Nearly all of us have told ourselves that, for one thing or another, at one time or another. Some of us, though, echo that refrain in our minds any time we have to tell someone — especially if that person is particularly close or an authority figure — a difficult, unpleasant or painful truth. Or even a mundane fact.
No matter how truthful or authoritative we may be, we will have our credibility challenged by someone, on some issue. For a well-adjusted adult, this is not a problem: Such a person has confidence that with the facts and reason on his or her side, others will realize that he or she had no reason to lie, misrepresent or cover-up.
Some of us, though, expect to have our veracity challenged at every turn. That can make us into angry, defensive people — in other words, grown-up versions of children who are acting out. Or it can turn us into people who don’t speak up, who don’t advocate for ourselves — or, worse, who doubt what our eyes, ears, skin and minds tell us.
I know of at least one way that happens. A friend and I were talking about it recently.
We have this in common: sexual abuse at an early age. She, by the mayor of the town in which she grew up — who just happened to be her father. And I, by a father — of my church.
The real difference between her story and mine, though, is this: She told someone. I didn’t.
The person she told — her mother — beat her and washed her mouth out with soap for “lying.”
Me? I knew that something like that would happen if I said “Father did this to me.” That is, if I could have: I didn’t even have the words to tell about it.
The results for both of us were similar: shame and self-doubt that led to self-censorship and self-abuse of one kind and another. Not to mention relationships with abusive people.
Her father is long gone. So is any relationship with her mother. She tells me she doesn’t even have contact information for her: She heard that her mother moved, somewhere, some years ago.
The priest who abused me is also gone, long gone. I never got to confront him. And, although I know where my parents and siblings are — I speak to all except one sibling regularly — I have never told them about my abuse. Once, not long ago, I was talking with the sibling to whom I am closest about something involving my parents. “You know, even though I’ve ‘come out’ (about my gender identity and sexuality) and they know about my work, I have never really shared anything with them.”
A pause. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Aside from the night I ‘came out’ to Mom, I’ve never told her or him (my father) anything really personal, anything intimate about myself.”
“They’re not the kind of people you can go to with a problem,” he sighed. “And, you know, you could come in soaking wet and they still wouldn’t believe you if you told them it’s raining.”
I don’t know whether my brother had an experience like mine, with that priest or some other authority figure. I can’t help but think, though, that somewhere along the way — perhaps early in his life — he had some experience he couldn’t, or wouldn’t talk about with my parents, or anyone else.
They’re never gonna believe me.
Although he’s accomplished a lot professionally, he’s confessed to me that sometimes he doesn’t speak up when he should, or at least when it might help in getting to the bottom of something. “It’s just not worth the trouble when you know you’re not going to be taken seriously,” for bringing a situation to the attention of a supervisor or official.
Or, worse: They’ll blame me for it.
That’s what happened to my friend after her mother took out her fury on her. Well, my friend wasn’t exactly blamed for her father raping her — remember, her mother was still in denial about it. Or was she? In her eyes, her daughter was “always up to no good.”
Her treatment, and mine, led to another eerie parallel in our lives that seems all but inevitable: It took us far too long to get the help we needed to deal with our abusive relationships and other difficulties because we didn’t think we would be believed, or at least taken seriously. Worse, we expected blame for our situations.
They’re never gonna believe me.
And they’ll blame me.
About all I know how to do now is to be the person who believes, and doesn’t blame — my friend, or Christine Blasey Ford, or Andrea Constand. And, perhaps, one day, my brother—and others who have yet to tell their stories.
When it comes to matters of Christian faith, who decides what is orthodox and what is not? Who is the final authority?
Is God the final authority? Which God?
Is the Bible the final authority? Which Bible? Which Translation?
Is the Pope the final authority?
Is the denomination the final authority?
Is the Church the final authority?
Is the pastor the final authority?
Perhaps, in classic Protestant, priesthood-of-the-believer fashion, the individual Christian is the final authority?
No two churches agree on what constitutes orthodoxy.
No two denominations agree on what constitutes orthodoxy.
Certainly, no two Christians agree on anything.
Disagreement, debate, disunity, and internecine warfare are common everyday experiences in Christendom.
Yet, atheists, agnostics, and other unbelievers are told that unless they embrace the God of the Christian faith they will surely die in their sins and spend eternity in the Lake of Fire.
Perhaps the Christian community would be better served if they stopped evangelizing, stopped debating non-believers, and instead diligently worked at getting their house in order.
Outside of the promise of a future home in Heaven, what does Christianity offer anyone in THIS life? Why would anyone want to become a Christian?
Christians want unbelievers to accept that they speak for God. They want unbelievers to accept that their Church has the truth, direct from God’s Holy Word. They want unbelievers to accept that their God is the ruler of all things, the giver and taker of life, he who holds the universe in the palm of his hand.
Yet, what do unbelievers see?
They see a Christianity that is hopelessly mired in endless argument, disagreement, and debate; unable to even agree on basic matters such as salvation, baptism, and communion. They see a Christianity that says, with great self-assurance, that unless you are like us you will go to hell and burn forever. They see a Christianity, particularly in the United States, that does not take seriously the teachings of the Christ they say they follow. They see a Christianity enamored with power, money, buildings, and self-importance.
What unbelievers really want to know is WHY would anyone want to become a Christian? Unbelievers are not interested in doctrine. They are not interested in whose church is the “right” one. They are not interested in your peculiar beliefs or practices. What unbelievers want to see is that “people matter.” That’s it. That people matter. Not for the sake of their money or power, but simply because they are fellow citizens of Planet Earth.
I vaguely remember reading somewhere that all the commands of the Bible can be summed up in two statements:
Love God
Love your fellow Man
Where can one find such a Christianity?
About Bruce Gerencser
Bruce Gerencser, 61, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 40 years. He and his wife have six grown children and twelve grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist. For more information about Bruce, please read the About page.
