Cult or just religious trauma?

I am mad at God because he took my Mama’s coffee table.

I’ll back up a bit before I get to the part where living room furniture was involved. I was born one of three to a highly Christian, highly conservative, white family. My father was a pastor and my mother walked away from her teaching career to homeschool me and my two older sisters. Oddly enough, my earliest memory is of me jumping into a pool and nearly drowning… in a way I feel as if that’s the perfect foreshadowing of what my life has often felt like ever since. I love my parents. I even love God as best I can despite him apparently needing our coffee table so badly. In many ways I had a wonderful childhood that I am incredibly grateful for. My parents love me and I have always been able to count on them.

I think I was raised in a cult.
I am not sure. I need your help in figuring this out.

The word “cult” carries a lot of weight to it. If you are like me, I think of the Manson family, Scientology, or Heaven’s Gate… you know all the cult classics (see what I did there).
I think of awful things happening. I think of physical or sexual abuse, I think of being chained inside and unable to leave. So hear me when I say this. I THINK I was raised in a cult. I am not saying this to take away from anyone’s experience. This is not a competition. I understand that there are way worse organizations and groups to be a part of. But I cannot ignore the things I went through and witnessed while growing up. Most of it was shoved away and forgotten until now, at the ripe age of twenty-six, I actually want to understand what was going on.

Before we get into it I have to lay some groundwork. What defines a cult? I am so glad you asked! Here is the answer that I am copying and pasting directly from google- “a group or movement centered on a shared, intense devotion to a charismatic leader, idea, or set of beliefs.” This seems like a broad definition that is not malicious. Honestly, it actually sounds like every religion ever. So now let’s see what separates religion from cults. “A cult is generally distinguished from a religion by its high level of authoritarian control, psychological manipulation, and isolation of members, whereas established religions feature open structures, longevity, and societal integration.” Thank you, Reddit.

By going off that latter definition, I can confidently say that yes, I was at the very least raised in a cult-like setting. Despite not having to put on a white dress with a plastic bag over my head in the hopes that I could then board the alien spaceship. I believe that this is what makes it harder for me to acknowledge. I feel as if I have not suffered enough, and can therefore not recognize that how I was raised was strange. It has taken me a long time to understand this.

There is no memory of mine that does not involve religion. My dad was the pastor of a very small church. They were big into things like theonomy, postmillennialism, church membership, and church discipline.

I always knew to never question it. We were set apart as Christians living in a fallen world, so we were going to live differently than non-believers.
My father burned with passion on the pulpit every. Single. Sunday. His devotion to his small flock was undeniable. Our church was not like others. There was no special Christmas service where the children dress up as angels and sing carols, or Easter service where there was an egg hunt afterwards- that would have been flippant to God and shallow. Our church was nothing but doom and gloom condemnation talk for nearly TWO hours (yes, you read that right) every Sunday morning and Sunday night. We did not sing modern hymns, we did not believe in having drums or any other “modern instrument” playing. In Sunday school, if I did not know what we were talking about or couldn’t answer a question correctly, the teacher would write “parents” by my name. That meant that he would go have a talk with them afterwards and basically rat me out.

I hated going to church. I remember getting to stay home when I was sick and thinking it was the best day ever. I hated memorizing catechisms and having to recite them in front of the congregation (If I did not have it memorized I would be in trouble. Shocker.) I hated how small our church was. I hated being homeschooled and having very few friends. I hated that every night I was convinced I would die in my sleep and wake up in the lake of fire. I hate the sound of gnashing teeth, how am I supposed to put up with that for all of eternity?! I started to disassociate during church services to help me sit through it. I day dreamed about anything that wasn’t my life. I would say dream so intensely that I think it became a coping mechanism. To this day in my 9-5 corporate job I struggle with dissociation. I never feel fully present.

We would have catechism class every week with the other church kids. One time we talked about Abraham and Isaac. I was appalled. I knew my father loved God more than me and now a new fear had been unlocked. I was so worried that God might ask him to do something like that. I knew he would struggle with it of course, but there was no doubt in my mind that his faith was so staunch that if that’s what God wanted him to, he would. I began walking on eggshells around my Father because I did not want to be in trouble… I would like to reiterate that he never beat me or my siblings. We were never starved or locked up or subject to any cruel and unusual punishment.  We were well taken care of. This is what confuses me so much about my entire childhood and makes me think that this was just a normal experience. One example of learning to walk on eggshells that I can recall is when I showed him our Wii and the Mario Kart game. I played as princess Daisy because she was my favorite at the time. Every time she would jump in the air her character would yell things like “Oh yeah” and “Awesome”. I ended up winning the race and I was excited that he saw me do that. He made me pause the game and had a talk with me about how Daisy should never say “awesome” because “awe” should only be used in the context of God. I was so embarrassed that I had not thought of that and that I didn’t know better. I know this is so trivial and stupid, but I never played as that character again.

