastor asking me, “How is your relationship with God?”

Well, there is one, if you must know. It’s personal, though, and I won’t even begin to classify it ‘cause the church can’t seem to get its act together. They can’t stop being an institution that is always “against” something. They can’t even listen, like God does when you put your hands together and ask him to. I mean, Jesus, with all that prayer and closing of eyes, maybe they should be opened once in a while.  

Jesus Was Their Homeboy

A few examples of people practicing not what they’d been preached:

Katy Perry

Daughter of evangelical parents who gave up gospel tunes and ended up singing about the sweet, Sapphic joy of sucking face: “It felt so wrong, it felt so right.” Also, got engaged to a dandy prick like Russell Brand.

The Kings of Leon

The band’s founding Followills, Caleb and Nathan Followill, were brought up by a dad who was a Pentecostal minister. Their religion, however, became rock and roll and all its rebellion — putting a lot of soul into their chart-topper Sex on Fire and becoming golden gods who like their onstage tequila shots and Vicodin. 

New TV series: Rapture

A nine-year-old boy tries to deal with fear of his sexuality and the fear of God intensified by Born-Again parents (Lisa Kudrow and Dan Bucatinsky). Based on the memoir of openly gay actor and screenwriter Craig Chester.