“When I was your age, my parents wouldn’t send me to college,” my mother was telling me. “I had to work my way through on my own. I don’t want you to have to stop. I will do everything I can to help you keep going to school. Your education is the most important thing to me.”

We stood in the kitchen, a printed letter lying on the counter between us. It was not good news.

I glanced up at my mother with a strained smile. I knew that if wishes could be cashed at the bank, I’d be writing my admissions essay to an ivy-coated castle. Instead, I was trying to find a way to pay the bill from my last semester of community college in time to register for fall classes. It was already August.

My work at Wal-Mart paid eight-fifty an hour: better than all the other work options for teenagers in the area. My schedule was already as close to full-time as it could be without requiring the company to offer me benefits. My hands were tied: I could take another part-time job, but when would I go to school? It was all I could do to keep our car paid for and insured while my mother handled the rent and utilities. College tuition had slipped between more pressing matters like food and transportation, and dragging it back to current status again would not be easy.

Still, I was grateful to have a mother who dared to disagree with the life track laid out before me. A Catholic turned evangelical, my mother was a radical believer in forging new paths. She had, after all, followed her heart out of her family’s religion when I was still a toddler. Going to college was my chance to discover what God had in store for me as an individual, she thought. I knew already that beliefs like these made my mother an outsider, a liberal and a radical in my church of stay-at-home daughters and unremitting parental supervision. What I did not yet know was how short and how tight the bonds were that held my friends.

“Why don’t you fill out your FAFSA?” my mother suggested. “Maybe you can get grants or student loans. They might offer you more if you apply to a four-year school. Let’s drive around and look for a college where you can transfer your credits.

I loved Rowling College on sight. The sprawling green lawn, ancient shady oaks and dark grey stone of its oldest building washed over me in a wave of color and charm. “It looks like a little Harvard,” I told my mother breathlessly. A more culturally adept young woman might have said it looked like Hogwarts.

The admissions counselor radiated warmth and hope. She beamed at my community college transcripts. No, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have SATs, she said. My grades proved that I could handle introductory classes. I felt a bubble of excitement rising in my throat, and firmly swallowed it. I would assume that this all was beyond my grasp, I decided. If it proved true, I would be pleasantly surprised. If it didn’t, I would not allow myself to feel the disappointment. I can go back to college later, I reasoned. There is a manager position opening at my store.

I was only half fooling myself. As I sipped the coffee and marveled at the expensive upholstery in the admissions office, I imagined myself striding up the long path to the college’s double doors, each step declaring, “I belong here.”

“What are your career goals?” the admissions counselor asked me.

“I want to go to graduate school and become a writer,” I said. Then, daringly, “I want to go to Harvard.” Saying it aloud sounded absurd, but there it was. The story of the homeless girl who had walked through its gates gave me not only the dream, but the audacity to name it.

The counselor smiled. “We’ll get you to Harvard.” Rowling had sent students there before. Other students had sat in this chair and then gone on to great things. Why indeed couldn’t I?

The next two weeks were spent working and trying not to think about whether or not my application would be approved. My retired friend Jim, the store greeter, welcomed my news and bolstered my hopes. “That’s good,” he told me. “You should go to college. You’re smart. Get the hell out of here while you’re young.” I grinned, and told him I intended to do so. I could still hear my community college teacher’s words in the back of my mind. You could be a writer. You could go to grad school. Graduate school seemed like the most glamorous place in the world.

Meanwhile, my friends at a sister church were catching the education fever. I learned of their ambitions in a phone call with their ambassador: Jennifer. A tall, active, tomboyish young woman, Jennifer had gone out of her way to befriend me on the basis of our shared connection with my best friend Sven. Despite the fact that her church was in Connecticut and mine in Pennsylvania, she kept in touch via the internet and periodically came to visit. Demographically, our churches seemed destined to be a match: her youth group was comprised mainly of girls, whereas mine was overwhelmingly slanted toward the boys. That spring, I’d been invited to spend a week at Jennifer’s house, where I’d met her circle of friends and found myself in the strange position of what felt like the ambassador from Land of Raining Men. It appeared that my church had been sighted as a hunting ground for husbands. Knowing that we were expected not to be unequally yoked with unbelievers, I suppressed my disgust with the contrivance of it all and dutifully related the names and ages of the potential suitors that I knew, possessively avoiding Sven’s. A decade had taught me that he was safe: passive and uncontrolling. A girl who had no intentions of obedience had first to ensure that she’d never be ordered to do anything.

