Watts O. stood six foot four, had flaming red hair and wore round gold-rimmed glasses that John Lennon would have liked. He saw himself as a Renaissance man, raised on a farm in Minnesota and then educated at both Carleton and Oberlin Colleges. Later as he rode the rugged plains of China, he read aloud the Romantic poets to his trudging mule, shared the wisdom of Shakespeare with his probably baffled manservant, and waxed poetical about the purple hills in the distance.

By all accounts, he made friends easily with the Chinese and was wildly successful at spreading the Gospel. Under his watch the Congregational mission in Shansi Province grew many times over. He built a hospital, schools for the Chinese children, a library and roads that proved useful for decades. He enlisted Red Cross aid for Shansi and raised needed funds for famine relief from congregations back home. The Reverend Pye’s efforts were tireless, although his journals reveal an exhausted figure. At the age of forty-eight, he was thrown from a mule out on the trail, his chest stomped upon by the animal. Soon TB filled his weakened lungs and he died. He left his wife, Gertrude, and a five-year-old son, Lucian (my father), and a compound of missionaries in search of a leader. Most of all, he left behind those Chinese out on the plains and in the mountain hamlets who would no longer be visited by the surprising white giant of a man.

I like to imagine him out there on his beast of burden, vast grey country on all sides and a book of poetry open in his hand. It is a romantic image and, when I think only of it, I can almost forget why he was there. But then there is the fact of the small leather bound tally book. In cribbed penmanship he catalogued the Chinese names and numbers. On a “good day,” the totals reached the twenties or more; on a “bad day,” a mere one or two. He gave sermons to famine-starved citizens at windswept crossroads. He stayed up late into the night listening to potential congregants weep about their fallow fields. He ate paltry meals at their tables, and in return for his kind and attentive ear, they accepted his offer of salvation.

It was then that the miracle ostensibly occurred. And although he had offered relief to some hearts and minds, the fields remained withered and famine was widespread. The country he left behind in 1925 when he died was rife with turmoil caused by internal battles and external invasion. The presumption that Chinese souls needed saving and that an outsider’s religion could do so was soon held up as yet another example of colonial arrogance. The Communist Revolution began the process of eliminating Christian chapels in cities and distant enclaves as China headed in an altogether different direction.

During my childhood as the war raged in Vietnam and conflict tore apart campuses and cities, I did my best not to think about the missionary side of my family and certainly never boasted of the Reverend Pye’s successes. For me, he was a blatant example of American imperialism. I was ashamed to claim him.

That is, until our parents were moving out of the family home and several generations of possessions had to be dealt with. From a dark corner of the attic, I pulled boxes that held my grandfather’s journals and hunkered down to skim the faded onion skin pages. I unfolded the linen cloth and studied the intricate, carefully drawn map of a rural China from long ago. Out of my grandfather’s traveling Bible fell copious notes for sermons, and when I opened his tally book, the leather made an audible crackle.

And here is what I found that day: a writer. In his journals, the Reverend effectively described camel caravans climbing mountain trails, orchards laden with exotic fruit, foul-smelling village streets and the many voices and attitudes of the Chinese around him, as well as the remarkable beauty of a place unspoiled by industry. He also recorded in more clichéd language his Christian beliefs and assumptions, but it was in his descriptions of every day life that I found him not only genuinely appealing, but also not naïve about the complexities of his position there.

“If the Orient seems strange to us,” he writes, “we should remember that we are seen just as strange to the Orient. The Chinese think us dirty, lazy and superstitious in the west. Dirty, because although we bathe, they detect a very decided odor. Gertrude had a sewing woman last winter who had never been near foreigners before, and after three or four days gave up the job, as badly as she needed the money, and the reason was that she simply could not stand the foreigners’ odors. Mr. and Mrs. Gilles were asked one spring not to walk into a neighbor’s peach orchard where they had been accustomed to walk, for it was thought that the crop failure was due to the odor of their bodies. They think us dirty, too, for the way we use the handkerchief and replace it in our pockets. To a refined Chinese, the sight of a person blowing his nose in the handkerchief and then putting it back in his pocket is actually nauseating. The point in dispute is an excellent example of how the different races may regard the same matter differently and each consider themselves innocent and the other guilty of the same offense. We think the Chinese wanting in cleanliness because, though they do not expectorate into their handkerchief, they will dust their shoes with it and wipe out the tea cup before pouring your tea. Exactly the same distinctions are made to show that we are lazy and superstitious.”

Reverend Pye expresses his intent to be open-minded and unbigoted and seems amused when he senses the Chinese judging him based on his race. One late afternoon, he wrote in his journal as he sat outdoors at a rough-hewn table in a poor village: “A crowd of about thirty watchers is pressed about me as I write, discussing the typewriter, the mysteries of foreign letters, my filled tooth, and what it can ever be that makes me ‘white,’ instead of brown or yellow. They have come to the universal belief that since we drink milk or use it in our food that is the explanation. One man has with great satisfaction just informed the rest that anyone of them could very shortly become just as white as I am, were he to use milk for a few months. They think our color is only artificial. I have heard tell of the story of a Chinese school boy in class when asked the color of the Negro replied, ‘black.’ And the American Indian? Copper color, was the reply. And the Englishman? White was the reply. And what color is the Chinese? Man color, proudly answered the youth. And so it should be.”

In other journal entries, he used the ornate, poetic language of his time to capture the transporting qualities of the countryside: “We lay around, letting the old sound of the mourning doves and the sight of the hills sink in. They sound and look just as they did when we were youngsters back home. Man and his language change while nature and the birds remain. We do miss the dear home faces. But will rest and get new visions for the days to come. There are lots of visions you can’t see, but just feel them, and after all, feeling is perhaps only the soul’s way of seeing. Something that comes to us as light as melody and as color, thrilling us with the sentient harmony that we often hear ripple from the throat of the music-made bird: that same thing that came to us times without number in childhood, and that comes to us now on run-away days like this one, under blue skies and green woods, and despite all that has gone before, and all that may come afterward, and it makes you take off your hat to the joy of living.”

My grandfather’s words revealed him to be a more complicated and nuanced person than the single-minded zealot I had presumed him to be. Before I knew it, he was transposing himself into a fictional character in my mind, because fiction is the best way I know to explore the contradictions inherent in being human. Through odd twists of the imagination, the Reverend Watts O. Pye became The Reverend in River of Dust—a man who is both foolish and wise, witty and overly serious, all seeing and yet blind.

But because The Reverend in my novel is ultimately an invention, I have him experience a crisis of faith that my grandfather never had. The real Reverend Pye died believing in his own convictions. And yet, for me, it is his written words that suggest a more honest and startling miracle—one of a heart and mind revealed across both distance and time. His was never actually a simple story of a man, a mule and a map. And the miracle he promised remains dubious at best. But if one does exist for me, it is buried in the fascination of getting to know an ancestor so long dead and in coming to terms with the moral complexities of his mission.

***

Listen to Virginia read her essay:

***

Rumpus original art by Clare Nauman.

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I was raised in a devout Catholic home but I wasn’t oppressed by my family’s Catholicism. My parents were religious but they were not evangelical. We were raised to believe God is a God of love—no fire or damnation and they’ve made great strides in embracing things that might have once made them uncomfortable. I am ever grateful for that. The only thing that truly oppressed me about church on Sunday and CCD on Mondays, was boredom. Thankfully, I had an active imagination so I used my time wisely and devoted myself to daydreams and admiring the pomp and circumstance.

There came a time when I stopped going to church. I didn’t see the point in going through the ritual when it held so little meaning for me. I also wanted no part of a church with terrible stances on issues that mean so much to me. I cannot reconcile the Catholic God—one who would turn a blind eye to children sexually abused by priests, to those of us who are gay or bisexual, to those of us who want to have unfettered access to birth control and the right to reproductive freedom—with the God of love I was raised with.  I’d rather have no faith than be part of a faith so rigid and exclusionary. It is hard to rid yourself, though, of years of Catholic doctrine. My body continues to hold the memories of prayer and ritual.

A family member died this fall. He was way too young, killed by a drunk driver. We convened to attend his funeral, held in a beautiful church—gorgeous murals, a soaring cathedral, ornate pews. Catholics know how to create stunning places to worship. The priest was affable and very good at his job. He joked that this was the first funeral mass he had given where there was a skateboard in the church and managed to find the right blend of humor and sorrow and anger at a senseless death. He did what we hope religious leaders can do when they are called upon—he filled the church and the people mourning within its walls, with a bit of faith, whether they were devout or lapsed.

Throughout the mass, I was struck by how I remembered when to sit and stand and kneel. I was able to recite the prayers as if no time had passed between my childhood and that moment. But still, I kept thinking, this beautiful, hallowed place is part of a church that stands against everything I stand for. Any spark of faith I felt was quickly extinguished.

On February 11, Pope Benedict resigned, said he was no longer up to the rigors of the papacy. His resignation was unexpected and it’s odd. It feels like there is more to the story though we may never know. The last pope who resigned did so 598 years ago. People at all levels of the church hierarchy expressed surprise at Pope Benedict’s decision to resign but there was also sympathy from church officials, from everyday people. It is a difficult job to be the spiritual leader for millions, to dedicate your life to constant service, and of course, to be the leader of an institution who holds, among its principles, the oppression of women, the denial of homosexuals, and the protection of pedophiles. Such corrupt leadership is a burden, I imagine, that can make an old man feel more ancient than his years.

When the Pope’s resignation was announced, the Pope jokes and witty barbs were everywhere. This is how we respond to common cultural events. This is a new kind of ritual. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. I personally wondered what Robert Langdon would think about this turn of events. I am very interested in symbology.

Of course, it’s easy to judge the pope and the Catholic Church in the same way it’s easy to have opinions about anything that is so much larger than ourselves. It’s easy to judge when you’re not in the position to be so judged, when you will likely never be in such a position. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pass judgment and Pope Benedict, in particular, has given us many, many reasons to judge.

He is a consummate scholar whose ideology is theologically conservative. Since assuming the papacy, he has dedicated himself to returning the church to its most fundamental, conservative values. Rather than softening the church’s stances, he became more deeply entrenched in his beliefs and practices and, in turn, the church’s beliefs and practices. I do not believe Pope Benedict is an evil man. He is simply… a man, brilliant, deeply flawed in large part because of his faith, and part of a sprawling religious institution whose corruption began before he was the leader and will continue long after his resignation.

I keep trying to have an open mind about the issues that challenge me most. In this instance, it is particularly difficult. I tell myself Pope Benedict is not an evil man. I tell myself the church does more good than evil. But then I think about children who trusted their spiritual leaders and had that trust broken in the most terrible ways and were then shamed or silenced. I think about people who merely want to love who they want to love, who are shunned and shamed. I think about women carrying pregnancies to term because they have no other choice, because their priests tell them it is God’s will. It is really hard to do anything but judge when faced with this painful reality. I judge even though this is so much bigger than me, so beyond me, and still so close.

The Pope announced his resignation. He will be replaced by someone who will be just like him—brilliant, deeply flawed, part of a corrupt system, unwilling to change it. It feels hopeless. It is one more reason why I still struggle to have faith of any kind.

But still, as I said, my body continues to hold certain memories. I always found the Bible interesting. I enjoyed reading it as a book of stories. There was so much beautiful prose and I admired the fragility of the Bible’s pages between my fingers. There is a story about Jesus giving sight to a blind man in the Gospel of John, Chapter 9, Verses 6-11.

