November 1 – It begins

The term “Preacher’s Kid” seems to have a special place in America’s lexicon. When someone discovers that my father is a pastor there is a standard response. The eyebrow’s arch, the eyes twinkle, a long drawn-out “aaaaAAAaaahhh” escapes the lips, the head begins to nod. “So you’re a preacher’s kid! That explains a lot.” This is typically accompanied by a wink. Even if this person and I just met, there is still an acknowledgement that I am somehow different.

And I am.

It should go without saying that I didn’t ask to be a preacher’s kid. But I was one from the minute I was born. As a matter of fact, before I was born my parents dedicated me, their firstborn, to the Lord for his service, specifically to be a preacher. They took as their inspiration the Biblical story of Samuel. Thus it was determined at the outset that my life would be painted on a canvas of parchment filled with Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek letters. In addition, my father was in school at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, so my life’s canvas was bound and framed by the peculiarly southern American fundamentalist brand of religion.

I would be well into my adult life before I would begin to comprehend the effect this would have on me. Fundamentalism was all around me in my formative years, indeed all of my years. Within one week of returning home from the hospital (I was delivered Cesarean) I was at a church meeting (albeit in the nursery). I probably attended an average of three meetings a week from then until I was almost forty. This was, in effect, a long, slow brainwashing. I wasn’t confined to a compound, and we didn’t have secret rituals, but there is an insidious imprint when some of your earliest memories involve praying to be spared an eternity in the never-ending flames of hell. Jesus’ admonitions of “He who is not with me is against me” and “So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth” leads to a very black-and-white mindset. There is no room for compromise, and if you stray, just remember; Jesus would rather that you excel at being bad rather than just half-heartedly attempt it.

Thus was set in motion a pattern which would govern my life for nearly four decades. All or nothing. Black or white. No compromise. No moderation. Up or down. In or out. In this I share much in common with the typical suicide bomber and plane-flying jihadist.

Same god, different prophet.

My childhood in Fort Worth was generally unremarkable. I was taken to both Iowa and North Carolina to be shown off to my Dad’s and Mom’s families. I learned how to read and pronounce words using phonetics lessons in the local newspaper. My dad served as a part-time pastor to a small rural congregation in a town almost two hours to the south. It was managing to survive on an agricultural basis but like most small country churches there was no growth. The children who went to college rarely came back. I was evidently a big hit and many pictures survive of me celebrating birthdays there in the homes of several church members. I was allowed to steer a tractor once and promptly drove over a chain link fence. I got to taste milk straight from the cow (after only a little bit of chilling and stirring). I was fascinated with the automated milking machinery. The people were friendly, the meals were home-made and generous. What’s not to like?

When my father graduated from seminary he began preaching at different churches ‘in lieu of a call’ – meaning that he would preach a sermon at a pastorless church and then they would take a vote as to whether or not they felt led to call him to be their pastor. It was all couched in religious terms, as if God was orchestrating the whole matter, but in reality God always seemed to ‘lead’ people to pick the person they initially liked, and pastors always seemed to be ‘led’ to accept the call (of God) from churches who provided the best benefits. Keeping an air of somber sobriety about it all helped to give the appearance of supernatural involvement, but it wasn’t much different than headhunting for a CEO. They even sent out teams of deacons and elders as a ‘search committee’ to go listen to recommended preachers, again in lieu of a call.

Somewhere, somehow, my dad was invited to preach in lieu of a call at a church out rather literally in the middle of nowhere. Interstate Highway 10 proceeds east out of Los Angeles and traverses the desert SouthWest of the United States, joining Phoenix and Tuscon, Arizona, Las Cruces, New Mexico, and El Paso, Texas. In the heart of the Trans-Pecos desert the highway forks, with I-10 proceeding southeast toward San Antonio and I-20 branching off northeast toward Midland and Odessa. But if you could keep going straight ahead for another ninety miles or so you would find a small town in the middle of the Permian Basin oil fields named Big Lake. It is ninety miles south of I-20 and maybe forty miles north of I-10. Mexico is less than three hours away. In 1965 the First Baptist Church made an offer, my dad accepted, and he started his first full-time pastorate.