As I told Jennifer about my nascent college plans, she burst out in excitement: “We’re going too! A bunch of us are applying to Bob Jones University.”

Bob Jones? I’d heard that name before. Other homeschooling families in my church used Bob Jones textbooks. My mother had discarded them as dull and political, opting for the more flexible and artistic Sonlight curriculum instead. I had no idea that Bob Jones had founded a university, nor (as I was just realizing) did I have any idea who Bob Jones really was.

“I told my dad that it would be okay since we won’t be going alone,” Jennifer continued. “We’ll watch out for each other. It’s a Christian college. We won’t have to worry about drinking or partying or any of that. You should come with us!”

I froze. Rowling College’s wrought-iron lampposts and immaculate lawn flashed in front of my eyes. I want to go to a real school, came the unstoppable silent protest. I was immediately wracked with guilt. What do you have against Bob Jones? I asked myself furiously. How do you know it’s not a “real” school? But the steely voice in my head would not be silenced. I don’t care if this makes me a terrible, judgmental person. I want to go to a real school, and that does not include Bob Jones.

“Maybe,” I answered finally, failing to muster any enthusiasm. I told my mother nothing, fearful that she would think it was a good idea and my Rowling plans would evaporate before my eyes.

I slept fitfully that night. I pictured myself bursting through the chains that had held me in one place for too long, only to find myself swept away into a dreary black-and-white encampment. I saw the dull stone halls filled with good Christian husbands, all grey and lifeless. I saw the parade of unthreatening ideas, the inevitable fight against the Trinity but the ultimate surety of everything else. A silent scream welled up inside me. Away in the distance there stood the gates of Rowling, vibrant with promise, a dark channel separating me from them. I wanted to jump, to take the greatest risk, to grapple with the edges of the chasm and yank myself up. I feared the abyss not because I would be striking something unknown, but because I was afraid that I’d never know anything else. Bob Jones University, that good Christian college, in its very safety and certainty struck me with terror. I could not go where Jennifer went, even if it meant giving up everything.

Later that week, as I finished a shift at Wal-Mart and returned my tray to the manager, I heard my mother call my name. I turned to see her striding rapidly toward me, waving an envelope.

She couldn’t hold it in. “You were accepted!” she cried.

I scrambled for the letter and held it up before my eyes in shock. My frantic eyes struggled to focus. Rowling had taken me in. I was in! I was a real college student. With scholarships. The store spun and danced around me. I was dimly aware of my Wal-Mart managers grinning and patting me on the back. All I could see was the small black print: “Congratulations!”

As I studied my admissions package that night, I learned that I would be starting classes in a week. My first semester was paid for. I would only have to cover my books. I would even be moving onto campus! Since my room and board were covered under my scholarship package, it would cost more to commute. Apprehensively, I filled out my roommate survey. “Likes to read,” I wrote. “Very quiet. Early riser.” The excitement outweighed my nervousness. I would get to live on campus! I would get to eat in the cafeteria and study in the library. It was all so overwhelmingly new.

I was giddy as I called Jennifer to tell her the good news. When she answered, however, I knew that mine was a solitary joy. The tide had shifted. The sisterhood of Bob Jones would never be.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The elders of my church had a special meeting,” she sighed. “They decided that it wasn’t right for young women to go away together and live on their own. They said we would be too far away from our fathers’ headship.”

I hung up the phone with tears of rage stinging my eyes. Just like that, my friends’ futures had been sealed, their hopes crushed, their homes transformed into prisons. The doors of opportunity had slammed shut, and I stood alone on the outside. A cold fear settled on my shoulders, Frantically, I began packing my belongings, looking ahead to my move-in date with trepidation. If I could just move onto campus, I would be safe then. I would never come back, never be caught, never be caged. I thanked God for my faithless father, knowing now that only the “headless” state of my family permitted my escape. As I stuffed t-shirt after modest t-shirt into my luggage, I wept for my friends. There was nothing godly about this, nothing loving, nothing just. The girls had done everything right, but it was not enough. No amount of prayer or planning would be enough to let mere women follow their dreams, unsupervised.