When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay, And said unto him, Go, wash in the pool of Siloam. He went his way therefore, and washed, and came seeing. The neighbours therefore, and theywhich before had seen him that he was blind, said, Is not this he that sat and begged? Some said, This is he: others said, He is like him: but he said, I am he. Therefore said they unto him, How were thine eyes opened? He answered and said, A man that is called Jesus made clay, and anointed mine eyes, and said unto me, Go to the pool of Siloam, and wash: and I went and washed, and I received sight.

There was something about this story, about this miracle of a blind man being given sight, that has always appealed to me. It always makes me think of how we take sight for granted but it also makes me think of how sometimes we incorrectly assume a blind eye is being turned to injustice simply because nothing is said.

When Pope John Paul II died, my mother took it hard. He was a good man, she believed, who had done a great deal of good throughout the world. On the morning Pope Benedict resigned, I called to see how she was taking the news and she said, it was for the best, what with the church’s shameful business of covering up all the raping of children. I was so proud. I wished, in that moment, and in many moments since, that miracles were possible, that all it might take was spit and mud and anointment so the next pope might receive the sight necessary to right so much wrong.

***

First image by John K. Nakata.

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But not Madeline and me. We are PK’s, preacher’s kids, and we have the full run of St. James Episcopal Cathedral in South Bend: from the sanctuary to the administrative offices and everywhere in between. At seven and five, we are still young enough for this to be cool.

Most Sundays, we followed dad back to the sacristy, a tiny room accessed through a hidden door behind the altar. A stained-glass window turned the weak Indiana winter sunlight into spangled blue and gold: this was the most magical place that I knew. Golden (not gold, golden) censers filled with frankincense and myrrh hung from chains on one wall. Tall torches were stored upright against the opposite wall. Two closets with sliding doors held only vestments: cassocks (robes), surplices (more robes), chasubles (robes again), stoles (heavy, embroidered scarves), and girdles (ropes made of fancy material that our dad ties around his waist). Dad and the deacon hung their robes up. Underneath his robe my dad wore a white collar, black shirt and pants. He was over six feet tall and had a full beard and mustache. I was proud that he looked like no-one else’s dad.

Someday I would be an acolyte. Then I would get to carry the lit torch down the aisle in the dim light, or be veiled by wisps of smoke rising from the censer as I swung it gently back and forth. When the time came for me to walk towards the giant crucifix suspended above the altar, everyone’s eyes would be on me, even the black, unmoving eyes of the twelve apostles in the stained glass windows that lined the red-carpeted, wood-walled sanctuary.

***

My parents met at church. My dad was preaching in central Florida, and my mom was visiting his church as a guest. She liked his sermon, and when he shook her hand at the end of the service he liked her smile. They ended up out to dinner together, and they talked about the things they had in common: a Florida upbringing, a strong faith, and an intimate knowledge of hospitals (my mom and my father’s mom were both nurses). I imagine that he made some bad puns to try and make her laugh, and that when she did laugh he admired her dimples. She was in her late twenties, and he was a debonair five years older.

Dad had been engaged once before to a woman who broke the engagement when he decided to become an Episcopal priest. The rigors of being a priest’s wife were unappealing to her: staying late after services and listening to parishioners’ problems in the fluorescent lights of a church basement; playing guitar for the Sunday School classes; joining the women’s prayer group; cooking a dish for every potluck; offering rides to church to the disabled; participating with enthusiasm in every church event from the Strawberry Shortcake Festival to the Christmas Pageant; and raising children solidly in the faith.

Preacher’s wives, like politician’s wives, are first and foremost givers of their time. Their moral standing must also be impeccable: divorce, children from another marriage, jobs outside the “safe” realms of elementary school teacher or nurse, and telling racy jokes are all considered out of bounds for a preacher’s wife. My mom, a devoutly religious woman, thought she was up to the challenge.

Mom sang in the choir, helped in Sunday School, and got us out of bed every Sunday morning. Her most treasured activity was acting as a member of the Order of St. Luke, which meant that after every communion she stood off to one side with a handful of other women in the Order, ready and willing to lay hands on any parishioners who needed prayers. A lot did. My mom and the other women would put their hands on the parishioner’s head or shoulders, close their eyes, and silently pray.

***

When I was ten I attended Camp Mac, a Christian summer camp, for the first time. I wore my dad’s Florida Gators hat with the raggedy brim and referred to it as my “hole-y hat,” which I thought was hilarious. I was  somewhat famous since Dad was the visiting priest for the summer, which meant that he led chapel each morning and evening and for the rest of the day got to stand around with his hands in the pockets of his Dockers and talk to the counselors: adolescent boys with a starry-eyed love of God.

My dad’s first love was God too, and his passion beyond preaching was talking with teens who reminded him of himself at that age: gobsmacked by his love of the Lord and misunderstood by peers who seemed to just want sex and alcohol. As an adolescent in the 60′s, my dad was a Christ-loving Eagle Scout, devoted to his mother. He had never smoked pot or listened to Bob Dylan. When I asked him about the hippies he shook his head and said: “Immature.”

After college and seminary school (grad school for priests), my dad’s first job as a man of the cloth was as youth counselor in a small parish in Florida. He thrived. He became a father figure to a devoted group of idealistic teenagers. Eventually he moved on to be a priest, then Dean of a cathedral, but his heart was always with the teens. He couldn’t wait to raise his own.

“Father!” A pimply counselor yelled. He caught up with us on the path between the chapel in the woods and the picnic tables. “Father, I have a question about the Gospel of John…”

As he spoke with my dad, I walked on the other side, chest puffed out. He might have been everyone else’s Father, but he was my dad.

***

We shared Dad with the parishioners. He worked six days a week, seven if there was a funeral, wedding or holiday that fell on Saturday, his day off. We never spent Christmas Eve or Christmas morning together as a family because dad had to officiate at the services. And he was on call 24/7: death, disease, divorce, drugs; blessing a newborn, blessing a new house, blessing the sick. When he was not at work, Dad was usually so wiped out that he retreated to the couch in the basement, where he lay on his side and watched spaghetti westerns and reruns of M*A*S*H.

But my parents also shared my sister and me with the parishioners. They were 250 extra family members. They watched us grow up. They tousled our hair and gave us treats when we were good, and they admonished us (or our mom) when we were bad. They knew our birthdays and they asked what we were learning in school. This was nice, but it also meant that five hundred eyes were watching our every move.

Preachers’ families have been the subject of scores of sociological studies, nearly all of which discuss the “fishbowl” effect of the ministry: the family is on constant display as a model of Christian upbringing, and children are expected to behave in accordance with their preacher parent’s high moral standing in the community.

The congregation is always watching us, and, like tabloid readers crowing over Britney Spears’ latest breakdown, they’re just waiting for us to mess up.

There is an expectation for PK’s to be angels, but an assumption (possibly even a secret wish)  that we will be devils. Of our famous PK brethren, Martin Luther King, Jr. epitomizes the former, while Tori Amos—whose song “Icicle” is about masturbating while her pastor father conducted a service downstairs—decidedly represents the latter.

“Very little explanation is needed when two PK’s meet; because of their common background, they have almost instant rapport,” writes Douglas F. Campbell in The Clergy Family in Canada: Focus on Adult PK’s. This is true—I feel an instant empathy when I discover that someone is a PK, even though we might not be alike in any other way. When my childhood babysitter, also a PK but a decade older than me, crashed her first car, I cringed: I didn’t know what it meant to crash a car, or even to drive one, but I knew that she would face an onslaught of admonition and advice at church the next Sunday.

Young PK’s are encouraged to repress their budding sexuality, and the expectations encourage extremes: Katie Perry switched from singing Christian pop to kissing girls, and Melrose Foxx revolted completely by becoming a porn star.

A few PK’s manage to break the stereotype and have it all together: Condoleezza Rice (Secretary of State under President George W. Bush) and Woodrow Wilson (28^th president of the U.S.A) come to mind. And then there are some of us who may not be all there: Vincent Van Gogh (cut off his ear) and Anne Heche (claimed to have been abducted by aliens).

Our ranks include Jessica Simpson and Marilyn Manson; Jane Austen and the Wright Brothers; even Friedrich Nietzsche, who wrote The Antichrist. Marvin Gaye is our cautionary tale: he was fatally shot by his minister father in a family argument.

***

When I was little, Sunday School meant coloring pictures of a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus kneeling on the ground and suffering the children to come unto him. We passed around a ring box with a tiny seed in it and heard the parable of the mustard seed, which was like the Kingdom of God in that it is small, but if you sow it with faith than, lo, ye shall reap. My mom played guitar while we sang “Jesus Loves The Little Children” and “This Little Light of Mine.”

The classes got smaller as I get older, as more and more parents let their kids drop out, and there were fewer games, songs and stories. At age twelve I volunteered in the church nursery one Sunday a month. This was a chance to play games again—puzzles and dolls and make-believe—and a reprieve from the service, which we could hear through an intercom in the nursery without having to be quiet and sit on the hard wooden pews. The toddlers and babies liked me; Adam, a tow-headed two-year-old who always smelled like syrup, was particularly enamored. His family was poor—I once heard my parents talking about how they needed extra support from the church—so I always hugged him as soon as he arrived and saved him his favorite toys.

Confirmation class started the year that I turned thirteen, and we were issued thick King James Bibles with no pictures. We had assignments to read dense verses and write analyses of them (“Abraham begat Isaac begat Jacob begat Joseph…” Who wrote this crap?) To make up for the new lack of fun in our Christian lives, the church hosted Youth Group hang-outs in the dingy basement of an adjacent building, the top floor of which was a halfway house for women. Like casinos or strip clubs, the Sunday School and Youth Group rooms lacked windows.We sat in beanbags, listening to Christian rock (Jars of Clay was a favorite) and talked about what Christ meant in our lives. My mood changed weekly: sometimes I was all in, wanting to belong and believe, and sometime I faked it.

There was more learning going on at home. I was no longer cute. My limbs were gangly and for a terrifying week I was sure that the mismatched lumps growing on my chest were cancer, but I was afraid to ask about it: “breasts” was not a word used in our home. My face was hardwired with braces and glasses. I was also less awed by my Dad largely because I was spending more time with my school friends, who thought parents were “lame,” and I was more exhausted by my duties to be a good representative of the Christian child. After services, I began to retreat into my dad’s office to read while my parents socialized in the church basement for interminable hours and Madeline ran around with the other kids. When I actually became an acolyte, the long-awaited dream, I dreaded waking up extra-early on Sundays to go to church and don my robe, walk down the aisle, and sit through my dad’s sermons. He did not believe the old minister’s adage: “No souls are saved after twenty minutes.” Papa loved to preach.

Around this time we got the Internet at home. It was dial-up of course, but if I closed the study door and put a couch cushion next to the modem then no one upstairs could hear the screech of the computer connecting to the World Wide Web. This was new territory: chat rooms, AIM, and porn. I was thirteen and had yet to kiss a boy or see anything interesting beyond the illustrations in Our Bodies, Ourselves. I was not even allowed to watch MTV. So, one night, when the rest of the family was asleep, I searched AOL for “sex.”

Clicking through the photos, I was deaf and dumb to the rest of the world, and I jumped when I heard the door squeak. It was my dad. Every time I clicked to close the screen something else even filthier popped up. He was standing behind me, and when all the screens were closed I turned around, holding my breath. Maybe he didn’t see?