Whenever people left the church (and trust me they always did)  it was always such a big deal. Sometimes they were even excommunicated. This word in particular used to terrify me. It means you cannot hangout with them ever again or else your church membership could be on the line. My best friend’s parents got excommunicated. I remember my father announcing it one Sunday morning and I just wanted to cry. I knew it meant I would never see him again. This happened several times to several families. Sometimes I wished they would take me with them. I remember one of the families saying “That church is a cult!” My father scoffed and took great offense. He and his church group were never in the wrong. I still look these people up on social media. I look at their pages sort of “keep up” with them in the least creepy, stalkerish-way possible. The only feeling I feel when I do this is immense sadness.

Saturday nights were the worst because that meant Sunday was coming. I always recognized the silent tension between my mama and my father. He loved Sunday mornings. I would always wake up to him singing a hymn and ironing his shirt. There was to be no secular music in our house on Sundays and no television (unless it was Prince of Egypt or Joseph King of Dreams). No shopping- whether it was for clothes or food. Although we could go out to eat… so I guess although we believed it was a sin to work on Sundays, it was not a sin to participate in servers having to work on that holy day? Also, if it was Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or any other holiday that fell on a Sunday… you could NEVER acknowledge it. One time I told my father “Merry Christmas” on a Sunday. He sternly reminded me that it was not Christmas day, it was the Lord’s day. I felt so stupid after that. My mama would always call her parents the day before mother’s or father’s day because she’d say “I can’t call them tomorrow.” The worst of the worst was when your birthday fell on a Sunday. There would be no opening presents and church as usual.

My father was always so alive on Sundays. I always thought he looked much happier behind the pulpit than at home with us. Being sick on a Sunday was an absolute treat. We would get to stay home with my mama. Most of the time, if your sibling was sick and you were not, you would have to go to church with my father. This was the worst because it meant two things: We were going to be gone all day, and the car ride back would be so tense because he was going to ask you what you thought of his sermon and if the answer was not what he wanted to hear you would get in trouble. Then you would sit in silence and ride home. Every now and then you get to stay home with your sick sibling. This was the best case scenario because you got to be with Mama and she would let you watch Blue Planet (after we listened to a sermon of course).

When I was nine years old I got my ears pierced at Claire’s. I was so excited to finally be grown. I remember being told not to tell other children at church that this had happened in fear that more people would be mad at us and more people would leave the church and affect the paycheck. I knew we did not have a lot of money. I went to church scared that Sunday.
When I was ten a really nice lady at our church got in trouble because she ran a marathon on a Sunday instead of coming to our church. When I was eleven a group of ladies got disciplined because they went to a midnight showing of one of the twilight movies and they dressed up and took pictures together. This was a HUGE scandal for our church. How dare they enjoy a night at the movie theater and bond over something they all enjoy.
One time a lady got publicly barred from the Lord’s Supper because she got drunk in public. I remember my father and the elders marching her up to the front of the congregation. I remember feeling sad. They humiliated her.

Now for the long anticipated coffee table debacle. This situation is what “sealed the deal” in my adolescent feelings towards the Lord. As stated, we were not rolling in it. We wore hand-me downs and I wore flip flops from the dollar tree. My mama got a coffee table. I do not know the price, but I imagine this was a “splurge” for us. She was proud of it. When we had weekly bible classes at my house, the church kids would come and play. They were children and I do not blame them, but you know kids can be rough sometimes. The coffee table ended up scratched and worn very shortly after she got it. During one of our bible studies she was called on by my father (She hated when this happened. She never liked being put on the spot. He did it anyway because he was the boss) and asked a question that I cannot for the life of me remember, but her answer is engrained into my brain. “I realized that nothing I have belongs to me. I was excited for my new coffee table and I tried to keep it nice but then I realized it belongs to the Lord and it is not mine so I can’t be upset that it was not kept nice.” I felt like I had a heart attack when she said that. I actually felt my heart break. I can still see the look on her face and I can only describe it as utterly defeated. What makes it worse is the nodding of heads she received after that sentence. The affirmation that silently said “Yes! Why would you ever deserve a nice coffee table? You are a sinner.” I could not let this one slide. God already has everything, I mean, he’s GOD for crying out loud. Why does he have to have Mama’s coffee table? Why couldn’t my mama have one nice piece of furniture to be proud of? Why was this ok? Why is everyone agreeing? I don’t want to share my coffee table with God. This incident was the tipping point and the start of many many years of anger and resentment towards God and religion and the church and my father.

As the years went on the Church dwindled and dwindled until it was nothing but a handful of devoted families that felt too sorry for my father to walk away. It was awful. I hated seeing my father’s heart break as he realized the church he had put over his family for years and years was now about to close down. Even now when I think of this I sob. This is where I am conflicted.
My father is still very involved in our lives. A great dad. He would do anything for me and I know I can rely on him. He tells me he is proud of me often. He is a wonderful grandfather. He is my dad. I love him deeply. Yet I know that all of this happened. There is so much more that I could tell. These are just a few of so many instances that happened over and over. I still struggle with disassociation. I still struggle with having a relationship with God. What gives me peace is that I believe my Father was doing what he thought was right and everything he did was done out of love in a strange way.
I would also like to add that my siblings and I all grew up, graduated college, and became productive working members of society. Just another reason why I struggle with whether or not this was a cult.