Bruce is a local photography business owner, operating Defiance County Photo out of his home. If you live in Northwest Ohio and would like to hire Bruce, please email him.
Thank you for reading this post. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. If you are a first-time commenter, please read the commenting policy before wowing readers with your words. All first-time comments are moderated. If you would like to contact Bruce directly, please use the contact form to do so.
Donations are always appreciated. Donations on a monthly basis can be made through Patreon. One-time donations can be made through PayPal.
Over the years, Evangelical zealots have impressed upon me the importance of accepting Jesus as my Lord and Savior. In their minds, everything else in life pales in comparison to knowing Jesus as your personal Savior. I spent almost fifty years in churches that preached the same message, and my sermons over the course of twenty-five years in the ministry frequently reminded people that Heaven was real, Hell was hot, and death was certain; that the most important decision any of us can make is to repent of our sins and put of faith and trust in Jesus.
I am a decade removed from Christianity, and now the question I ask of Evangelicals is this: why should I accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior? I know that my former profession of faith was predicated on facts such as growing up in an Evangelical home, attending Evangelical churches during my formative years, attending an Evangelical college, and being thoroughly immersed in the Evangelical culture, both as a pastor and as a church member, for most of my adult life. If I had not grown up as I did and had all the experiences I had, would I have still embraced the Christian gospel? I don’t know. Maybe. Certainly, a small percentage of Evangelicals are adults when they get saved, so it possible for people not already conditioned by Evangelical belief and practice to accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior. However, it remains true that most Evangelical adults were either raised in Evangelicalism or transferred from mainline/liberal churches they believed no longer preached the “truth.” The current megachurch craze is fueled, not by lost people getting saved, but by transfer growth. Megachurches are notorious for pillaging the memberships of smaller, more traditional congregations. Much like the Wall Street’s corporate merger frenzy, people from smaller churches or congregations they perceive as “dead,” are joining up with large churches that meet the felt needs of everyone; that have professional musicians and staff; that have cool, hip, relevant pastors. The churches they have left behind slowly die, reaching a place financially — it is always about the money — where they can no longer keep the doors open.
What I might have become had I had other experiences (and different parents, teachers, mentors) is impossible to say, and I suspect playing such mind games is a waste a time. My life is what it is, and the fact is I did grow up in an Evangelical home, I did train for the ministry, I did marry a pastor’s daughter, and I did pastor churches for twenty-five years. That’s my story, and it is this story that has fueled my writing for the past decade.
The question I ask these days is this: what is it exactly that makes someone distinctly a Christian? Is a set of beliefs? Is it a way of life? I’ve asked these questions many times. Every Christian answers these questions differently, with every follower of Christ believing “what is right in his own eyes.” There are literally thousands of versions of Christianity, each with its own God, Jesus, orthopraxy, and orthodoxy. Every denomination, church, pastor, and individual believer has its own interpretation of the Bible and its own standard by which they judge whether someone or something is “Christian.”
The Evangelical zealots who frequent this blog believe that True Christianity® is measured by right belief. “Believe the right things and thou shalt be saved” is their gospel. However, when I read the supposed words of Jesus in the gospels — especially the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7) — I come to a different conclusion: that a Christian is a follower of Jesus; a Christian is one who follows the teachings of Jesus; a Christian is one who follows in the steps of Jesus. It seems to me that Christianity is about how one lives and not what one believes. Certainly, James made that clear when he spoke of faith without works being dead (without life).
I know a lot of atheists and agnostics who were, at one time, faithful, committed members of Evangelical churches. They were all-in kind of people, devoted to their God and their churches. Yet, for whatever reason, they no longer believe. Their stories are theirs to tell. What I do know is that these former believers, for the most part, are kind, loving, helpful people. When I look at their lives, I see what Evangelicals call the Fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law. As I take inventory of my own life, I see many flaws, but all in all I am a good person. I can confidently say that most unbelievers I know are as good as Christians who spend every Sunday at a local Evangelical church. Not perfect, to be sure, but good, thoughtful, honorable people. And they are this way without promises of salvation, deliverance from Hell, or eternal life.
As I carefully examine Evangelical Christianity, the only difference I see between believers and unbelievers is what they do on Sundays. And it is for this reason that I can’t think of any reason why I should accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior.
Let the objections begin.
Bruce, if you don’t believe_______________________________ then you will go to hell when you die. So then, salvation is really about believing the right things?
Bruce, surely you don’t want to go to hell when you die. So, then, salvation is all about avoiding Hell and gaining Heaven? What kind of God has a Heaven where selfless, sacrificing people don’t make it, but live-like-hell-go-to-church-on-Sunday Baptists who believe the “right” things do.
Bruce, you are self-righteous. All your good works are as filthy rags. Unless Jesus is the one giving you the power to do good works then they are of no value at all. Really? Is that the road you really want to go down? Why is it that so many Christians don’t live any different from the unwashed, uncircumcised Philistines of the world? Evangelicals live just like the rest of us. They fudge on their taxes, watch porn, curse, lose their temper, and eat too much at the buffet just like everyone else. And yes, Evangelicals can and do love others and help people in need. Let a violent storm ravage your community, and no one cares who believes and who doesn’t. All that matters is helping others. Why should I accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior, then, if my life is, in every way, as good as that of my Evangelical neighbors? If there really is a God, surely what matters to her is how I lived my life, and not whether I checked off the right boxes on the “beliefs” quiz.
As a humanist, I believe I have the power to do good, bad, or evil. Every day, I am faced with moral and ethical choices. I make these decisions to the best of my ability, using reason, knowledge, and personal experiences to guide my way. I don’t need to check in with God, pray, read my Bible, or call a pastor to decide what I should do. My worldview is pretty simple. Don’t do things that will hurt others. This one simple statement pretty well covers most everything that I will do in life. That and, to quote my friend Ami, “don’t be an asshole.”