He looked like he’d just caught me setting fire to puppies. He shook his head slowly back and forth. “I can’t believe…” he trailed off, then started again: “A daughter of mine…” He left the room, and I shut down the computer and followed, but when I found him standing in front of the picture window in the living room, staring out at the dark lawn, I couldn’t go to him. “I’m sorry,” I squeaked, and went upstairs to bed.

We never talked about this again, but the sermon that week was about the Gospel of Matthew’s admonition against lust: “If your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.”

***

By the time I started high school, my dad and I were at odds nearly every day. I argued with him just as vociferously about the role of women in the Bible as I did about my need for a later curfew. Madeline joined in a few times, chiefly on issues of how we were allowed to dress (everyone else was wearing Abercrombie & Fitch, but Mom said the advertisements for the store were soft-core porn). Dad was increasingly unhappy. His long-awaited teenagers wore jeans that were too tight and our choice of friends was suspect. We also questioned him too often, and we were not engaged enough in the church.

My dad wanted to be the best, which in his job meant being the kindest, gentlest, godliest man in the world, supported by a loving family living solidly in the faith. When he got angry or when we failed him as a super-family he couldn’t go to his friends and complain about it. Like many others in his profession, he didn’t really have friends in that sense—there wasn’t anyone he could be honest about being human with, even himself. When you’re a Voice of God, being human is a failure.

One evening, during a flavorless February in our northern Indiana town, my dad announced, with a slow, aggrieved shake of his head, that he was “tired of living, but scared of dying.” Pointing out that this was actually a line from Old Man River was a good way to start another fight, so I refrained. But it was a strange thing for a man of God to say. What fear of death hath he who belongeth to the Lord?

After the rigors of confirmation were finally over I decided that I no longer wanted to be an acolyte, and, in a surprising twist, Madeline refused to be confirmed at all. Apparently my accounts of the experience were sufficiently awful. Having once, naively, informed us that faith is a choice, my dad accepted these decisions. He shook his head slowly, released a big puff of air from his cheeks, and shuffled wordlessly down to the basement.

***

My faith was like a grain of sand in a bed. For weeks at a time I didn’t feel it, and I thought it might be gone for good, and then one night I would roll over and there it would be, itching like crazy. At the Easter Vigil mass—where we sit in a dark and silent church the night before Easter, mourning as the apostles mourned before Jesus rose from the dead—I wept. Jesus looked so skinny and sad on the cross. He died for us. For me. It was my fault. Jesus made my heart hurt, which was the way I felt when I thought about the Monkey Twins, two mentally disabled boys with mullets and misshapen faces, who got bullied in the hallway at school. Because He was so weak and vulnerable, Jesus stirred my deepest emotions, and I thought that what I felt was love.

But the one I really loved was Matt, my first real boyfriend and the star goalie on the high school hockey team. My dad hated Matt. He was two years older than me and had a car. He listened to Phish and toured with String Cheese Incident in the summer. He was anti-establishment, so much so that he boycotted his own high school graduation. He was also Jewish. Despite a casual friendship with Rabbi Morley Feinstein (as Rabbi and Priest they would, occasionally, walk into a bar together), Dad the Father was not comfortable with any of this. Matt and I were nothing like the teens he would have chosen to mentor. Nothing at all.

***

During my junior year of high school, a year into my relationship with Matt (over which my dad and I had mostly stopped fighting out of mutual exhaustion), I decided to throw a party.

Mom and Dad were at a clergy and spouse retreat in Michigan and they wouldn’t be home until Saturday night, so everyone was invited over on Friday. My sister was obligingly sleeping at a friend’s house. A senior named Eric offered his fake ID to get us a keg, and he rolled it through the kitchen door around six. We filled a laundry bin with ice and lodged the keg inside. The first few red Solo cups were half foam, but my girlfriends and I thunked them together and yelled “cheers!” anyway. Another senior, Ryan, had a bag of weed, and he sat down at the kitchen table to pick out the seeds and stems before he packed us a pre-party bowl. At six-thirty, everything seemed easy and free.

By seven, there were a few cars parked out front. Two and three, then eight, then twelve. Each car was full, because not everyone had a car and because most people planned on getting too plastered to drive. Kids from the neighborhood just walked over. The party grew exponentially. Every room was full. An unidentified couple dry-humped on the study couch and Ryan sold joints in my parents’ bedroom. At eight o’clock, I was drunk. At eight-thirty, the police arrived.

There were three of them. We were fish in a barrel. They walked up and down the stairs, collaring panicked teens and yelling: “Whose house is this! C’mon out!” I tried to cram myself into my bedroom closet with five other people, but someone reminded me that we were in my house. Downstairs, the police had detained nineteen kids. Everyone else ran. They lined up the offenders on an antique church pew that was part of our living-room furnishings and administered breathalyzers. Tony, a popular stoner with eyes at perpetual half-mast, was covertly passing out pennies for people to suck. He claimed, sotto voce, that the copper lowers the traces of alcohol on your breath.

I was sucking on a penny and sitting on my hands when my parents came in. From the foyer they could see all of us on the pew in the living room. The police must have called them.

Nineteen drinking tickets. My father was purple. When everyone was gone he screamed at me. I was an embarrassment. I was an abomination. I was a harlot. What will people think?

Later, my mom told me that the call from the police came in the middle of a folk group’s performance of a Christianized version of “If I Had a Million Dollars” by the Barenaked Ladies. She told me that the song, both the original and the Jesus version, was ruined for her now.

***

A write-up of the bust was in the local news box in the next day’s South Bend Tribune. Even our address was printed. The day after this ran, Sunday, everybody at church knew. Five hundred eyes shamed me throughout the sermon. I sat with my head bowed, praying: “Jesus, remember the Monkey Boys and how sorry I felt for them? Remember how I cried for your death and for your fragile body on the cross? Jesus, please, I am no longer one of the little children but can you still love me enough to get me out of here?”

He didn’t. Mom made me stay downstairs for the reception after church. I ate a jelly-filled donut and stood next to my sister, who scooched away. In private, she intimately understood my plight, but in public, she wanted only to be out of range of the shame rays shooting at me from every direction. Old ladies with pursed lips shook their heads. Young moms whispered to each other and held their babies close, as if I might eat them. The sad-eyed mother of a grown meth addict patted my mom’s hand in commiseration.

Only one person dared to speak to the Antichrist. Little two-year-old syrup-smelling Adam from the nursery was now a seven-year-old. He still had a sweet spot for me. As he walked towards me I felt the glow of impending redemption.

He squinted into my face, then squeaked: “You’re bad.” Then he turned on his patent-leather heel and walked away.

After church I sat down for the first of many punishments, writing letters of apology to the parents of all the kids who had gotten drinking tickets. The sun shone through the dining room window as I wrote in longhand on notecards provided by my mom—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—like a self-flagellating medieval monk. My parents passed by but neither of them spoke to me.

In the Gospel of Luke, the prodigal son spent all the money his father gave him on prostitutes. He embarrassed the family. He ran away to distant lands. He ended up working for a pig farmer. He had so little to eat that he began to crave the pigs’ food. Finally he returned home. His father received him with open arms, saying “this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” Sitting at the dining room table, bearing the silent treatment of my parents and writing out my own guilt on nineteen notecards, I wondered how far away I’d have to go, and for how long, to get that kind of absolution.

***

First photograph by Trieste Daily Photo.

Third photograph by Brent Bill.

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“Get up! It’s time to go!” came my father’s voice, followed by the pounding of footsteps.

I snapped upright in my bed, thinking that it was actually happening—that Jesus had been spotted somewhere over Colorado Springs like the Goodyear Blimp and that there was no time to lose getting into something more respectable than an oversized nightshirt with Snoopy’s Woodstock on the front.

When I finally realized that it was the car that was my destination rather than the upper stratosphere, I took a few deep breaths and turned my attention to my closet. Fifteen minutes later, my younger sister and I strapped ourselves into the backseat and we were on the road. In tense silence, Dad navigated the streets through the legions of fish-studded vehicles, all schooling toward their designated places of worship. We might have even made it on time, had we not suddenly been sandwiched into a holding pattern in the right lane between a large church van on the left and a brown Subaru in front of us which bore the bumper sticker, “Do you follow Jesus this closely?”

I glanced up at my parents sitting quietly in the front seat. My father was a tall man with sparkling green eyes and a lung capacity that allowed him the volume to address large groups on the subject of Jesus Christ. He had an easy smile and was prone to bouts of blind optimism, for which I dearly loved him. Like he did every day of the week except for Saturday, he was dressed in suit and tie. His silver hair was in a side part and held in place by five pumps of V05. My mother sat next to him, her short brown waves swept neatly over her ears. She was dressed smartly in a rust colored dress with nude stockings and black flats. Both Christian academics, they were not nearly as impressed by the imminence of the End of the World as I was. The year was 1988 and they had seen End Times prophecies from within the Evangelical church before. Each time, they explained, people got all riled up over nothing and they were not going to join in the panic.

“It could happen today,” Dad admitted, “but really there is no way to know in advance. The Bible says, “No one knows the day or the hour.”[1] It could happen any day.”

I thought about the picture I had seen of Gorbachev’s birthmark looking suspiciously like “666.” Maybe there was no way to know which exact minute it would happen, but I had read some pretty convincing arguments that we were looking down the barrel of it. I thought back to that birthmark and shuddered.

“Just try not to get your hopes up, dear,” my mother added.

We pulled into the church parking lot and my parents marched off to their class where Dad taught Sunday school to a group of adults.

This could be the last time we do this, I thought and headed inside toward my own Sunday school class. As I walked, I was aware of my feet. Would I be taken after this step? How about this one? Would I make it all the way across the church before I was whisked suddenly away into the clouds? Would my boyfriend be there, too? Would my English teacher understand when I was not there to turn in my as-of-yet unwritten essay on Chaucer the next day? I smiled deliciously to myself as I mulled this last one over.

By the time I walked into the service an hour later, I was getting antsy. It was 11 A.M. and still no end of the world. My boyfriend, Scott—the only person with the misfortune to be called by their real name in this memoir—waved at me from a pew and I made my way over to him. I was so overcome by the Holy Spirit that I flushed pink.

I looked around the church with Scott at my side as if I were seeing it for the first time—the brown carpeted aisles, the beige padded pews, which were comfortable, but not too comfortable, the stained glass at the front depicting the life of Jesus at different stages of life on earth. My eyes fell on the kneeling altar that wrapped its way invitingly around the entire front of the church. Scott and I had prayed there a couple of times together. I looked over at him and giggled nervously. I determined I ought to say something to him.

“Want a mint?” I produced a tin from my purse.

“Thank you,” he answered, pinching one between his fingers, which brushed mine on the way back out. Scott was tall and intelligent with gorgeous green eyes and blond hair. I swallowed hard and prayed a quick prayer aimed against any lust demons who might be hanging out in the Lord’s house. Angels and demons were real, and if Armageddon was kicking off that day, then I could be certain of one thing: there was going to be a final fight for our souls and it wasn’t going to be a clean one. One sin—just one wayward thought, even—would make me unclean. And what if it was that exact moment that Jesus came back and I had not had a chance to ask for forgiveness yet? Would I be doomed? Would I miss out on heaven for all eternity?