If I make it to college, I promised God, I will work with all my might. I will take every opportunity in sight. I will not squander this gift.

For the next six days, I waited for the hammer to fall.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

Sierra is a PhD student living in the Midwest. She was raised in a “Message of the Hour” congregation that followed the ministry of William Branham. She left the Message in 2006 and is the author of the blog The Unspoken Words: A Non-Prophet Message.

Read all posts by Sierra!

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by Sierra

Growing up in fundamentalism was like living with a moral GPS navigator installed in my head. Every decision was mapped out already; all I needed to do was listen to the voice telling me where to go. Sometimes I could stop and look at the map. Most of the time I was looking ahead, trying to live, listening and following directions as best I could.

The GPS gave me directions for living: Read the Bible and pray every day. Obey your parents. Be respectful of elders.

Those directions made sense. They were there to help me get where I wanted to go: straight ahead. There were no twists and turns yet.

Then the directions got a little stranger: Listen to one of Branham’s sermons every day. Wear long skirts. Be modest. Grow out your hair. Throw away worldly music. Throw away makeup. Look down on public-schooled kids. Don’t watch TV.

The GPS gave me directions for my relationship with my parents: Ignore your father’s rage and violence. Win him to Christ by silence. Submit to him as your earthly head until you are married. Follow the chain of command.

It gave me directions for relationships with boys: Don’t touch. Don’t laugh too much. Don’t be alone with them. Don’t give away pieces of your heart. Wait for God to bring you your husband.

It gave me directions for lifetime ambition: Your greatest calling is to be a wife and mother. Choose a vocation you can pursue at home, while raising children. Learn to cook and sew. Don’t venture out into the world.

The cacophony of advice was deafening. More troubling still, I felt a tug, a conflict in my soul. There was something wrong with the directions.

“Turn right.” They said. “Turn right. Turn right. Turn right.”

I was going in circles. The roads looked too familiar. I was trapped here, spinning in the dark, following the dull illumination of my headlights, listening for the next command. Nervously, I watched out the window and flinched when I spotted pale pairs of green forest eyes reflected back at me. Anywhere, there might be roadblocks. There might be deer. Where was I going?

I stopped by the side of the road and locked my doors. I let my engine idle. I looked at the map displayed on the GPS screen.

“This is not where I want to go,” I said hesitantly.

“Turn right in five hundred feet,” replied the GPS.

“You don’t understand,” I argued, growing bolder. “I need to get somewhere. I don’t want to burn up all my gas going in circles.”

“In five hundred feet, turn right.”

“You want me to get stuck here, don’t you?”

“Turn right.”

“But I’m not going anywhere!” I yelled. Fingers shaking, I turned off the GPS. I stashed it in the back seat under a pillow. I took out the batteries and flung them into the woods.

The silence was overwhelming.

Then I noticed a tiny bobbing compass stuck to my dashboard, a vestige of an earlier time when I was free to find my own roads. The compass pointed north.

I eased the car back onto the road. The compass dipped and bobbed, but held true. I watched the fluid inside form tiny bubbles around the arrow.

I came to a fork in the road.

“TURN RIGHT!” screamed a ghostly voice from the back of my head.

I turned left.

Anxiously, I glanced right and left on this unfamiliar road. I had no idea what animals might jump out at me, what pitfalls or construction might lie ahead. How could I find my way out of here on my own?

Then, as I drove, I grew more confident. Morning broke. As the trees melted away, I saw the forest in my rearview mirror. I glanced at the compass. It held steady.

For the first time in my life, I turned on the radio and floored it.

…

The moral of the story here is obvious. GPS navigators are great conveniences. They can get you almost anywhere you want to go. But if you use them all the time, you start to forget. Reading a map and finding your way feels difficult, unfamiliar. Risky.