If Evangelicals want to prove to the world that Christianity is of value; if they want to prove that Jesus is the way, truth, and life, then they need to put their Bibles away. They need to close down their houses of worship. They need to fire their pastors and tell them to go get real jobs. And most of all they need to start living lives that reflect well on their religion. One need only to look at what is currently going on in Washington D.C. to see that there is a huge disconnect between the teaching of Christ and those who say they are his followers. That eighty-one percent of voting Evangelicals voted for Donald Trump speaks volumes. One need only to look at the Kavanaugh hearing to see that what American Evangelicals want is not ways of Jesus, but naked political power and control. As unbelievers watch this spectacle, we find ourselves saying that we see nothing in the lives of Christians that would cause us to follow after Christ. In fact, we see nothing that would cause us, at the very least, to admire the people of The Way.
The proof of any belief is how we live it. As is often quoted in Christian churches ‘’your actions speak so loud I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
About Bruce Gerencser
Bruce Gerencser, 61, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 40 years. He and his wife have six grown children and twelve grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist. For more information about Bruce, please read the About page.
Bruce is a local photography business owner, operating Defiance County Photo out of his home. If you live in Northwest Ohio and would like to hire Bruce, please email him.
Thank you for reading this post. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. If you are a first-time commenter, please read the commenting policy before wowing readers with your words. All first-time comments are moderated. If you would like to contact Bruce directly, please use the contact form to do so.
Donations are always appreciated. Donations on a monthly basis can be made through Patreon. One-time donations can be made through PayPal.
There was a time in my life when I was far from a feminist. No surprise there, when I went to a church where women were not allowed to preach and were taught about submission in marriage. I distinctly remember being on a youth group trip and being told I couldn’t wear a tank top or two-piece bathing suit. I was chastised for talking to a boy without direct adult supervision. Sexual assault wasn’t even on my radar. That happened to other women, out there somewhere.
It seemed as though women had no voice. Wanted a leadership position? Nope, that’s for men; women are to be silent. Want to ask out a man? Nope, that’s not proper. Dare to show some skin? You got what was coming to you. Have to protect your virtue; your body belongs to your future husband! Abortion? Completely out of the question. Even birth control was sketchy — why would you reject God’s blessings? Every woman wants to be a mother! The message was clear, we know what’s best for you.
I started to actually listen to women. I learned that sexual assault is, tragically, not uncommon. I could fill this entire piece with stories of women I’ve known who have endured such abuse. The friend who was assaulted at a party and never reported. The woman who was raped at a music festival as a young girl and never reported. The woman who endured years of physical and sexual assault at the hands of her husband.
The story that sticks with me is one that is personal to me. I knew a rapist. He was a co-worker. I also knew the woman he assaulted. At the time I was working in an assisted living facility, mainly memory care with residents with advanced forms of dementia. I assisted them with dressing, eating, all the activities of daily living, trying in my own way to give them some quality of life, as were most of the other employees. There was one resident with advanced dementia, I’ll call her “Mary.” She had trouble communicating but was usually happy and compliant. One night the male co-worker was working alone on one particular unit where “Mary” lived. Shift goes on as usual, then suddenly everyone starts shifting around. I’m puzzled. I see the male co-worker sitting in a conference room by himself. He doesn’t say anything. His head is down. I think it’s strange but I don’t question it too much. Then the next day comes and the truth comes out.
A co-worker pulls up a news article. In the headline: “sexual assault,” his face prominently featured. I didn’t process what I was reading. When it sank in that the male co-worker sexually abused a resident, whom I later found out was “Mary,” I felt sick. It’s hard to describe a visceral reaction like that. I drove home while my mind raced and I cried. How could someone who didn’t even seem dangerous hurt a sweet, vulnerable old lady? How could I trust the men around me knowing one was a rapist and I couldn’t even see it? Knowing that women aren’t even safe in a long-term care facility, I was devastated. Old age doesn’t protect from sexual assault. He got sentenced after a year and a half. How much time? Fifteen months.
My heart breaks. They ask why don’t women report? Dr. Ford was not believed and threatened. The president laughs about sexual assault and call dozens of women “false accusers,” and calls this a “dangerous time for men.” There are people in this country who don’t even care if Kavanaugh were guilty, they still wanted him in the Supreme Court. If the co-worker wasn’t caught in the act I fear he would still be free. He chose a woman who didn’t have the cognitive ability to report her abuse. Women are told over and over and over that they brought it upon themselves. The church wants women to be silent, never assert an opinion. Your body doesn’t belong to you. Trust us, we know what’s best. When we’re living in a world where women can’t even go to a woman’s health appointment without being told by other people what they should or shouldn’t do with their own bodies. Oh, and if you’re a man who has experienced abuse, you run up against toxic ideas about masculinity. You should have been strong enough to stop it, don’t be like a woman.
With these attitudes, is it really any surprise that women are blamed? Women need to be anything but silent. Be angry. Be angry every time a sexual abuser is let off lightly or not held to account at all. Be angry every time those in power try to take away a woman’s right to control her own body. Be angry every time the church places blame on the abused and pardons an abuser. I’m past the point of feeling ashamed if I get called “uppity” “bitter” or a “feminazi.” If standing up against abuse and destructive social attitudes and promoting women’s right to live with dignity and respect makes me a “feminazi” then I’m damn proud of it!
In a previous essay, I wrote about the conservative blue-collar community in which I was raised. Although it was in one of the world’s major cities, it very closely resembled, in many ways, a small town or village.
For one thing, everyone knew everyone else—or so it seemed. Also, nearly all of us were living at the same social and economic level, and our parents and grandparents had similar backgrounds. Most of them even came from the same places: the grandparents, and in some cases the parents, of just about every kid I knew, were immigrants. They came, not only from the same country, but from a group of towns and villages within a circle of 100 kilometers or so.