Just then, the deep, reedy sound of the organ filled the room, causing me to jump like I had been busted for peeking at swimsuit models on the magazines in the checkout line. Pastor Brown burst onto the platform with the enthusiasm of a wrecking ball and everyone stood to sing the first hymn, “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder.”

Next to me, Scott shifted microscopically closer and brushed my arm with his shirtsleeve. A shock of alarm bolted through me and I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I needed a trained team of angels and I needed them stat.

“‘When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder’—it may not be long, friends, it may not be long,” said Pastor Brown somewhat cryptically. Not wanting to seem reactionary, the church leadership was not discussing the Rapture prophecy openly from the pulpit. But we all knew what he was talking about.

More amens.

I didn’t have to look around me to be able to sense the mood in the congregation. It was one of excitement. In response to nearly every statement, somebody called out an “Amen!” or “Hallelujah.” I tried channeling my own excitement about sitting next to Scott toward the front of the church. Surely Pastor Brown would say something to send the demons sailing. I knew no demon could withstand the name of Jesus Christ. Surely it was just a matter of time.

“When our beloved Savior walked this earth amongst us two thousand years ago, he made us a promise. He said ‘I will return!’”

The congregation shouted various approved phrases of holiness such as “tell it” and “that’s right” and someone began clapping. Next to me, Scott fidgeted closer to me so that our shoulders were touching. I suddenly found that I couldn’t move.

I reminded myself that I should not be allowing myself to be so distracted in the midst of what was going on—that I was going to need to focus if I wasn’t going to miss out on the roll call. I stared hard at Pastor Brown, noticing how the perspiration had already begun dripping from his forehead. He pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping his brow.

“The groom is coming to claim his precious bride,” he continued, “but the question is, will the bride be ready? Will the bride be pure?”

Scott inched a little closer. My cheeks were radiating heat at this point and I was conscious of beginning to perspire, myself.

He went on to extend the metaphor into how we must not let the groom catch us sleeping and that we must make every effort to prepare for his appearance. This necessarily meant, of course, cleansing ourselves from all that is sinful. In my particular case, it meant scooting a couple of inches to the right.

Finally, he began a sinner’s prayer for redemption, which we all prayed in case it hadn’t taken the last time we prayed it. If Jesus was coming back, then we had all better make sure that we were on the guest list. I closed my eyes, focusing all of my attention on the spiritual battle I imagined was raging around me.

“Jesus, we hear you calling to us. We know how much you love us and how much you sacrificed for us,” said Pastor Brown.

Faces swathed in shimmering light appear at the top of the ceiling. Arrows are poised in the direction of our pew, where I am willing Scott’s hand past the hem of my skirt against all that is pure and holy. Instead, he reaches his opposite hand behind his back toward me. I reach my own hand behind my back on the other side and meet his in the middle. My chest convulses with teen delight.

“We accept your gift and thank you for your love. We surrender ourselves to your ultimate purpose.”

A tension is rising and a silence rings out through Heaven—for about seven seconds.

“We thank you, oh Lord, for your promise to return for us one day.”

Inexplicably, I uncross my legs. Oh, God, I pray—put an end to this torture!!!

“We look forward to that, Dear Lord, and we know that you have conquered death once through your Son. In Your Son Jesus’ precious name, Amen.”

Screams recede into the bright sunlight. I reach for a Kleenex.

We were then invited to an altar call. Pastor Brown never knew an empty altar. It didn’t matter how short the sermon, he could always coax a couple of sinners down and away from the gnashing of teeth. But he has never—and I mean never—had the success he had on that Sunday.

It started with the familiar tune “Just As I Am” coming through the organ in the background of the pastoral prayer. It was a couple of kids from the Youth Group. With people as moved as they were by the thought of Christ’s imminent return, it didn’t take long for a few more of their friends to join in. I knew I should join them. My own sanctification process had suffered a severe setback that day. But I am ashamed to say that I was not among them. I was still glued to Scott’s shoulder.

Longingly, I watched from my paralysis as several more individuals stood from their seats from various places within the sanctuary. Clusters began to form. Friends, families—it didn’t matter. All the while Pastor Brown was in the background, begging Christ to come for us sooner rather than later. People were wailing; a few children were crying; I felt like I was dying. What had gone wrong?  Had I not prayed for help?

It didn’t make sense. I was pretty much the perfect Christian. Well, OK. Not the perfect Christian. But I tried really hard. I read my Bible daily. I went to services of one kind or another at least four times a week. I had even quit the Christian school that year so that I could be a better witness for Christ amongst heathen high school kids. Why was I being forsaken in my time of need? Here I was on the last day of the world with all of eternity before me and all I could think about was…sex?

Scott chose that instant to reach over and take my hand. Completely in the wide, inappropriate open.

And it was in that moment—that exact moment—that something inside of me began to rebel.

As I sat petrified into a flushing statue of adolescent desire, a thought occurred to me. I don’t want to go yet.

I was instantly consumed in guilt. What would God think of me for not being ready? I was supposed to be ready. I had been preparing for this day my entire life.

This world wasn’t real. “Real” life was in Heaven. And sometimes this world fought hard to pull me in and make me believe it was real, but I had made sure that I made all of the appropriate substitutions to get me through the cravings. I listened to Christian contemporary music instead of rock n’ roll, I went to Christian activities instead of hanging out with the worldly kids, I said “darn” instead of “damn”….

Maybe I could wait it out until the middle, after all. The Tribulation couldn’t be that bad, could it? We could dig a secret shelter in my backyard—like a bomb shelter. We would stock it with everything we could possibly need, like food and batteries and toilet paper. And lip balm. Maybe I could open up an underground business—among other Christians who were also in hiding, like we were. I could sell two kinds: plain and cherry. That would be enough.

I wasn’t supposed to not want to go yet, but there it was. Like it or not I had thought it in all of its juicy sinfulness. Jesus may have been on his way ready to take us, but I wasn’t ready. I wanted to grow up. Go to college. Have sex. Get married. Have sex…. I was supposed to have my whole life ahead of me. And maybe it was with Scott, and maybe it wasn’t—I didn’t know. The point was, I was only fifteen—and I wanted to find out.

I looked at my watch. It was noon. The last day of the world was only half over.

***

[1] Matthew 24:36

***

“The End of The World” is a chapter excerpt from Devangelical: Why I Left to Save My Soul by Erika Rae. It has been exclusively reprinted by The Rumpus with permission, and was originally published by Emergency Press, © December 2012.

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Erika and I first discussed the entrenched cultural identity we share as former Evangelicals over the phone last summer, when she interviewed me regarding my book Holy Ghost Girl. We spoke again last week via phone and email about her new memoir, Devangelical, and about what it means to grow up in the thrall of an apocalyptic worldview.

There are differences in our stories. My “sort of” stepdad was a tent preacher who waged such war against education, that to attend college was tantamount to being a traitor. Scandal and betrayal forced me to break with the church when I was seventeen. Erika’s parents were academics who prized intellectual curiosity and encouraged their daughters to pursue higher education. There was more normal life, less drama. Leaving unfolded as a process for Erika. She began to question church teachings during her early twenties while working on an M.A. in Literature and Linguistics at the University of Hong Kong. Ten years passed, and she realized she was no longer Evangelical.

Erika began to write Devangelical in part as a response to talks with angry ex-Evangelicals, friends who recalled their church days with bitterness. As she reflected on her experience, she discovered a twisted humor, the kind that results when well-intentioned people with deeply held beliefs try to circumvent their humanity. They were bound to veer off course.

It was not lost on us that our most recent conversation took place in the days leading up to Christmas or The End of The World, whichever came first.

***

The Rumpus: So, Erika, what’s up with the little dress and the thigh-highs on the cover of Devangelical? Are you trying to make a statement that you’ve left the church to become a little slut?

Erika Rae: Yes. No! But it was meant as a statement, certainly. A large part of the Evangelical ethos that I experienced was focused on an attempt to refocus sexuality onto spirituality. One of the average Evangelical’s favorite topics has to do with sex: how far to go before marriage, when to say no, and how other people are sinful and going straight to hell for it. I would argue that many of the prominent political issues from this last election—abortion, gay marriage, government-provided birth control—are all offshoots of this.

Rumpus: I find it interesting that modern Evangelicals discuss “how far to go.” The religious milieu I came from, the Holiness tent revival movement, said don’t do it, period. Cut off your hands, tongue, and any other offending member…but don’t do it. What was never mentioned was that everyone was doing it, especially the preachers. Your church was more modern in its approach. As you put it in the book, you were trying to be “hot for God, not for each other,” and even go so far as to suggest that one of the church youth group’s main functions was to provide an alternative to sex. How did that work out for you?

Rae: Our denomination had branched off the Holiness movement, too, but was definitely a bit more integrated into modern culture than what I remember reading about your group in your book, Holy Ghost Girl. (It still blows me away how you managed to actually leave that!) One guest preacher we had at our university actually made cards up for us, color-coded for each base level (and a few in between) like a Homeland Security warning system. Hand-holding was next to green on one end of the spectrum, and intercourse was next to red on the other. “Heavy petting” was somewhere in the yellow-orange level and oral sex was right next to intercourse, of course, and was a bright blood orange. There were then dotted lines between the major color changes to show you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, which color progressions were like a middle finger in God’s face. Those cards were very helpful, of course. I am just sure college students were pulling them out while parked in the backs of their old beaters overlooking the city and checking them for reference.

The church I grew up in attempted to prolong these desires until marriage by refocusing our attention onto a radical relationship with Jesus, our “groom.” Other churches encourage teenage girls to pledge their purity to God and to their daddies. But while people may be able to resist inserting plug into socket, there are plenty of loopholes. Pretty steaming hot loopholes, as a matter of fact. Of course, I was in high school before the philosophical advances of a certain Lewinsky scandal, so we were able to smugly assert that we were not having sex, but still. Nature finds a way. I am always surprised by other Evangelical friends who—now grown up—will admit to having real sex, though. There was a lot more going on in my youth group than I had any idea about.

Rumpus: You and I were both raised essentially under the Evangelical umbrella. Can you elaborate on what that means for people who may not be familiar?

Rae: First, “Evangelical” (in the protestant sense): technically, it includes belief that Jesus was born of the virgin Mary as the only son of God, died on the cross, and then was resurrected to save those who believe in him from a place called Hell. People then have the responsibility to spread the word to keep others from going to Hell, too. Culturally, it bridges the gap between orthodox Christianity and its more fundamental versions, in that it strives to attract people to the Church through a plethora of “relatable” programs and activities designed to keep people from being tempted by “the world.” Examples may or may not include: Christian Movie Night, Christian Roller Skating Night, Christian Rock Concerts, Christian Gun Clubs, Christian Yoga, Christian Book Clubs, Christian Halloween (Fall Fest), Christian Dating Mixers, and Christian Cruises.

Rumpus: And so “Devangelical” means…

Rae: For me, “Devangelical” is simply how I describe myself when I suddenly realized that I was outside the Evangelical culture, looking in. If someone had told me twenty years ago that I would be here, I never would have believed it. I didn’t plan it. It happened over time for me. But once I recognized what had happened, I was interested in retracing the why and trying to find my way back to a place where I could feel honest about my search. That took introspection, forgiveness, and a whole lot of laughter.

Rumpus: I was struck in reading your story how nothing actually horrible happens. There is no scandal to point to, no moment where people are being overtly wronged…and yet you walk the reader through several events that eventually caused you to diverge from the culture of the Evangelical church. Why did you write the book, and is it your intention to defame or discredit the Evangelical church?