When we first moved there the town actually did have a lake. It was fed by springs and rain runoff, but as the surrounding area’s oil was pumped out the water table dropped and the lake eventually became a dry bed. I attended kindergarten in a repurposed home and then first grade in a building which was separate from the rest of the school facilities by several blocks. My main memories of kindergarten are graham crackers and milk. I remember more of first grade. We napped (or tried) on mats, we read, we learned to write, we sang. For some reason I’ve never forgotten singing this one particular children’s song with Minnie Cortez. I had a bit of a crush on her. It went something like this:

“Oh PLAYMATE, come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three.
Climb up my apple tree,
Look down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we’ll be jolly friends forever more.”

A pivotal event occurred when I was seven years old. I was right at the age when most Protestant denominations believed that one had reached the so-called ‘age of accountability.’ It is a rather strange concept, the product of several hundred years of debate and no small amount of angst and confusion. It emanates from the problem of what happens to the soul of a child if they die. Those who die at birth or shortly thereafter are generally given the benefit of the doubt. It is very comforting to think of angels ushering them directly into the fluffy clouds of heaven behind those gates decorated with pearls. They were innocent. This viewpoint sees sin as a choice. However, a literal interpretation of Scripture has led many to the conclusion that we are all born in a sinful state and will head straight for hell no matter when we die, even before we have the comprehension level necessary for salvation. (This presumes that any one can understand it) Catholics solved this by christening babies, presumably offsetting any sin and giving one a reprieve until later. But over the years even Protestants have mellowed and the general consensus is that when one can understand the whole sin/salvation, heaven/hell concept then one has reached the age where a decision must be made.

The solution is simple enough – bow your head, bend your knees, clasp your hands and repeat after me:

“Heavenly Father, I know that I am a sinner and that I deserve to go to hell. I believe that Jesus died on the cross for my sins. I do now receive Him as my personal Lord and Savior. I promise to serve you the best I can. Please come into my heard and save me. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

I prayed much that same prayer at the tender age of seven. My father, sensing that I was ‘of age’ and not wanting my soul to burn forever in hell, sat me down and explained that he and mom were going to heaven when we died. He didn’t particularly use any strongarm or scare tactics, but the message was clear. Get saved or risk being separated from your parents forever. I predictably prayed the sinner’s prayer, with very sincere tears of repentance falling from my eyes. In short order I was baptised during a Sunday morning church service. I’m sure my dad was proud and thankful and full of joy to baptise me that day.

Recently I have run across several people who, at the very age I was willingly and gladly immersing myself in my parents’ religion, were themselves coming to the realization that religion was illogical and irrational. They stood up to their parents and refused to go to church, or were forced to go and spent their youth in silent rebellion. I am always amazed to hear their stories. It makes me feel like a bit of a lemming, doing what I was told, believing and trusting my elders, taking them at their word for everything. It never occurred to me that any one would think otherwise.

When I was six my brother was born. I’ve seen a lot of pictures of us together when he was very young, but I don’t have a lot of memories of this time. Perhaps having him get all of the attention for awhile affected me. I’m not sure. Perhaps the age difference just meant that it was more difficult for us to enjoy the same games or events. But even though I developed a rather normal group of childhood friends over the years I was very much comfortable playing by myself or reading.

One of my favorite solo games was football. No, not outside but in my room. I had somehow managed to collect a set of small plastic football helmets, one for each NFL team. I split the helmets up into two teams, developed some rules, and used dice to determine player movement. I very carefully moved the helmets only one length for each number on the dice in one of four directions as if they were chess pieces. I was always fair and never cheated and truly enjoyed just seeing which team would win. I suspect I enjoyed the process more than the outcome. I also developed a voracious appetite for reading. The local library was my portal to adventure. In the summer it was not unusual for me to walk several blocks to the library, check out my limit of books, walk back home and read them, walk back to the library, turn the first set of books in and check out another group, walk back home and commence reading. I read Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Jules Verne and other science fiction classic authors. I read Hardy Boys mysteries. I especially remember knocking off Jules Verne’s “Mysterious Island” which was several hundred pages, a weighty tome indeed for a ten-year-old.