Human beings weren’t made to follow moral GPS directions. We were made to find our way, minute by minute, adapting and readjusting our route along the way. We were meant to notice the scenery and remember it, to accept each turn as a choice, to own it and live it consciously.

We weren’t meant to follow ready-made routes. No such routes exist in the landscape; they’re imposed on it by the almighty powers of Google and men like William Branham, Bill Gothard and Doug Phillips.

Why do we rely on moral GPS navigators with their pre-recorded voices? (I’m looking at you, Voice of God Recordings!) Why are we so afraid to find our own way? Because we might trip up? Because we might find ourselves in a ditch needing forgiveness? If we’re never so vulnerable, how are we supposed to know who might stop and give us a helping hand?

Note that this doesn’t mean driving off wildly, without direction. I traded a moral GPS for a moral compass: something I can use to keep my destination always in sight. Something I can use to find my way out of any wrong turns I might make, even if it means hitting a dead end and retracing my steps. Even if it means taking a little longer to get where I’m going.

I don’t know the names of the roads I may take. I didn’t know them, either, when I was listening to Branham’s voice telling me where I had to go. I trusted him, and found myself spinning. Now I trust the destination.

Some call this following the Holy Spirit. Some call it keeping our eyes on Jesus. I call it trust. Maybe even faith.

And the music is way better.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum. Comments are also open below.

Sierra is a PhD student living in the Midwest. She was raised in a “Message of the Hour” congregation that followed the ministry of William Branham. She left the Message in 2006 and is the author of the blog The Unspoken Words: A Non-Prophet Message.

Read all posts by Sierra!

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by Sierra

Turning eighteen was magical. Suddenly, all the job applications I seemed to be throwing down an empty chute were bounced back with interest. Sven had already landed a job at Wal-Mart in his town. Now it was my turn. I nervously sat through my job interview, not daring to hope that I might actually be on my way to earning money. When they called back with an offer, I could hardly contain my excitement.

Not only did I have a job, I had a real driver’s license. No longer did I need the supervision of an adult driver. I could take myself anywhere I wanted, whenever I wanted. The freedom was intoxicating, and I found myself driving everywhere at the slightest excuse.

Now that I was mobile, my mother decided it was time to do something about the sorry state of my academic life. Homeschooling had ceased somewhere around age 15. I had been completely off the record in New Jersey, where strict homeschooling regulations would have required testing and proof of progress. Now, we were ready to move back to Pennsylvania, where the lax state laws meant I technically only needed one more year of credits. My mother decided that the best way to accomplish this would be to enroll me in community college classes, a strategy pursued by some of the boys in my church. They had used it to get a jump-start on college; at the very least, I could get a diploma out of it.

My first classroom experience since kindergarten was a twice-weekly evening class in one of the trailers behind the community college. It was a remedial math course, intended to catch me up on the untouched two-thirds of my Algebra II book, which had been only a guilt-emitting paperweight in my bedroom for the past year. I was nervous, but I also felt a sudden rush of power as I studied that remedial algebra. Although I was at a severe disadvantage, I knew that, with enough work, I could probably pass this class. I would never be like our church’s star students, both male, one working on his MBA at the esteemed Delaware Valley College. The latter’s mother lost no opportunity to remind me of that fact. And yet, the math was comfortingly rational. If I practiced enough, it came out right.

To my amazement, my tests began to come back with positive results. Not just positive results, in fact, but straight As! What is this? My mind reeled. I quickly rationalized it. This must be easy math. Anyone can do this. My whole class must be doing this well. I still might not make it in real college courses. Then I learned that the class average was something resembling a B-. I hid my starred exams under my notebooks, afraid that the other students would hate me as I quietly pondered what this meant.

Until that moment, I’d never had an opportunity to measure my own intelligence. I was terrified to learn: where were the limits of my powers? Could I make it in community college? In four-year school? In the workplace? After a lifetime of hearing that I was smart only from my parents, of getting meaningless As in a classroom of one, I threw myself into community college work with the fear ever lurking in the back of my mind, “What if I work as hard as I can and find out I’m not that smart? What then?” I resolved to work so hard that I didn’t have to find out just yet. I would tackle the challenge of this class, but not look beyond. One thing at a time.