Rae: Certainly my motivation is not to defame the Evangelical church. I wouldn’t bring up the questions I do in my book at all if I didn’t care. Over six million people left the Evangelical church during the last five years, according to the last Pew Research Survey. If anything, I would think that the Evangelical church might be interested in joining in the conversation. And, if not, I know a lot of us who left it behind are. Personally, I’d love to see genuine change within the church; not a huge bail.

Rumpus: So let’s talk about sex some more…and guilt. Data from Evangelical sources show that they hook up at about the same the rate as those outside the church, but with considerably more angst. Tongue only slightly in cheek here. Could it be the guilt makes it more fun, and that Evangelicals are enjoying sex more than those of us who don’t feel guilty?

Rae: Totally. No, I don’t know about that. I suppose there could be an element of truth there, but my assumption is that people who are already believing they are doing something wrong sexually, tend to err on the side of unhealthy behaviors. Ted Haggard is a good example of this. As are certain Catholic priests we all know about. As was I, when I was sneaking in handjobs and then claiming I was pure as the driven snow based on a technicality, and then putting a ridiculous amount of pressure on everyone else by claiming purity was easy if they would just put God first. I mean, seriously? But I do think that there is something else to your question, in that people can tend to learn to get a rush only from “illegal” behavior. I think a lot of Evangelicals shoot themselves in the foot with this in that once they get married and sex is legal, it quickly becomes boring because there is no rush from doing something that is forbidden anymore. Hence, they go underground again.

Rumpus: There’s nothing like puberty to turn a parent from a liberal into a puritan. How do you deal with the issue of sexuality with your kids?

Rae: Well, my three kids are still young, but my oldest is fast approaching puberty. I plan to purchase a boxcar full of firecrackers and rig them up outside of her window. All that is to say that I hope I can be rational. Check back with me in a few years.

Rumpus: Despite the fact that this book is about Evangelical culture, it seems to appeal to a wider audience than just the Evangelical crowd. Can you explain this?

Rae: Currently, about 35% of our nation self-identifies as Evangelical (compare that with ~26% Catholic). Considering the influence this group has on the political climate—as evidenced by the recent election—I think a lot of people both in and outside this country are trying to simply understand the Evangelical mindset. And they should. It is a huge part of American culture. Not wanting to understand the Evangelical culture in our current political climate is a bit like not wanting to understand, say, the Mexican-American community in the middle of the immigration debates. But also, I believe that a lot of the issues I deal with in the book are a bit more universal to other religion—or religious culture—defectors. I have heard recovering Catholics, Jews, or even former members of the L.D.S. Church who say they can relate.

Rumpus: We both grew up waiting on the world to come to an end, and you make the point in Devangelical that Evangelical culture welcomes the end of the world. How do you think this paradigm express itself in today’s political climate?

Rae: The debate over global warming is a good example. This is because the general church has been approaching the issue from the angle that only God will destroy the earth, and not humans. This isn’t too different from the distrust of recycling back in the 1980s. Again, only God could destroy the earth, so we had better focus our time on saving souls rather than the Redwoods. Plus, it didn’t help that people who were into “saving the earth” were “a bunch of pagans who worshipped the earth as mother.” Luckily, a growing number within the church has realized that they can still take care of the “creation” without slapping the “creator” in the face.

It is also critical to understand that most Evangelicals (like other Christian branches) may be citizens in the world, but they do not consider themselves citizens “of” the world. For many, this essentially means that they do not feel this is their true home. Heaven is their true home. Therefore, they don’t really belong here, and they long for the day when they will be taken away to a place where they will be cherished and understood by a loving God. When they disagree with “the world” on certain issues, it really doesn’t matter since their citizenship is in Heaven. It is more important that their perception of God’s laws be enforced via legislation. It seems to me that this does not always open the door for peace or tolerance, which again, is not the goal. This may help to explain the current state of polarization our country finds itself in.

Rumpus: When I left the Evangelicals, I found that the end-of-the-world mentality continued to shape my behavior for a long time, you know as in the old “eat, drink and be merry (with mind altering chemicals if at all possible), for tomorrow we die” perspective. How did the apocalyptic view influence your struggle to define yourself apart from the Evangelical church?

Rae: Yeah, I can see that. For me, it was a little different in that I realized that I had been living my life as if I might be taken at any moment, not daring to cross any ambiguous lines with my big, hairy toes. I think I wanted to get over the fear of doing something wrong all the time—I distinctly remember thinking that I was so afraid of this, that I was forgetting to actually experience life. So, I sort of made a mental list of all the things I was afraid of, and began to experiment. Not for the thrill of “doing something wrong,” but more because I wanted to observe and explore for myself if it really was wrong. I wanted to get over my fears. I’m working on a new memoir that addresses a lot of this.

Rumpus: One of the biggest struggles for me in writing Holy Ghost Girl was the issue of betrayal. I lay awake lots of nights thinking, what kind of person holds their family up to public scrutiny and shame? (The answer? A writer! Not at all comforting.) Did you have similar struggles and how did you overcome them?

Rae: Definitely, I had similar struggles—and particularly in worrying over how I might offend friends and family by disagreeing with some of their conclusions. In my case, though, I attempted to not go too far into any of their personal lives. I wanted it to be an examination of my behavior, not theirs. That is actually one of the things I was incredibly impressed with when I read Holy Ghost Girl. You were able to really dig deep into your characters, while still treating their vulnerabilities with love. I’m a bit jealous of that ability.

Rumpus: Tom Perrotta told me that while writing The Leftovers, he began to think that the deepest divide in the U.S. wasn’t between conservatives and liberals, but between the churched and the unchurched. “The two sides don’t even speak the same language,” he said. I know from experience that the unchurched often think of believers as simpletons, yet you were surrounded by educated, and even more important for those of us who are writers, well-read people. How is it that rational people can hold what many consider irrational beliefs?

Rae: Right. So my parents were Christian academics, both with doctorates. My father was a Christian college president, and my mother was a language professor and is still a professional musician. Growing up, they passed their love of education on to my sisters and me. We traveled extensively. They taught me foreign languages. I learned to play several instruments. They encouraged complex argument and a breadth of exposure to different ideas and literature.

I understand the sentiment that people who do not believe in what is unseen have when they look at people of faith. It’s not logical or rational since it is not observable, the argument goes. I get it. A person of faith, however, would argue that it is just as big of a leap of faith to assume there is nothing beyond what we can see, and especially when referring to the entity people call “God.” As Voltaire put it, “Doubt is uncomfortable, but certainty is absurd.” That goes both ways, as far as I’m concerned. Faith, at its roots, is the strained hope that there is something more. It’s a choice about how one looks at the world, and in particular, about an afterlife, which of course cannot be proven either way on this side of the fence. For me, the problem simply lies in the point where the hope of the unproveable becomes fact. From there, it returns to the absurd.

Not everyone in the faith world sees it that way, of course. A premise is built about God and everything else in one’s life is built on that premise. In other words, faith is more commonly viewed as a form of certainty. Certainly that can be accomplished by both the educated and the uneducated, alike, though—and on both sides of the fence. We’ve seen evidence of this throughout the human story. I think there is truth to Perrotta’s statement, though. It is life being experienced by two entirely different paradigms.

Rumpus: But surely you agree that Evangelicals go further than mainline denominations and Christians in asserting the presence of the unseen, and just what that means and demands in return.

Rae: Yes, I would agree with that. We were completely obsessed by angels and demons, for example. As far as we were concerned, demons were waiting in every corner to influence us—and even to occasionally jump inside of us to possess us. Angels, too, were everywhere, but they would not necessarily help us unless we asked for the help. We believed we had to get specific, too. For example, “Please help me pass my exam at 8:25 today, and to also help me not to be late because of that one stoplight at the corner of 9th and Maple.”

Rumpus: I was surprised to find that the act of writing softened my view of my religious upbringing. In bringing those times and those people to life on the page, I began to see them through the lens of their belief instead of my doubt. Did you find writing your book changed how you felt about your childhood and/or your religion?

Rae: Absolutely. We were only trying, after all—even in the midst of our zealousness. It helped to be able to look back on all of that with some grace and laughter. The writing of this book was good therapy for me.

Rumpus: The formative nature of Evangelical teachings take me by surprise again and again. Do you find these beliefs reasserting themselves from time to time?

Rae: Definitely. I think when you are raised with one paradigm from birth, it never fully leaves you. That’s true of any religion, creed or culture. But I want to explore my understanding of the world and try to look past the cultural shaping. And still, no matter how deliberately I do this, I find that I slip back into those old thought patterns. It seems that it is my “default setting”. I often go back there automatically when I’m not actively thinking it through. It’s almost like the difference between involuntary breathing and voluntary breathing. If I stop paying attention to my thoughts and search, I revert to the old judgments, the old fears, the old guilt.

Rumpus: Do you think the Evangelical sensibility has anything of value to offer the broader world?

Rae: The community of the church is lovely in a lot of ways, in that people have a place of  refuge where they can belong. The teachings of Jesus are wise and certainly apply to a practical way to live in the broader world. Take care of each other. Don’t judge. Distrust showy religious people. Don’t be a dick. It’s pretty simple, really. Of course, I would argue that the culture and the teachings seem to be at odds a bit these days…

Rumpus: Sometimes I feel like a human conduit between the worlds of faith and doubt. Do you ever feel that way? Where do you stand now in terms of belief and disbelief?

Rae: It’s such a tight rope walk, isn’t it? Certainly I’m more Mulder than Scully in that I want to believe, but I’m also a victim of a postmodern mind. I deconstruct everything. I reinterpret everything. Everything, Donna. It’s not fair, really. Certainty is so much simpler. And so, I push on in my search, trying to understand. Trying to just let it go. I think one of the relevant pair of verses in the Bible to my struggle is when that man said, “Lord I believe. Help my unbelief.” That’s my dichotomy, too. Yeah, I realize I’m not really answering your question. So, where do I stand? I’m trying.

Rumpus: Your book is funny and irreverent without actually making fun of things like wrestling for Jesus. How important and how difficult was it for you as a writer to walk that line, and do you think you ever crossed it?

Rae: You did this well in Holy Ghost Girl when you described the tent meetings and the healings that took place. You described what you saw, without ever giving the reader the feeling like you were judging them. It was important to me that I attempt this, as well. It is not my job to say whether the exorcism I performed on my Goth friend at church camp was real. At the time, it was real enough. But there are other things that I probably poke fun at a bit more, although maybe not overtly. But seriously, Donna, how do you describe muscle men, who bend rebar in their teeth in the name of Jesus, without a little humor?

Rumpus: Evangelicals often (not always) think of themselves as being set apart from the mainstream. In what way did this outsider identity influence you to become a writer?

Rae: Probably in more ways than I ever realized before you asked this question. I learned a lot about being a writer from my Evangelical roots. Like my path to Heaven, if I was going to do it right, all I had to do was a) believe; b) persist on my path in the face of naysayers; and c) expect poverty.

Rumpus: Talk a little about your decision to publish with an indie press and how that experience has gone for you.

Rae: I started out, of course, naïvely gung-ho to get noticed by one of the big publishing houses. I was taken up by them twice, and dropped twice. It was very disheartening, of course. By the time I found Emergency Press, though, I had learned enough to know that a smaller press would mean better editing, better attention, and trust—actual trust! I am incredibly impressed by Bryan Tomasovich over there. In all honesty, he is the best thing that happened to this book.