That meant we shared the same culture and, if we didn’t speak English at home, we spoke the same language—actually, the same dialect. In my earlier essay, I mentioned that nearly everyone had the same attitude about the Vietnam War, which claimed young men from my neighborhood. Well, there also wasn’t much diversity of opinion when it came to other issues of the day, as well as political figures and other famous people. Even someone like my uncle, who regarded Martin Luther King Jr. as a hero, believed—like most of my family and neighbors—that “Hanoi” Jane Fonda was a traitor or worse.
One more way in which my community resembled a small town in the South or Midwest (or even in the more rural areas of my Northeastern home state) is that on Sunday, nearly everyone went to the same church. While the churches in those far-flung villages and hamlets were, as often as not, Baptist or Presbyterian or of some other mainstream Protestant denomination, ours was Roman Catholic. But the effect it had on us was not unlike that of those small-town denominations on their congregants.
For one thing, going to the same church inculcated us with attitudes and values that some of us still hold to this day. (So, for that matter, did attending the Catholic school I attended along with many of my peers.) Perhaps even more important — at least for a child, especially the sort of child I was — it gave me a sense of belonging that I could find nowhere else. I made some of my first friends in the church, and being an altar boy was really the first experience I had of male camaraderie: not only did we practice and prepare together for the masses, weddings, funerals and other ceremonies in which we served, we also went on picnics and other outings, including ball games, together. It was, I just recently realized, my first attempt — however doomed it was to fail — to forge some kind of male identity.
You see, in the neighborhood in which I grew up, there weren’t many other ways to meet your peers while engaging in positive (or, at least, socially approved and legal) ways besides church. For that matter, it was difficult for people a bit older than myself to meet potential dates or get any sort of guidance about life without going to church, or someone connected with the church. And for adults, there weren’t many other things to do after a day or week of work, paid or unpaid, besides going to the church—or a bar.
That means, in such an environment, that if you are not part of the church, you are not part of the life of your community. It means that you will probably have few or no friends, and may find yourself alienated from family members. Ironically, not having the relationships most people take for granted — or, purely and simply, people to talk to — is just as detrimental to someone who is different and who is bound to leave one day as it is for someone who could, and wants to, be wholly integrated and raise his or her children in such a place.
I came to understand the way alienation — caused by sexual abuse from a priest — affected my own development as a transgender woman only recently, when by chance I found myself talking, for the first time, about my abuse with other survivors—and hearing their stories. One is a gay man from an insular community deep in the center of America. He told me that because he couldn’t talk about the attacks he endured from his parish priest, he essentially couldn’t talk — or learn — about his mind or body. He therefore couldn’t understand, until many years later, why his body reacted as it did even though, as he said, he didn’t feel any sexual attraction to the priest. And it took him even longer to know that there was no contradiction between feeling repulsed by that priest and being attracted to men. Why, even his first therapist told him that because he didn’t enjoy (or consciously elicit) what that priest did to him, he couldn’t possibly be gay.
It took him two more therapists and a failed marriage to understand, finally, that he is gay. Not coincidentally, he came to terms with it only after he was able to talk about his experience with that priest with someone who understood.
As you can imagine, I cried while listening to him. I finally started to clarify, for myself, my own gender identity and take steps to live by it after I told someone about my abuse. Until then, I couldn’t make any sense of how my body responded, involuntarily, to his, and how it — or his actions — had nothing to do with whether I was a girl or boy, or gay or straight, or anything else. Until then, I’d gone through my life trying to live as a gay man — something unsatisfying to me — or asserting a kind of masculinity some would call toxic but which, deep down, wasn’t any more mine than a same-sex attraction to men.
Of course, in the place and time in which I grew up — and in the world in which I’ve lived until recently — sex and gender identity issues weren’t discussed as openly, much less understood as broadly, as they are now. But even by the standards of my schools, communities, workplaces and other environments, I did not talk freely (actually, at all) about my own identity or inclinations. Because the priest who abused me swore me to silence — and because I knew that even if I could talk about it, I wouldn’t, because I would probably be disbelieved or blamed — I learned that talking about such things was not merely taboo: it could end my life. Or so it seemed.
So I kept quiet and, probably as a result, had a roof over my head, food in my mouth and the opportunity and means to an education. But I lived in isolation from all of those people who could talk with their friends, families and others about the issues that, as it turns out, almost everyone faces at some time or another. They learned what it was like to meet people, to form bonds and to support, and be supported, emotionally. Or, through interacting with other people, they realized how and why they were different and figured out what they needed to do before embarking on courses of study, careers, marriages and other relationships — including relationships with themselves — that were bound to fail.
In brief, when your church is the center of your community’s social life — whether in a rural village or an urban enclave — being alienated from it (even when you’re still participating in it) makes it much more difficult to define yourself, whether by or against or outside of it. For people like me and the gay man I’ve mentioned — and, I’m sure, many others who grew up in church-centered communities — that is what is so damaging about being abused by priests or other authority figures — or, more precisely, being sworn to silence and secrecy about it.
Most Evangelicals are decent enough people, despite their religious beliefs. I live in an area where Evangelicalism dominates the religious and political scenes. Corner most local born-again Christians and they will tell you what they believe. Don’t corner them, and you will likely never hear a peep from them about Jesus. This is the nature and substance of cultural American Christianity. That said, a small, rabidly vocal number of locals are Fundamentalist zealots. These in-your-face Christians are not afraid to unzip their pants and expose their beliefs for everyone to see. They love being spokesmen for God. Armed with certainty, they believe that they are the arbiters of morality and the holders of absolute truth. Cultural Evangelicals I can live with. Live and let live, right? Zealots, however, are another matter. They are rabble rousers, defenders of anti-human, anti-progress religious beliefs. These theocratic zealots will not rest until King Jesus rules and reigns over the United States of Jesus.