I knew my future hinged on this. If I could make it in school, if I could make it in work, I wouldn’t be trapped in the Message of the Hour, doomed to a lifetime of incessant childbearing and submission. As I pulled into the parking lot of my community college for the last time, I noticed a promotional billboard hanging above the trailer where my class was held. Its message stunned me. I stopped the car and stared up through the windshield.

“From Homeless to Harvard,” the sign read, with a picture of a well-dressed woman beaming beside the bright red letters. It was a graduation photo. It was a picture of success, of triumph. As I got out of my mother’s car and stood gaping at the sign, an unfamiliar hope lodged in my throat like a piece of grit, nearly choking me. I, too, had lost my home – lodging, unwanted, in my grandparents’ cellar. I, too, was not expected to amount to anything – indeed, I was forbidden. William Branham saw working women as a threat to God’s order for the world. And yet, that smiling girl… she had gone to Harvard! Could I not, then, go somewhere? Could I not be something, too?

I turned in my final math exam with the lightest heart I’d felt since I was a little child, since before I’d ever heard of the Message or William Branham. I felt like a little girl again, with a whole future spread out before me for the taking. “I want to be an astronaut and an archaeologist,” the small child in my head whispered. “I want to write a book, travel the world and swim with dolphins. I want to do everything when I grow up.”

Weeks later, the final grade came in. I’d passed the math course with an A.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

Sierra is a PhD student living in the Midwest. She was raised in a “Message of the Hour” congregation that followed the ministry of William Branham. She left the Message in 2006 and is the author of the blog The Unspoken Words: A Non-Prophet Message.

Read all posts by Sierra!

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by 

The other day my husband came to me and confessed that sharing our story was just very painful for him to the point of tears. Out of love and respect for him I am submitting by not continuing to tell what we have been through. He did not ask me not to, but the last thing I want to do is hurt someone that I love so much. However, I would like to share where we are now, as how we got here really doesn’t matter. We choose to live from today and not let our past dictate who we are.

We no longer have an identity created by our marriage or our children. His identity is not bound to whether or not he is a perfect “leader” of his home. Mine is not tied to being the “perfect” wife and mother. We can never be those things. We could never achieve the perfection put forth by the Pearls, Doug Phillips, or any other mortal man. We were like beautiful tombs, but were dead inside. Our identity comes from trusting in the sacrifice of our Lord. The life I live is in faith, not faith in men, but faith in God. If my husband leaves I stand, if he stays I stand. We are who we are because It is finished, the work is done on our behalf.

This had given us freedom that we never knew. Before, we thought we had to be something or do something before our lives would be perfect. We had all these ideas from men, but when these ideas did not work out the way they promised we had to turn somewhere else. This compelled us to our answer, which was our faith. Is it perfect? No. We still stumble and misunderstand, but we have a peace now that was missing. We discovered through much study and prayer how we were supposed to treat each other. Not how some man said we should treat each other. We were in roles that were not intended for us to be in.

One thing we discovered is that we desire to be praised and worshiped. For me it was praise and honor that my marriage was intact and my kids well-behaved. Serving my family was not an act of love, but one of gaining praise for myself. A patriarchal dad is the center of his home or “kingdom”. He is worshiped by absolute obedience and getting his every desire. When our son began to rebel, and I was so unhappy in my marriage I was shattered. Everything I had worked for was not turning out the way I wanted. My husband was really unhappy trying to strive for this worship, because he was not created to be worshiped. He was created to worship.

We both felt condemned, because our life was not the perfect rosy picture of happiness religious men had told us it should be. We were condemned because our older children weren’t the picture of obedience, condemned because I worked out of the home, condemned for the music we listened to, and on and on. This unhappiness led us to the discovery of Romans 8:1-2. We had read it many times before but it never spoke to us. Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit has set me free from the law of sin and death. We had bound ourselves to the laws of men’s interpretation. So now we will stand in the knowledge that it is for freedom that Christ has set us free. We will stand firm, then, and not let ourselves be burdened again by the yoke of slavery.