Rumpus: So, your first published work. There is pressure after you write and publish a memoir to write another, and in some cases another and another and another. Are you afraid of being trapped in the role of memoirist? Got a plan for avoiding it?

Rae: Well, like I said above, I am working on another memoir (oops!). I’m also working on a novel, though. And, well, there is the small matter of the several fiction manuscripts I have already written, but which have not yet been published, and which span several different genres. I don’t know. We’ll see how this goes, I suppose. Whatever the case, the writing demon won’t leave me. Memoir or fiction, I’m in for the long haul.

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“You have a demon inside of you that’s making you gay.”

As a 23-year-old, it had been some time since I’d heard a comment like that, but there I was, dressed up in my nicest clothes and trying to be an adult—and all at once I felt like a frightened teenager all over again.

I began to come out as gay during my freshman year at a suburban Minnesota high school—I was a tall kid with soft and scrawny arms who deigned to get his eyebrow pierced at 15 years old and loved Aaliyah (I camped out on my stoop with a Discman and a dollar-store candle the day she died), so I don’t think my revelation astonished anyone. I first started to come out not because I particularly wanted to, but because I couldn’t not. After years of failed attempts to change my sexual orientation through my Born Again fundamentalist Christian beliefs, my mother realized what was going on and helped me find support. I stopped trying to change myself. But along with relief, I felt a kind of fury. Years of self-loathing manifested in a desire to make things right—for myself, and for others, so that they wouldn’t suffer the way I had.

With no other openly gay people in my school or in my church, I tried to blaze a trail. Though I engaged in patient dialogue, there were times when I thought my self-righteousness would act as a brush-clearing fire, such as when I camped out in front of a conference on anti-gay “reparative therapy” and shouted at those going in. I thought I was actively changing people’s minds this way—or at least humiliating them—because, well, they deserved it. I found myself taking genuine pleasure in making people uncomfortable. If they didn’t accept me for who I was—immediately, totally, and unflinchingly—then they could go fuck themselves. It wasn’t my job to coddle people into being tolerant or to make them feel okay about their inability to do so. I wasn’t as brazen as I might have liked; years of doctrine-induced self-loathing and doubt had stripped me of much of the bravado that defined my childhood. Besides, I was raised with the idea that it is important to be kind to others. Those things meant that I was sensitive; but I still knew how to pack a wallop with my words when I felt I was under attack.

My anger intensified as I entered college and decided I didn’t believe in God. The years I had spent grappling with Christian theology felt like a waste of time and emotional energy. Feeling deeply conflicted about religion, I began to write religious people off as fools. College was about carving out my own path, defined by a “my way or the highway” attitude in which alternate perspectives had no place. Eventually I saw the limitations inherent in this kind of approach, but it had become so deeply embedded that I continued to struggle for some time with being charitable toward those who disagreed with me.

***

The gay demon comment happened during my first speaking tour in support of my efforts as a writer and activist exploring issues of religion, atheism, interfaith cooperation, and LGBT identity. I had begun writing a book about my experiences and was grateful for the opportunity to try out some material before a live audience. But, for a 23-year-old saddled with social anxiety and a voice prone to ill-timed cracks (condemning my love for rapping to a merely private hobby), eight colleges in three states over eleven days was a bit more than I should’ve committed to for my first public speaking tour.

To my surprise, most of the events were relatively painless—enjoyable, even. I met open-minded and inquisitive students, staff, and faculty who came with tough questions and an eager desire to learn and discuss. Their goodwill and genuine curiosity made for many meaningful conversations.

There was, however, one notable exception to this general Midwestern geniality.

Midway through my tour, I ended a full day of workshops and meetings at a university with a speech. I was feeling unexpectedly at ease and excited by how well the day had gone.

I finished my speech, fielded questions, and talked with some people who lingered after the program was finished. When nearly everyone else had cleared out, a young woman timidly approached me. Her hair, dark like rosewood, alternated with every motion of her head between hovering just above her thin shoulders and resting on them.

“You have a demon inside of you that is making you gay,” she stammered quietly. “I know because I used to have a demon that gave me a gluten intolerance. But then I, uh, prayed and God cast it out.”

I was shocked. I had fielded some bizarre questions and comments, but this was a new one. My instinct was to respond in one of three ways: cry, laugh in her face, or yell at her.

The first might have happened no matter what. For years I had believed as she did: that my same-sex attractions were a spiritual affliction, an ethical infection, and likely the result of demonic forces. I had become a Christian at eleven years old because I was looking for a community, for friendship, for justice in an unjust world. But after just a few years of internalizing the dehumanizing, anti-gay theology of my nondenominational church, I retreated so far within my self-loathing and isolated myself so completely that suicide seemed the only option. Since then I’ve worked to undo that damage, trying to restore the self-confidence that defined my childhood. I’ve done a pretty good job of making peace with my past, but with her words those feelings came rushing back, inflamed and raw again. It took a good amount of willpower not to flush them out through my tear ducts.

The second possible reaction—laughter—seemed the most enthralling. Mocking her would allow me both to feel confidently self-righteous and have fun at the same time. I mean, really—she compared my sexual orientation to gluten intolerance. “Oh, right, my body just can’t metabolize women. It’s frustrating when I’m out at a restaurant because I just have so few options!” “Wait, there’s a demon in there? I thought I just ate too much Chipotle.” Or, to be simple and direct: “Are you serious? That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.” Pair it with a patronizing laugh and I’d be done.

With luck, such mockery would humiliate her, demolish her ego, and shame her into silence—preventing her from daring to say such a thing to anyone else ever again. Embarrassing another with my words was a trick I picked up as a child in order to compensate for being the scrawny, physically weak kid in a family of heavy-set athletic Midwesterners: by observing my siblings’ insecurities, I could make incisive, comedic remarks at their expense in the middle of a physical scrap that would cut to the deepest part of their gut, forcing them into tears and retreat.

While cutting laughter might work well, yelling at this stranger would probably be the most cathartic of my options. I could even toss in a “fuck” or two. And, really, this was what I wanted to do most. In a way, she was among those responsible for making me believe during my adolescence that I needed to reject who I was. Her theology was in line with the message promoted by the authorities of the nondenominational church I converted into an adolescent, which claimed that gay people are a blemish upon God’s blessed community. The misery I experienced during my pubescent years was the direct result of beliefs like hers. She needed to know that she was wrong, and that she was responsible. It would be an anger of accountability. I would be more than justified if I ridiculed her dehumanizing beliefs and lectured her about how and why she was so stupid and wrong.

No matter how I responded, I did know one thing: her comments did not deserve a respectful response. As an interfaith organizer, I regularly work alongside people who have beliefs that I do not understand or agree with—but I can still respect that some of these beliefs inform and inspire the good work that they do. That respect is generally contingent on the understanding that it is a two-way street—that even though we disagree on some very significant things, we all share the right to live our lives in the way that we choose.

However, religious beliefs that cast aside an entire group of people—that write them off as inhuman—are not worthy of respect. Whether I laughed or yelled, she deserved to be corrected and chastised.

But before I could discern how to respond, I decided to take a breath. Just a moment, to pause and collect myself. A moment to let my emotions ebb.

As I cooled off, my inclination shifted away from expressing my emotional response—making my hurt known—and toward observing her. I recalled that she had been visibly shaking as she approached me; that her voice had trembled when she spoke; that she was now breathing sharply and staring at the ground before her feet, refusing eye contact. I noticed that she actually appeared to be frightened. Despite myself, I felt sympathy.

When I first heard her words, I went red with rage. I was so fully possessed by offense that I lost my attention to detail. I stopped listening. My anger consumed me; it was almost as if a demon had indeed come to roost. When I stopped to calm down and look closer, I decided that she was no more a demon than I.

I couldn’t believe what came out of my mouth next.

“First of all, I want to thank you,” I said, returning my gaze to look her in the eyes. “I know how difficult it can be to tell someone something that you’re pretty sure they don’t want to hear. I appreciate your bravery, and I suspect that you’re telling me this from a place of care and concern for my well-being.”

Based on the look spreading across her face, I was pretty sure she couldn’t believe what she was hearing either. Her tense muscles began to relax; she started to slip out of her defensive posture. Maybe she had anticipated a confrontation; perhaps she even hoped to provoke one. Instead, I decided to ask her some questions about her experiences and share some of my own.

With this channel of dialogue open, I explained to her why I disagreed with her ideas; how I had tried exactly what she advised to no avail; how I tortured myself for years, and then found a home in progressive Christianity; how I went on to study religion and came to different conclusions about Christian truth claims than I once held; and how today I work for inclusivity and understanding across lines of religious diversity. In walking her through my story, I added color to the monochromatic ideas she had about gay people, about atheists, and about me.

She may not have deserved my respect or my love, but I could give it to her anyway—the latter, at least. Love is a transformational thing; it can change the very fiber of an encounter. Perhaps especially when it isn’t earned.

I’d like to be able to say that I changed her mind that day—it would make a nice and tidy bookend to this story. But, as far as I know, I didn’t convince her that homosexuality isn’t an aberration. Our conversation was somewhat brief, and I have no reason to believe she sees homosexuality as any more legitimate than she did before.

But I do know she walked away changed. Now, when she thinks of gay people, she has to place flesh on the bones. She has another point of reference. She can no longer only think of a word in a book or a face on a television screen; she must also consider a body that has given her a hug, a face that has winced and shown signs of human frailty, a person who has experienced hurt and humiliation and satisfaction and joy. Someone who has shared in the experience of being human. She has a story and a person instead of just words on a page or from some minister’s mouth. Though I couldn’t walk away saying either one of us had “won,” I continue to wonder about what seeds were planted that day.

***

In 2010, a Gallup poll demonstrated that people are significantly more inclined to oppose same-sex marriage if they do not know anyone who is LGBT. As Robert Wright wrote in The New York Times, the LGBT community has learned that engaged relationships change people’s hearts and minds, and this is a model that the interfaith movement utilizes in its aim to counter the combative relationships that often exist between people of different religious or nonreligious identities. Engaged diversity humanizes those we see as vastly different from ourselves; through positive and productive relationships across lines of identity, we learn that another has value, worth, and dignity.

Shouting matches may be fun but, surveying on our national discourse, I’m not confident they’re getting us anywhere. As sociologist Robert Putnam has observed, people tend to hunker down and defend their preexisting prejudices when confronted by diverse perspectives and identities. But if diversity is engaged positively, individuals from different backgrounds meet and learn from one another—and communities are actually stronger and more sustainable because of their diversity.

Despite what that woman claimed, I can confidently say that there is no demon inside of me. But I am plagued by something. Sometimes, my biggest obstacle to acting out of love lies not in the intolerance or ineptitude of another, but within myself—and I suspect within many of us. It lies within the people who think first of cultural prohibitions against same-sex love when they hear LGBT people describe the years of torment such prescriptions have caused many of us; in the people who use claims to religious or political authority as an excuse to steamroll other cultures; in the religious believers and atheists who ignore their common goals in favor of inflaming one culture war after another. But it doesn’t have to be this way. We can challenge ourselves to be more empathetic and more open—to respond to conflict by striving to understand the unfamiliar, to buck the instincts that encourage us to draw lines between ourselves and others. It may be very difficult, but compassion in the face of diversity can open up a space for learning and growth.