Cultural Evangelicals rarely comment on this blog. Most of the vocal Christian commenters are Evangelical zealots. Commenters who shit all over the comment section are almost always Evangelical Christians (or conservative Catholics). I started blogging in 2007, a year or so before I divorced Jesus. During the past eleven years, thousands of Evangelicals have stopped by to let me know what they think of my writing and me personally. I have been accused, threatened, and attacked to no end. If these Evangelicals had their way, God would rain fire down from Heaven and turn me into a charred marshmallow. Frustrated over God not hearing their imprecatory prayers, these zealots turn to sending me angry, judgmental emails.
Years ago, my email inbox was daily filled with letters from outraged Evangelicals. Not so much these days. I suspect one reason for this is that I warn Evangelicals that if they email me that I reserve the right to make their missives public. The Contact Form states:
If you are an Evangelical Christian, please read Dear Evangelical before sending me an email. If you have a pathological need to evangelize, spread the love of Jesus, or put a good word in for the man, the myth, the legend, please don’t. The same goes for telling me your church/pastor/Jesus is wonderful. I’m also not interested in reading sermonettes, testimonials, Bible verses, or your deconstruction my life. If you email me anyway, I reserve the right to make your message and name public. This blog is read by thousands of people, so keep that in mind when you email me whatever it is you think “God” has laid upon your heart. Do you really want your ignorance put on display for thousands of people to see?
More than a few zealots have rued they day they ignored these words and emailed me anyway, especially letter writers who have atrocious grammar or use language they wouldn’t want their Christian friends to know about. Personally, I find it quite satisfying when I can eviscerate such people. More than a few of them have tucked their tails and run whimpering into the night, never to be heard from again.
I don’t mind Evangelicals disagreeing with me as long as they do so respectfully and politely. Unfortunately, far too many Christians wear boorish — ill-mannered, coarse, contemptible — behavior as a badge of honor. If I politely ask Evangelicals to NOT send me emails and they do so anyway, what am I to make of their behavior? I would NEVER go to Christian websites and email them anti-Christian quotes or excerpts from Christopher Hitchens’ or Bart Ehrman’s books. Why can’t Evangelicals do the same here? I suspect the answer is that many Christians have a sense of entitlement. Thinking that God speaks to them and he wants them to be his mouthpieces, these believers spread their dogma far and wide, regardless of whether it is welcome.
Yesterday, an Evangelical woman by the name of Vicki Frazier emailed me the following:
I just want to say that by rejecting anyone from sharing Scriptire [sic] with you, you have determined to close yourself off from the truth. Regardless, not just for you, but those who you listen to you, there’s no such thing as “I used to be a Christian” according to the word of God. This Scripture is about those like you.
1 John 2:18-20 King James Version (KJV)
18 Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time.
19 They went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would no doubt have continued with us: but they went out, that they might be made manifest that they were not all of us.
20 But ye have an unction from the Holy One, and ye know all things
It clearly deals with those who, like you, go out from us. I must go with God on this, you haven’t ever been a Christian. If you were, you would have stayed.. It’s not my personal opinion, it’s right there in the word of God. Do I believe God or the claims of a man. I hope you repent and come to Christ and believe on Him. The Bible is the absolute truth, sir, as you’ll find out after you take your last breath.
and then sent me the aforementioned email. No need to know anything more about my story. The Holy Spirit revealed to her that I was a man who had lived a lie for fifty years; that I had everyone fooled; that I never was a Christian. How could Vicki know for certain her judgment of me was correct? Why, the Bible says _________ and this lines up with what she thinks of me, so her judgment is infallibly and authoritatively correct.
Zealots such as Vicki would make great Vulcan characters in a Star Trek movie. Vulcans (Spock) practiced mind-melding: becoming one with a person. The Vickis of the world think they are so connected to the Christian God that they are one with him. Believing the Bible to be the very words of God, when people such as Vicki read/agree with the what the Bible says, they see themselves as mere spokesmen for the Big Kahuna. Take issue with what Vicki says? Hey, your argument is with God. This kind of thinking, of course, allows her to ignore common conventions of respect, decency, and propriety. When God — the EF Hutton of the universe — speaks, everyone must listen, even if they don’t want to. In Vicki’s mind, God said it, I didn’t. Don’t like it? Tough shit.
As Evangelical zealots are wont to do, Vicki concluded her sermon with a threat: The Bible is the absolute truth, sir, as you’ll find out after you take your last breath. Either I believe what she is saying or I am going to burn in the Lake of Fire for eternity. Here’s the thing, if Heaven is where the Vickis of Christianity will be, why would I want to go to there? Why would I want to spend eternity with people who have such loutish, swinish behavior? No thanks. Of course, there is no Heaven or Hell; there is no afterlife; there is no judgment to come. Too bad when the day comes for Vicki to die that she will not be given a glimpse of the horrible reality that she lived her entire life according to a lie. Instead, she will draw her last breath believing that a mythical God will usher her from this life to the next one, giving her a paid-for room in Heaven’s Trump Tower, complete with room service.
I now there’s nothing I can say that will cause Vicki to reconsider her ways. She’s certain that she is right — end of story. The only hope for her is that something happens in her life that causes her to question her certainty; to ponder that she might be wrong. Until the door of her life becomes cracked a bit, she will remain safe within the Evangelical bubble.
About Bruce Gerencser
Bruce Gerencser, 61, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 40 years. He and his wife have six grown children and twelve grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist. For more information about Bruce, please read the About page.
Bruce is a local photography business owner, operating Defiance County Photo out of his home. If you live in Northwest Ohio and would like to hire Bruce, please email him.