We realized that Phillips and the Pearls really have a narrow vision that can’t be applicable universally. We believe God is universal and cross-cultural. We had separated ourselves from the “bad” influences of the world. We wanted to keep our family “protected”. We lived in fear, which was wrong, because perfect love casts away fear. When Jesus walked the earth many of his friends were whores and thieves. He loved these people. The “religious” people on the other hand were constantly subject to His wrath. We were the “religious.”  This was hard for us to accept about ourselves. We had scorned the very people that Jesus loved. Since then we have opened our lives to many more people, and have been greatly blessed. We are confident that He who began a good work will complete it no matter who is in our lives.

One of the most important things we have learned is not to take ourselves too seriously. This can lead to hurt feelings, resentment, and bitterness. So we consider each other and look not only to our own interest, but to the interest of each other. Bitterness can destroy a person, so we have been gifted with the ability to let things go that have happened to us or things that we really can’t control. We bear with each other and forgive because we have been forgiven.

Notice that I say we. This has been a journey that we have taken mutually, and for that we are grateful. Neither of us could have done it without the other, nor would we be where we are today without the other being on this journey. Do we have the perfect, rosy marriage? No, but our vision is much clearer. This allows us to walk together in love and unity. If the unity is broken we have the tools to fix it. We had no one but each other on this journey, and that was good. We have been to many marriage seminars in the past, but they never helped like just being with each other through our trials. We are so very cautious now about the advice of men. It is always filtered through each other, prayer, and scripture.

The hardest thing we had to deal with was being totally open and honest with each other. That is naked and unashamed. I am not talking about being physically clothed or not, but about who we truly are and how we truly feel. We were guilty of putting conditions on our love, both with each other and our children.  In the past we were afraid to share our true selves, because of the possible condemnation. Finally being able to do this with each other has been the best part of this journey. The comfort we feel around each other has made a powerful difference in our lives. I am truly a better person, because of my husband and his unconditional love.

This is simply our story, and is not meant for advice to anyone. We have had enough advice to last us for eternity. It is our wish that it be an encouragement.

I would like to thank Vyckie for her courage in starting this website. Krwordgazer you have filled in so many gaps in my understanding. You have been blessed with a wonderful gift. Journey, Africaturtle, Dragonfly, Mamaloo, Calalu you have encouraged me with your courage and determination. Keep it up. Tess, I so want your story to have a happy ending. We are survivors.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum. Comments are also open below ~ please feel free to add your well-wishes to LivingForEternity and her family.

Read all posts by LivingForEternity!

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by Sierra

I loved driving. I’d always known I would. As a child, I collected Hot Wheels cars until they numbered in the hundreds. When I was twelve, my mother decided to teach me to drive in case my father’s rage spilled over completely and I needed to escape. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. The car felt huge and seemed to move so much faster when my hands were on the wheel. I crowed with pride as I successfully navigated the winding roads of our rural neighborhood, passing a UPS truck with wide eyes and short breath.

As I grew older, I periodically stowed away money for a car. At my bakery job, I thought I might finally have a chance when I amassed $1,000 – a year’s savings. Anxious to get wheels, I researched motorcycles and mopeds, which were both cheaper and had a younger age restriction, but was repeatedly told that young ladies shouldn’t ride motorcycles – how could I, in a skirt? I was prepared to make it work until winter convinced me of the foolishness of that plan. I focused my energies again on hunting for cheap cars.

Time and again my savings evaporated: my father took the thousand; rent and food took the rest. I was a contributing member of the household; that meant petty savings for a teenager’s car was low on the priority list. Each time my mother’s outdated and under-maintained car ran itself into the ground and she was forced to buy or lease another, she promised that next time, I’d get to keep the old one. It never happened.

When I was sixteen, my mother and I moved to a farmhouse apartment in a rural area with only one general store within twenty miles. I applied for a summer job there, but was last in the queue of several farm kids and was never called back. My mother commuted to the bakery, an hour’s drive, and I was left to fend for myself in the house. My halfhearted attempts to master Algebra II soon dissolved, and I began to spend my days online, as I had done three years earlier. This time, I was playing a video game: Dark Age of Camelot, an online roleplaying game. All pretense of homeschooling was silently dropped. Our house was not in order; public school was not an option. And so I vanished into a game.