Is it best to respond to bigotry with patience in every instance? Perhaps not. Should everyone have responded the way I did in that situation? I don’t know. Maybe it was easier for me to let that young Christian woman’s comments roll off my back because I don’t believe that demons are real, and because I have known the limitations that come with such a narrow view of the world. But I suspect I was able to extend compassion to her mostly because I feel comfortable enough in my own skin these days that not every moment needs to be about my desire for a personal victory. And I have found—in that moment, and in many others—that responding to hate with love can reap surprising dividends; that the counterintuitive nature of such an act can destabilize hatred and fear.

For years I was snagged by my own pain, anger, vindictiveness, and resentment. They prevented me from seeing myself honestly, and from seeing and hearing others in their complexity. My indiscriminate desire to pick fights made me look for the worst in others and ignore the nuance. My defensiveness seized any opportunity to imagine myself under siege. That negative outlook—where everyone was potentially against me, a possible enemy—became the lens through which I viewed the world.

The confidence I lost during those years I spent beating myself up for being queer has returned, but now it is tempered and protective. The toned-down nature of my confidence allows me to love in ways I couldn’t before. To let things happen on terms other than my own, to trust in the potential goodness of others, to meet people more than halfway, and to strive to build understanding whenever I can—even when it means setting aside my own desire to prove that I’m right.

***

Rumpus original art by Jason Novak.

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But. Religion, or at least the basic tenets and concepts of Judeo-Christianity, figure prominently in my writing life because, though I am not a religious person, some of my favorite poets were or are. I used to be a poet, so the writing fanning out in back of me, stretched out in a long haphazard peacock-dazed line, is largely still poetry. Some of my favorite poetry has the fire and fury of the Old Testament and some the sweet forgiveness of man’s sins the New Testament promises.

It would be more accurate to say I feel a kinship with the religious, because I, too, know the yearning for redemptive grace. And yet because I am an agnostic, (and probably would be an atheist were I not a Midwesterner, too passive and polite to commit fully to my own conviction), that grace is not something that is open to me through religion. It must come through story and poetry instead—through the myths that sentences build, the paradise of words and wonders found and documented here on earth.

I should note here for any well-meaning evangelicals that when I say ‘yearning’ I do not mean I yearn for religion itself. Whatever it is that makes people believe in a god, I have never had it, never that I can remember, and have instead sought its substitute in the world around me. I do not feel I am missing anything; indeed, I feel lucky to have begun my search for grace in literature so early on, fueled by parable and metaphor and by never having to see anything so mundane as truth in such bright colorful stories. In James Whale’s Bride of Frankenstein, one of my favorite films, Dr. Pretorius tells Dr. Frankenstein to: “Leave the charnel house and follow the lead of nature – or of God, if you like your Bible stories… Create a race, a man-made race upon the face of the earth. Why not?”

Why not indeed? As writers, can we not create our own kingdom of Heaven on the face of the earth? Can we artists not all be gods and monsters? This is, has always been, if a little bittersweet, a mostly exhilarating prospect for me. If I can’t believe the story, at least I can create my own.

But even so – my writing will be filled, is filled, with the myths and motifs that have come from the Bible and the Torah and other religious traditions and texts. And so why religious writing? I think that, whether biblical texts or writing with deep religious conviction, it tends to be full of mystery, of high language and ancient themes, of chaos followed by order, order broken by chaos, of parable and repetition and ritual, of a strong appreciation for nature, and of the fear and wonder of death and what follows. It is, in other words, full of the things I admire most in literature. Small wonder, then, that I should so enjoy some of its practitioners. (This is not to say, by the way, that most religious writing is good, or that I like purposeful religious writing. Like any kind of writing meant to instruct, that kind of writing is usually cardboard. The texts that come from the author’s sense of the sublime are the ones that are, seldom but sometimes, glorious.)

This has meant I have long been moved by and drawn to religious poets and writers. I have long loved the conservative, Catholic poetry of David Jones and T.S. Eliot, rooted in Christian legend and mythology. Even when I was young I enjoyed The Narnia Chronicles, and the writings of Madeline L’Engle. They made a certain sort of mathematical sense, which the universe that I knew, frankly, did not. They gave a calm to a deeply unmoored young neurotic, though I never understood their religious underpinnings until I was much older.

And then, in a separate and exalted category, stands my long love affair with Gerard Manley Hopkins. As a Jesuit priest, his poems came from what he saw as an ecstatic appreciation for the miracles of the divine here on earth. Consider this bit of one of my very favorite poems ever written, “God’s Grandeur”

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared

With toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell:

The soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

This poem is full of ecstatic feeling and delicious language at the order and beauty of nature, at the divine mystery that Hopkins believes enfolds and gives birth to green and growing things, to the sun and the light and the sweet, dark soil. How can I not be moved by this, though I do not believe in any god? How can I fail to understand exactly what my fellow human being was feeling, one hundred and fifty years ago? How can I fail to love his explanations for the order of the world, and his joy, his creative use of form, of chant, of repetition and rhyme and glorious, bursting, worshipful language? As a child, the only part of church that I enjoyed was the part where we took our red, satin-covered hymnals from the backs of the pews and sang, stood and sang in exalted and glorious four part harmonies. I loved to sing and was unselfconscious about it then, and although I didn’t believe in god, I believed that perhaps this was what people meant when they spoke about god: this raising of voices, this triumphant and joyful melody. This ecstasy of noise. Hopkins still represents that feeling for me.

Of course my lack of religious faith has also meant that I feel a strong kinship with the many poets who, like Emily Dickinson, doubted. I have long appreciated how earnestly and yet how slyly she wrestled with the problems of death and truth and some kind of afterlife, and how often that doubt defines her poetry. In her poem which begins, “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died,” she seems to suggest that the Fly lies between her dead soul and the afterlife – until the end of the poem, “I could not see to see – “ after which we realize the Fly is a sort of dark and damning truth, the darkness that she seems to fear will come instead of promised grace. This chord echoes again and again in much of her poetry, along with the brilliant conflation of the sexual and the holy. And they are lines only someone who doubted could produce.

Being, myself, a non-religious person, I am perhaps most of all drawn to the language-driven poetry of Charles Wright, who, like me, cannot believe, but can attempt to find a substitute for grace in the material world around him. Wright is perhaps a Southern poet, concerned with the past and the legacy of loss, but he is also a poet concerned with his lack of faith and the attempt to reconcile it with his love of nature and the world around him. In fact, I have heard critics and scholars compare Wright with Hopkins many times, and Hopkins’ line of influence seems clear and bright to me, with the element of loss and yearning that comes with lack of belief drizzled through. Adam Kirsch, reviewing Wright’s “Appalachia,” said that, “the still center around which these themes whirl, has always been Wright’s metaphysical yearning, his desire for a mystical or religious transcendence that is seemingly impossible today.”

This yearning is precisely what drives Wright’s work. He has always been obsessed with death, particularly as he ages. From his book Littlefoot, a meditation on mortality, this stanza always breaks my heart a little more, every time I read it, every time a little older:

We’re not here a lot longer than we are, for sure.

Unlike coal, for instance, or star clots.

Or so we think.

And thus it behooves us all to windrow affection, and spare,

And not be negligent.

So that our hearts end up like diamonds, and not roots.

So that our disregard evaporates

as a part of speech.

This is sadness mingled with joy, the loss of certainty, the coming of science to crowd out our myths and hang a canvas beyond believing. And yet here, here is the Hopkins within, the agnostic Jesuit who wants to feel ecstasy over something we can’t call god, although perhaps we might:

How is it we can’t accept this, that all trees were holy once,

That all light is altar light,

And floods us, day by day, and bids us, the air sheet lightning

Around us,

To sit still and say nothing,

Here under the latches of Paradise?

After reading again all these writings, all these poets – the religious, the spiritual, the doubters, the non-believers like me – I believe we are all talking about the same thing. I believe that whether we write about god or the absence of god – if we write honestly – then we write about the greatest unattainable wish, the dream of the cave, the strange note sounded in the night that draws men to their death. We write of ultimate mystery and unknowable meaning. And what that is to each man?  To each writer that wrestles with the problem? That might be religion indeed, for I have no better word for it. As Wright writes, in “Thinking of Wallace Stevens at the Beginning of Spring”:

The poem is virga, a rain that never falls to earth.

That’s why we look this way, our palms outstretched,

Our faces jacked toward the blue.

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It’s hot and sunny and we’re in the country near Amherst, Virginia on Karen’s front porch. She offers me iced tea, which I, for some reason, decline. As she heads to fetch her own, I navigate three German Shorthaired Pointers and sit down on a wooden rocker. The dogs are curious about my backpack but soon lose interest, circle around, and drop to their bellies, almost in unison. Karen returns and sits opposite me in her own rocker.

 ***

The Rumpus: Which is your favorite dog?

Karen Prior: [Pointing at the dog directly in front of her] This one. Because she loves me the most. They’re all great, really. But this one, she never leaves my side.

Rumpus: You have room for lots of animals out here in the country.

Prior: Sometimes more, sometimes less. I had to put down my twenty-five year old horse last fall. Now I have just one and board two more.

Rumpus: Can you draw a comparison between horse care and being a professor?

Karen Prior: There’s a lot of mucking out of stalls. You’ve got to put up with a lot of crap and then clean it out before you get to the stuff you really enjoy, the riding and the teaching.

Rumpus: Politics.

Karen Prior: You know.

Rumpus: How did you end up teaching at Liberty University?

Prior: The truth is, most academics aren’t privileged enough to choose. It’s not like I could just pick a school and teach there. I had a Ph.D. in English. Ph.D.’s in English don’t have many options. That being said, my husband and I sat down and decided what areas of the country we wanted to live in, and Virginia is so beautiful it’s always been on our list. And then there was Liberty, looking for an English professor and its beliefs and mission match mine. It all went very quickly after that.

Rumpus: And the hiring body at Liberty didn’t mind your record of arrests or the FBI file?

Prior: No way! I was advocating for pro-life causes each time I was arrested. Trespassing, disorderly conduct, stuff like that. I put my arrests right down on my application, and they were a real career boost. I mean, at Liberty they were. Not at most schools.

Rumpus: So why did the FBI have a file on you?

Prior: Hate mail. Death threats. It was for my personal safety.

Rumpus: Can you share anything more specific?

Prior: When I was doing media interviews for pro-life protests, someone left a wire coat hanger in my mailbox.

Rumpus: Wow. How’s that for discourse.

Prior: It communicated very well.

Rumpus: Why Pro-Life? That’s not very academic of you.

Prior: For many people, abortion is a personal or religious or political issue, but for me it’s a rational issue. I simply believe that human fetuses are unborn children. That’s it. The logic of that position carries itself out. When I started really getting involved in the pro-life movement, heavily involved, I had to go to my mother and tell her that I’ve never had an abortion because she was probably thinking I did because my commitment to the cause seems so inexplicable. For many people there is that kind of personal or emotional motivation. It’s not like that for me. Pro-Life is a position I arrive at intellectually.

Rumpus: What is one stereotype about Christian education?

Prior: That the purpose of it is to shelter students from the outside world, when in fact its purpose is to equip students to engage and critique culture from a biblical point of view. There should be no sheltering in a quality, Christian education.

Rumpus: Then how would you respond to someone who says Liberty University shelters students by restricting them with curfews and rules banning rated “R” movies on campus.