Thank you for reading this post. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. If you are a first-time commenter, please read the commenting policy before wowing readers with your words. All first-time comments are moderated. If you would like to contact Bruce directly, please use the contact form to do so.
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Awareness of sexual abuse seems to be at an all-time high. Whether the stories are from the entertainment industry, religion, politics, or your neighbor next door, it seems that more and more people are telling their stories. For some people, this is the first time they have felt safe to tell their stories. It is not uncommon for people to have tried to bury their stories deep within themselves for years, decades even. Now some people are ready to open up, and it seems that sexual abuse has lain just below the surface for decades, centuries, millennia perhaps, and now it is erupting to the surface. So many of my friends are coming out with their stories, and even if they are not ready to tell the whole story, they are saying “something happened and it traumatized me.” “Hear me.” “Believe me.”
This is not my story, but it is my mom’s story, and I believe that I owe it to her to tell it.
My mom died from metastatic breast cancer in November, 2014, at the age of 71. A couple of years before she died, she told my brother, my sister-in-law and me that she had been sexually abused when she was 5 years old. She said she had told only one other person – my stepfather, who had also been sexually abused as a child. That means she waited over 30 years to tell someone (my stepdad) and over 60 years to tell anyone else. We were stunned, but a lot of things about my mom and how she raised me made a lot more sense after this revelation. (I asked my mom why she waited until after her uncle’s death to tell us, and she said she was afraid I would call the uncle and rip him a new orifice; she was not wrong in her assessment).
My mom’s abuser was her 14-year-old uncle. While my mom said he never penetrated her, he forced her to touch him and he touched her. She didn’t go into detail about the experience – I suppose that even 60 plus years later she didn’t wish to relive it. He threatened her that if she ever told anyone, everyone would think she was a bad, dirty, filthy girl. He told her that people would think she was a liar. He also warned her that if she told her parents that her daddy would kill him and that it would be my mom’s fault if her daddy went to jail. As a 5-year-old, those were scary reasons that sealed her silence. She told us that she didn’t understand what was happening but instinctively she knew that it was bad.
Growing up, my mom buried herself in books, in schoolwork, and in learning. Books were her escape from reality. I remember my mom habitually reading 2 books of fiction and one book of nonfiction at any given time, and I was amazed that she could keep them all straight. As a voracious reader myself, I can only handle either one book of fiction and one of nonfiction, or two works of nonfiction. As a high school student, my mom excelled and was one of the few female students put into advanced science and math classes. In the late 1950s and early 1960s there was a push to pursue excellence in mathematics and sciences in order to compete with the Soviet Union’s advances in those fields, particularly in regard to the space program. My mom tied with another student for salutatorian in her graduating class of about 300 students, so the school gave both students a test to determine the salutatorian. As my mom was painfully shy and terrified to give a speech at commencement, she purposely answered questions wrong so she would not become salutatorian. I asked her why she didn’t tell her guidance counselor that she did not want to give a speech instead of going through the testing, and she said she never thought of that as she always tried to do what was expected of her. My mom’s parents had not graduated from high school, though her dad had completed refrigeration training courses through the G.I. Bill and her mom got her GED just because she wanted to. My mom’s guidance counselor suggested that my mom should go to college, so as a good girl, my mom did what she was told and enrolled in Middle Tennessee State University. She completed 5 semesters before dropping out and getting married.
Everyone always remarked about my mom’s intelligence but how quiet and sweet she was. As a teenager, my mom developed ulcers. She was terrified of going out in public, especially in any situations in which she might be alone. She told me that it was torture for her to walk past the college dining hall because she had to walk past all the windows where people looking out might see her. As she grew older and needed to work, she became better at managing her extreme shyness and fear of people, of being seen, but she never outgrew it completely. When I was planning my wedding, I told my mom that I did not believe in having someone “give me away” as I was capable of making my own decisions and did not want to promote an archaic system whereby women had to be “given away” in marriage. She thought I should not buck tradition and suggested that I should ask my uncle to walk me down the aisle. Knowing her shyness, I told her that if anyone should walk me down the aisle, it should be her. She didn’t bring up my walk down the aisle again, and I happily strolled alone as a symbol of my autonomy as a human being.
Unlike the parents of most of my friends at the time, my mom taught me about sex at a very early age. For as long as I can remember, she told me to fight, run away, and tell a trusted adult if anyone ever tried to touch me in my “private” areas. We even had an identification code for which adults she trusted and which ones she didn’t; if she referred to someone as Mr. Will or Ms. Betty, those were trusted adults, but if she referred to them as Mr. or Mrs. Smith, then they were not on the approved list. My mom explained sex to me with all the appropriate body part names and where they were located when I was 6 or 7 years old. She told me that I should not tell the other kids because their parents should tell them. I was repulsed by what she was telling me, but I knew that it must be true because I had witnessed dogs copulating. After my mom told us about her sexual abuse, suddenly it made sense why she had taught me about sex with the correct terms for body parts when I was as young as I was. I don’t know if she had similar conversations with my brother, but she may have.
Other things about my mom made more sense as well, like how she seemed to be afraid of so many things. She was easily startled by sudden or loud noises. She was terrified to walk anywhere alone. Her doctor prescribed antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication, both of which helped take the edge off her irritability. My mom was in poor health most of her life, suffering from arthritis since she was in her mid-twenties in addition to a plethora of other ailments as she aged. My mom would not allow me to play sports or go too many places with friends, though there were 3 families at church with girls my age whom she trusted. She had two failed marriages, the first that lasted only a year and the second to my father, lasting only 4 years due to his emotional and psychological abuse. (In his next relationship he fathered 6 more children, and his abuse escalated from verbal to physical and sexual. None of his children has contact with him today). When my mom married my step-dad, she became the bully who verbally abused my step-father for the 25 years they were married until he passed away. My mom used books, food, religion, interest in politics, and craft and jewelry making as ways to derive enjoyment (and probably escape) during her life.