Sven and I played the game first together, igniting no small controversy in the church. The fantasy genre was already suspect: everyone knew that good Christian kids didn’t read Harry Potter, much less play any game resembling (God forbid) Dungeons and Dragons, where kids practiced actual incantations and learned to command the legions of the devil. (Oh, how many high schools would mysteriously burn to the ground if that were true!)

Sven and I defended our pastime vociferously: we knew no occult spells. Sure, there was “magic” in the game, but we were only pressing buttons to launch imaginary fireballs at opponents. There was no devil here. Our loudest opponent, a 26 year old, insisted that the only way to avoid witchcraft was to avoid the appearance of magic.

He was holier than we were; he only played Grand Theft Auto.

As my life dwindled to Sunday church services and fellowship, occasional trips to northern New Jersey to work at the bakery, and the closed Algebra book on my nightstand, I investigated more areas of Dark Age of Camelot, playing in zones where Sven didn’t play, and interacting with other people. Eventually, I made friends. I joined a group called “Lema en Estela,” where I found I could live in another world: one where I didn’t have to demonstrate my piety. I could be imaginative here. I could compete and win without being told that I was violating God’s order. I could make jokes without being told to be sober and serious, for the hour was late. More important, I could have long, friendly conversations with people who accepted me for who I was.

Soon I’d abandoned Sven’s realm to spend all my time with Lema en Estela. I was hiding, but I was safe there. Safe from the impending failure that was my high school education. Safe from my father’s intrusions back into my life. Safe from the judgment of the adults at my church. Safe from the false girl friends who used me to get to Sven. Lema en Estela, as ephemeral as it was, was a beautiful refuge from what otherwise was an empty time.

In between escapes to what amounted to my own digital Narnia, I emerged to find a vale of sorrows: deaths in the church, then a death in my family. My father, who’d left us blissfully alone for three years, had lost his house and his girlfriend and dragged his own small business into the gutter with an exorbitant lifestyle. He crawled back to my mother, homeless and unemployed, and was met with open arms. God didn’t recognize their divorce, my mother said, and neither did she.

Within months, my father had taken up his post as “head of the household” again, even though he still wasn’t working. As the family patriarch, he spared no opportunity to let us know how we failed to live up to him: my mother still didn’t have a “real job,” and my “attitude” was bad. Though he had no interest in my mom’s religion, he was delighted by her submission: it provided him with a punching bag. Night after night, he told her how defective she was: mentally, physically, economically. His angry outbursts only grew worse when word arrived of his young brother’s suicide. I held my breath and disappeared into the digital world, as often as possible going unseen and unheard. I ate dinner in my room when I could and wolfed my food quickly to escape on other nights. I buried my nose in the Bible and the stack of sermons by William Branham on my mother’s nightstand. I cried out every night for the Holy Spirit to save me when thunderstorms sounded just like the first bombs of the Tribulation. The world outside was rending itself to pieces; I wondered if I might go unnoticed and survive.

I hid in my tiny digital world for a year. Sven and I occasionally met online to play strategy games or chat on AIM, but only rarely did we meet in the flesh. When we did, it was determined that I needed to be watched: we brought along his younger siblings, or one or two other friends, to ensure that no monkey business went on if we were ever allowed in the car together. Sometime during the year, I learned that Sven was encouraged to drive out on errands with his friend Jenny, alone. The injustice burned; I could understand Sven’s parents’ arguments about abstaining from the “appearance of evil” and not placing ourselves in temptation, but not why I was the only girl with whom the danger of evil and temptation lurked.

Then I turned seventeen, and a crack appeared in the ceiling of my world. I received my learner’s permit to drive. I slid behind the wheel eagerly, gripping the steering wheel like a life preserver. This would be my ticket out. I could feel a rush of independence surging from the engine, to the wheel, through my arms and up to my giddy brain. Once I was on the road, I could be my own person at last. Almost.