Prior: For the most part, the rules are designed towards, but perhaps not always successfully communicated as rules for community living.  Even though I disagree with a rule against rated “R” movies for an individual, I can understand, taking into account the many different backgrounds our conservative minded students come from, how it would be easier for a university to create one rule toward upholding biblical standards of living for an entire community of developing young people. The rules are certainly different than I expect individual Christians would make for themselves. The system isn’t perfect, but there is a good idea behind it.

Rumpus: Liberty University is large and loud in the political realm. Bachmann, McCain, Perry – swinging by to speak at Liberty University has become a pre-requisite for Republican presidential candidates. Mitt Romney was the commencement speaker. Liberty has also grown in size, from around six thousand residential students in 2002 to twelve thousand students in 2010.  Public commentators and comedians and the like have a lot to say about Liberty.  What’s one negative stereotype about Liberty University?

Prior: Let’s see. There are so many! One stereotype is that our professors don’t have the same academic backgrounds and qualifications as professors at other universities.

Rumpus: True or false?

Prior: It has to be false. We’re from the same state colleges and institutions everyone else is from. There simply aren’t a lot of evangelical schools that offer Ph.D. programs in many disciplines. So we come from and publish in the same sort of academic environments as everyone else. [Karen has her Ph.D. from State University of New York at Buffalo.]

Rumpus: Here’s my pageant question. So what does it mean to be an academic and a Christian in 2012?

Prior: I think the fragmentation that we have seen at the end of modernity—or in post-modernity as some would have it — means that Christianity is just one more of many niches in both academia and the world. In a sense, I think Christians in academia have an equal footing in being just one more niche, but on the other hand, because Christians believe in a meta narrative, in a unifying story, we also have the opportunity to integrate our story as Christians with other stories being told. That’s exciting.

Rumpus: Your memoir, Booked: How Literature Saved My Soul, is being published by T.S. Poetry Press this fall. Why should people care about it?

Prior: That’s a valid question because my life is a pretty boring life, despite the FBI file and all that. But really, the connections I draw between my ordinary life and the great books that shaped me, is where I hope to meet my reader. Books are the great common ground, regardless of religious or political beliefs. Most of us live ordinary lives, yet want to draw out meaning and make connections. My book shows some of those connections and how all of the stories we interact with affect our lives. It’s not just a memoir. It’s a memoir about how other people’s stories shaped my life.

Rumpus: Did you have any moments of self-discovery as you wrote?  Did you discover that you were a worse person than you remember? Or better?

Prior: My editor said I sometimes came off like a jerk! And he’s probably right because at one point I was trying to figure out how I was going to tell stories about people who caused me pain. In doing that, I had to think through what I thought about those painful moments and how I feel about them now. In early drafts, I sounded bitter, more bitter than I felt.

Rumpus: Did you find a way to work around that?

Prior: It’s a matter of voices. I had to think through those situations in order to figure out how I feel now. After that, I could frame the narrative in a way that reflected both my opinions during the moment of pain and also now, as an older woman thinking back. In that respect, writing my own memoir further shaped my life.

Rumpus: I bet it was all of that Christian rock that led to your painful days.

Prior: No! No, I never listened to Christian Rock.

Rumpus: That’s too bad. Christian rock is the stuff of great memoir.

Prior: Well, I do remember one time when I was a teenager and a locally famous evangelical preacher came to my church and preached about the evils of rock. He preached against all rock, even Christian versions. And his argument had nothing to do with the lyrics. He was just really anti-drums. It was the beat. It was too sensual or something like that. It was ridiculous.

Rumpus: Drums lead to sex, right?

Prior: Exactly. Drums lead to sex. So after his message, sometime later, my youth pastor got all motivated and took all of us youth group kids to his attic…

Rumpus: Creepy.

Prior: It sounds creepy, but it wasn’t even a real attic, just a cubby hole built into the side of an upstairs bedroom. He brought us up there to show us where he used to keep all of his rock albums, which he’d burned in a fit of righteousness. You know, I’m sure he had a more sophisticated argument, but all I remember was that he then related rock to drums and then to rhythm and then to sex. And somehow he tied Africa into all of it.

Rumpus: Geez.

Prior: It was about that time that I left the youth group to smoke more pot.

Rumpus: Good! I wanted to get around to this topic, because of your current employer. So here’s the question:  how does your history of pot smoking influence your teaching pedagogy at Liberty University?

Prior: Well, to my great surprise, I ended up pursuing a profession in which having all of my brain cells working at maximum capacity would have been nice. So there’s that. But you know, really, my past affects my teaching now in the same way most choices affect anyone’s life. I was trying to enjoy myself then and have a good time. I’m trying to do the same thing now only I’ve found a better and more fulfilling way.

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The Vatican’s assessment from April focused Leadership Conference of Women Religious (a group of leaders from 80% of the U.S.’s female orders and their promoting “radical feminist themes”: going against Church doctrine on homosexuality and the male-only priesthood, while also challenging the bishops, “the church’s authentic teachers of faith and morals.”

The nuns announcement came just a day after the Vatican denounced “Just Love: A Framework for Christian Sexual Ethics”, a book on the theological rationale for same-sex marriage, masturbation, and remarriage, by Sister Margaret Farley. The Leadership of Women Religious defended Farley, a teacher of Christian Ethics at Yale Divinity School, with protests and petitions.

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Sweet Heaven When I Die, a book of journalistic essays by reporter Jeff Sharlet, is a Cubist portrait of American faith, an ecumenical David Hockney photocollage. Sharlet writes about pubescent “soldiers of god” quivering with devotion and abstinence, anarchist martyrs, sword-wielding New Age healers, spitting radio demagogues and Cornel West. Descended from the literary journalism of Mailer and Didion, his reporting challenges the simple, culture war binary of paranoid, atavistic evangelicals vs. effete, egg-headed liberals. In its place he presents something more complicated, patchwork. He encounters familiar fundamentalism, but Sharlet is interested in this only in so much as it is one example of the way people in this country pursue religion. In Sharlet’s essays, “religion” is something protean and heterodox, part of the continuing project of becoming that we are all constantly engaged in.

In the first, and one of the best, essays in the book, “Sweet Fuck All, Colorado”, Sharlet travels to Colorado to visit an ex-girlfriend who has since become a Republican district attorney. The woman with whom he once drank whiskey and attended war protests has, over the years, embraced a kind of ‘ol time relijun, sanguinary and vengeful, complete with guns and horses and a black-and-white concept of justice. The essay is Sharlet’s attempt to grapple with the change, from someone who used to think that “learning to read is a process you can never be done with, because words are always changing” to someone who participates in mock shoot-outs in fake old-West towns as part of a political campaign. At the same time, Sharlet ponders the myth of the Western frontier and the way people still array themselves in its props and pose themselves, as if in a cheesy Old West period photograph. As Sharlet says, “The frontier, as a state of mind, is forever being born again in America.” The essay is an inquiry into the powerful human need for narrative and the way open country and stories are spaces we colonize in order to become more substantial to ourselves.

In “She Said Yes”, Sharlet profiles BattleCry, a (spiritually) militant evangelical youth ministry. Sharlet calls it “the most furious youth crusade since young sinners in the hands of an angry God flogged themselves with shame in eighteenth-century New England.” That makes Ron Luce, the founder and head of BattleCry, the Jonathan Edwards of the movement, raging against the slavering demimonde of secularism with its MTV and tube-tops that increasingly encroaches on American Christendom. Luce travels the country with a modern-day revival tour called Acquire the Fire, at which he strides the stage like Patton, hectoring thousands of teenagers and rousing their righteous anger with his jeremiads as Christian heavy metal plays in the background. Luce “tells the kids to make lists of secular pleasures they’ll sacrifice for the cause…They cast into perdition Starbucks (multiple votes), Victoria’s Secret…breakfast cereal—Special K and Cap’n Crunch—hip huggers, ‘smelling amazing’, 99.3 FM, ‘Eric’, vengeance, ‘medication’, and A&W root beer. ‘I would say it’s ridiculous what they are doing to root beer,’ wrote a boy who will drink A&W no more.”

Jeff Sharlet

Sharlet goes to the Honor Academy in East Texas, Luce’s own madrassa, which produces spiritual soldiers in his own image. Sharlet says Luce “has selected nearly six thousand for his Honor Academy, the best of whom become political operatives and media activists,” and describes it as “a vertically integrated operation, a political machine that produces ‘leaders for the army,’ a command cadre that can count on the masses conditioned by Luce’s rallies as their infantry.” There, students take classes on leadership and character and prepare themselves to combat the cultural illuminati that run America and conspire against young Christian souls. They also are required to spend time setting up and selling tickets for Luce’s public events. Sharlet notes that the students are required to be called interns in order to skirt labor laws. Meet the new fundamentalism, same as the old fundamentalism, built on the misplaced rage of the emotionally disenfranchised and ignorant teenagers.

Sharlet isn’t strictly concerned with Christianity or America. Throughout the essays in the book, he is pursuing a certain yearning, earnest and angry and theatrical, and the ways that yearning manifests itself in, or in reaction to, ritualistic practice. He writes about the psychic contortions he underwent while growing up half Jewish and half gentile and about a Yiddish writer and Holocaust survivor living in Montreal whose writing forces her to live a double life, one in Montreal and one in the ghetto in Lodz. In another essay, he meets an entrepreneurial spiritualist named Bhakti Sondra Shaye who performs a “spiritual cord cutting” on him for the price of $95 and muses on spirituality as marketplace. He says, “It’s simple, really: Home Depot sells the idea of home, Best Buy sells a wired world, the new New Age sells ‘spiritual health’—while the right of the sovereign consumer to acquire it, purchase by purchase is praised as the law of nature: an orthodoxy of a thousand choices, an infinitely marketable economy of belief.”

Sharlet is a strong writer and a sharp observer. At one point he writes of trees as “grunts of tortured bark” and describes folk-singer Dock Boggs as “a scoop-faced, dainty-fingered man”. He does not condescend to anyone’s faith or politics. His writing is filled with a generous curiosity about people as infinitely complex individuals, and the results frequently feel novelistic. Sharlet’s profile of Brad Will, a radical and an activist who was shot and killed in 2006 while filming an uprising in Oaxaca, Mexico, is compelling and complicated. Will’s activism comes off as simultaneously self-serving and touristic and scarily brave and compassionate. Sharlet writes, “He wanted to write poems, but even more, he wanted to become one.” Will’s pursuits of social justice in various realms seem as dramatic and quixotic as someone impersonating a comic book superhero, but by the end he is a heartbreakingly real figure, not a leftist caricature.

In a vignette entitled “What They Wanted”, after an anarchist spectacle erupts like a boil out of a larger, more ordered protest in the streets of New York, Sharlet writes about a celebration he witnesses at a church where the crust-punks and techno-vagrants are staying: “For as long as it lasted, the grave dust and the three-days’-sleeping-in-a-church stink, the big boom-boom of the bass drum, the flamenco steps, and the gift of ululating tongues…–all seemed to believers like signs and wonders, the entirety of protest, or revolution…They scorned sound bites, and for the moment they desperately did not want mediation of any kind. What they wanted was revelation. ‘Religion’—as broadly defined as the mouth of the Hudson…” That’s as good a summation of this collection of essays as any. A glimpse at a nation of people free to seek their own revelation, with all the messy pluralism of democracy.

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