The only time my mom talked with me about the abuse was when she told us. She said that she had forgiven her uncle (I have not, but as he has passed away, I suppose the issue is moot). He was a retired chief master sergeant in the US Air Force, and he and his wife lived in Destin, Florida, near Eglin Air Force Base which was his last posting. The uncle and aunt used to visit his mother, my great-grandmother who lived with us, while she was still alive. I did not like this uncle, and I don’t know if I had picked up on cues from my mom or if I just did not like him generally. I asked my mom why she allowed this uncle around me when I was a child, and she said she knew that she was always watching and she observed that I did not like him and would not get too close to him. That is true — as a child I thought he was a jerk.
My mom coped the best she could. Who am I — someone who has never suffered from sexual abuse — to determine whether she handled things the right way or not? Each person handles it with whatever coping mechanisms he or she has. Would my mom’s life have been different had she not been sexually abused? I have no doubt that it could have been quite different.
Much has been made of the smaller-than-expected audience and sometimes-hostile reception Pope Francis encountered during his visit to Ireland. While commentators noted the contrast with the more enthusiastic greeting that awaited Pope John Paul II when he arrived in 1979, they did not make the connection between something Francis said and young Irish people’s drift away from, or even outright rejection, of the church.
At the Marian Shrine of Knock, he begged for forgiveness of the sins of members of the Church of Ireland who committed abuse of whatever kind and asked the blessed mother to intercede for the healing of survivors and to never again permit these situations to occur.
One can say that, although he did mention young people who were robbed of their innocence and children taken from their mothers, his appeal was still too vague. And, as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse by a priest, I feel that he placed too much emphasis on “forgiving” the “sins” of the perpetrator and not enough on the healing for the victims.
Then again, it may be that neither he nor the Church can do otherwise. For one thing, addressing the plight of survivors in a more specific way would open up the Church to even more scorn and more lawsuits than it already faces. But more to the point — at least from the point of view of survivors and the general public — clergy members, from parish priests all the way up to the College of Cardinals, simply are not equipped to help survivors move on from the abuse we have suffered.
What they, and the Pope, don’t seem to understand is this: those of us who have been sexually abused as children were traumatized. This is not the same as simply having one’s feelings hurt by a thoughtless word or some quotidian misdeed. It means that we have been changed, irrevocably, in fundamental ways. We lost our ability to trust, not only priests and the Church, but other people, even those with whom we have (or should have) our most intimate relationships. That is because, as modern research has shown, the stress caused by trauma affects our brains: It sensitizes the “reptilian” parts, which is more impulsive, and restricts the “limbic” area, which helps us record our memories and form our judgments from them. And, of course, that stress affects the body, manifesting itself in a number of health issues such as hypertension and diabetes.
So, while “forgiveness” of “sins” might give the perpetrator a clean slate, it does nothing to alleviate trauma and its effects in victims. If anything, asking (or, more precisely, guilt-tripping) a victim to “forgive” a perpetrator only re-traumatizes that victim. I know: whenever I’ve been asked to “forgive” someone who has caused me real harm — whether that priest in my childhood or an abusive ex-spouse or partner — it’s like another blow to my body, not to mention to my mind and heart.
As I’ve said, the Pope and most priests, as well-intentioned as they might be, simply don’t understand the difference between being sinned-against and being traumatized — and that the latter happens to children who are sexually molested by priests or taken away from their mothers. I think most of them can’t, in part because they don’t have the training that would allow them to do so. But even those who have such training, I believe, still operate under the belief that, when the victim forgives, he or she heals along with the victimizer. Too often, it just doesn’t work that way.
Really, all one can do after abuse is to prevent it from happening again. That doesn’t happen through “forgiveness” or “redemption.” Only taking away the opportunities for abuse, for inducing trauma, can do that: priests (or any other adults) who abuse children must not be allowed access to them. And the abuse from my ex-partner stopped, not through “forgiving” him (as he begged me to do), but after an order of protection and the loss of his career.
Still, trauma remains. I work through mine every day. No amount of “forgiveness” can change that. I am sure other survivors could say the same — and feel exasperated or enraged, or both, by the Pope’s plea, even if he could not have acted in any other way.
I recently asked readers to submit questions to me they would like me to answer. If you would like to submit a question, please follow the instructions listed here.
Henriette asked: Do you believe in free will? Can anyone escape the social religious determinism they were brought up in if they have enough courage (or any other necessary faculties)?
I have written almost three thousand posts since December 2014, and not one of them dealt with the subject of free will. The reason for this is two-fold: first, discussions on free will always bring more heat than light, and second, I am not really certain what it is I believe about the matter. I continue to read and study the various leading voices on free will, but so far, I am not convinced one way or the other. That said, you did ask me if I believed in free will, so I will take a stab at answering it based on what I presently think on the matter.
When I look at the decisions I make day-in and day-out, it seems to me that I have free will. I am willingly and freely answering this question. Now, that does not mean that I was not influenced by outside forces or personal behavioral patterns. I have OCPD, so I crave order. I hate leaving things undone. I asked for questions all the way back in July and here I am still answering them. My mind is telling me, get it done, Bruce. Do it now. Henriette deserves an answer. Don’t delay. I also like pleasing others. I want to be well thought of, so it’s important to me answer this question. I also want this blog to be place where doubting Evangelicals can come to find answers to their questions and encouragement as they wrestle with what it is they actually believe. All of these things pressure (influence) me, leading me to take time tonight to answer this question. Yes, I am doing so FREELY, but not without influence.
Henriette also asks whether someone can escape the social/religious determinism they were brought up in? The short answer is yes. One need only look at my life to see that someone can escape these things. I was in the Christian church for fifty years. I spent twenty-five of those years pastoring Evangelical churches. It is extremely rare for someone my age with the ministerial experience I have to leave the ministry and later leave Christianity. By the time you have been preaching for twenty-five years, you have too much invested to leave it all behind. As the old gospel song says, I’ve come too far to turn back now. I don’t know of any of the men I attended Bible college with who are not still believers. Some have left the ministry, but all of them, at least outwardly, still profess to believe the core doctrines of Christianity. What was different about me? Why was I able to walk away? Was my defection an act of the will?
On one hand, it is clear, at least to me, that I willingly walked away from the ministry and Christianity. I CHOSE to stop believing. One the other hand, I can look at my sixty-one years of life and see a behavioral pattern that shows up time and time again. I was raised to be a true believer, an all-in kind of person. I can thank (or curse) my mom for this. I have never been someone who did things half way. I remember when I bought my first computer in 1991 — a VTech 286. I quickly became bored with this computer, so I bought an IBM PS1 286 And after that an IBM 486 for almost $1,700 (Thank you Sun TV for no money down, low payments, like forever). Over the years, I have owned numerous computers, and since the late 1990s, I have built my own. I spent hundreds of dollars on massive books about Windows computers and how they operated. I threw myself headlong into learning everything there was to know about Windows-based computers and software. I soon became the resident expert, and to this day extended family and friends call me whenever they have computer problems.
I repeated this behavioral pattern when I took up photography. I am the type of person who needs to know everything I can about a subject. This approach has led me change my mind many times, and has led others (especially former ministerial colleagues) to suggest that I am mentally unstable. I can’t leave things alone, content with just a cursory knowledge of a matter. I can’t even take a shit without reading the ingredients on the back of the cleanser or a magazine. There’s much to learn, and I have concluded that I haven’t scratched the surface of the knowledge available to me (and declining health has certainly curtailed this pursuit).
So, when I began to have doubts about Christianity, I threw myself headlong into reading books that challenged the beliefs I held for most of my life. And once I came to the conclusion that Christianity no longer made sense and that its fundamental claims could not be rationally and intellectually sustained, I left Christianity.
Did I leave Christianity solely for intellectual reasons? I so want to say yes, but that would be a lie. Yes, I left primarily for intellectual reasons, but there were also emotional and psychological factors that played a part in my deconversion. I like to think that I freely chose to stop believing, but I suspect that deep seated emotional hurts and psychological scars played a part too. They, without my help, played a part in pushing me out the door. These influences certainly played an instrumental part in me freely choosing to divorce myself from Jesus. Make sense?
I doubt that I have answered your question on the matter of free will. My thoughts are all over the place on this subject. All I know to do is live my life as if I have free will. Can any of us do otherwise?
Bruce Gerencser, 67, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 46 years. He and his wife have six grown children and sixteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
I recently asked readers to submit questions to me they would like me to answer. If you would like to submit a question, please follow the instructions listed here.
Geoff asked: Bruce, in your many years of pastoral ministry have you ever come across what you would consider demonic possession or any strange paranormal stuff? Have you ever heard of anything that you would consider legitimate?
I had no exposure to or experience with demonic possession until the mid-1990s. Before then, I didn’t put much stock in demon possession. I thought it was an excuse used to cover up bad or bizarre behavior. In 1994, I left Somerset Baptist Church in Mt. Perry, Ohio and moved to San Antonio, Texas to become the co-pastor of Community Baptist Church. Community’s other pastor, Pat Horner, was a big believer in demon possession. He even believed that Christians could be oppressed by demons. This openness to all-things-demonic caused congregants to believe all sort of outlandish things. One woman thought that every time she heard a coyote howl, it was her unsaved husband. Another woman believed in generational curses; that demonic possession and oppression could be passed down from generation to generation. What I learned during the short time I was at Community was that if a pastor believed in demonic possession, so would his people. I remember in the early 1990s when I embraced Calvinism, I thought I would have mutiny on my hands, but what I found was that church members changed their beliefs to fit mine (with a few notable exceptions). Most Evangelicals believe whatever their pastor believes. Their theology is borrowed from the men who teach them. This is not surprising since Evangelicals are taught to seek out like-minded churches. What’s fellowship? It is a bunch of fellows in a boat rowing in the same direction. Diversity of belief is discouraged or condemned.
I have attended a number of charismatic churches where the “gifts of the Spirit” were supposedly in full operation. These full-gospel churches had all sorts of demonic activity going on their midst; or so they said, anyway. Again, if you are looking for demons, you will find them. There’s a religious version of McCarthyism practiced by many Evangelical pastors and churches. Here a demon, there a demon, everywhere a demon.
As an atheist, not only do I reject the notion of the existence of the Christian God, I also reject the belief that there is a tangible, real Devil. People can’t be demon possessed because there are no demons to possess them. The behaviors that are called demonic possession are either fake, learned behaviors, or signs of mental illness.
I have never seen any sort of paranormal activity. I have experienced several things for which I have no explanation. When these things happened, I attributed them to God or Satan. Now? I am content with saying, I don’t know. I take the same approach with prayer. Almost all of my “answered” prayers came from human intervention. The few I can’t explain? I don’t know, but they are not enough to convince me that there is a God. Evangelicals see God in the unexplainable, but I all see a question without, so far, an answer.
About Bruce Gerencser
Bruce Gerencser, 61, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 40 years. He and his wife have six grown children and twelve grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist. For more information about Bruce, please read the About page.
Bruce is a local photography business owner, operating Defiance County Photo out of his home. If you live in Northwest Ohio and would like to hire Bruce, please email him.
Thank you for reading this post. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. If you are a first-time commenter, please read the commenting policy before wowing readers with your words. All first-time comments are moderated. If you would like to contact Bruce directly, please use the contact form to do so.
Donations are always appreciated. Donations on a monthly basis can be made through Patreon. One-time donations can be made through PayPal.
Guest Post by Stephanie