All I needed was that most distant of possessions for a girl growing up in fundamentalism: a job, and money of my own. That most coveted dream had dipped closer, and I reached with all my might.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

Sierra is a PhD student living in the Midwest. She was raised in a “Message of the Hour” congregation that followed the ministry of William Branham. She left the Message in 2006 and is the author of the blog The Unspoken Words: A Non-Prophet Message.

Read all posts by Sierra!

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by Chandra

I still remember what I was doing on Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001. It was a gorgeous morning, crisp azure sky with nothing but the blissful autumn sunshine overhead. Not even a cloud. I pulled into the church parking lot, sunroof back and something along the lines of Green Day blaring. I arrived at the office early, unlocking the door and booted my computer, prepping to attend to the stack of projects that pastors needed completing. I glanced over the counseling schedule for the day and realized that it was going to be a light day. After I had started a pot of coffee for all the guys, I went back to my desk to begin my day.

Somewhere around 9am the news came flooding into the office about the tragedies that were surrounding our eastern coast. Several key members of our church were in the air on business meetings, yet to be accounted for. My co-worker and I went to the sanctuary to pray and when I came back, my inbox said, “You’ve Got Mail” from this mysteriously attractive guy named Darren that I had met over the summer in the singles group. I was a baby, just 19 when I met him. And he was 29. But we were friends and we started an email conversation on 9/11 about the current events facing our nation. And for some reason, this conversation never stopped.

I was still living at home and I knew for certain I wasn’t about to let my parents screw up my chances at finding love and happiness. I knew I needed to leave the house before I could date, because there was no way in hell that I would ever consider courtship. My parents were so screwed up, that that model would not have worked, even though that was their clear desire for me. They wanted to be able to control whom I married so that they could continue to control me from beyond my father’s house.

I began to actively search with a dear friend for a place to rent later that same month. Things at home had grown substantially worse, if that was even possible. I was never home, often leaving early in the morning and often not returning until well past midnight. My sexy Honda became my refuge and respite from the intolerable home environment. My mom grew increasingly intrusive and controlling, opening my mail (keep in mind, I was 19), analyzing my credit card statements (again, I was 19 with a full-time job and zero overhead), my eating habits (she told me that I had bulimia- HA! I wish!), and my choice in clothing (my father told me while going to church that I looked like a prostitute).

I was told that my lack of pitching in with my hard-earned money to help out with household costs was the reason that my parents were in so much debt. I believed it, and internalized these statements, rather than recognizing that my dad’s sexual addiction was the cause of their financial state. Rather than throwing my money to them, I determined that my best option was to leave.

I was weary of trying to make things work at home, of no freedom and completely humiliating incidences. My mom would call people I was hanging out with, demanding to know where I was and when I would be home. Many times, she would be awake when I arrived home, and would begin her emotional tirades against me from the moment I stepped into the house. They never set a curfew, so I never felt compelled to keep it. Once, my mom barged in on a church single’s party, tracking down where this social gathering was. She appeared and demanded if I was there at the house. She came in, and dragged me by the hand out of this home and humiliated me in front of everyone. Again, I was 19. That was the final straw. I ripped into her, telling her how much I hated her and it was not two weeks later, that my friend and I found a condo that was offered to us by a member of the church where I worked.

I was thrilled to at last have found a place to live away from my parents toxicity! I had my little red Honda packed and ready to go weeks in advance, but I would be required to live with my parents through the holidays. My girlfriend and I were free to move in anytime after Christmas, so the day after Christmas, I planned my move. And this guy Darren, who had befriended me that autumn had the truck that I needed. I did not need help from my parents, and refused to take it. I needed to leave, flee- as far away from them as my situation would take me, and I wanted them to have no part of my new life.

I got myself moved and found my parents and my brother in my new condo, unannounced. I had forgotten to lock the door. I was more than just a little angry that they wouldn’t leave me alone, and told them to leave. This was my life, and I wanted to live it apart from them perpetrating their abuse and control on me. Little did I know what a long road I would have ahead of me in actually obtaining that freedom.

Darren and I had had an unadmitted attraction to one another that grew out of our email conversations. But my parents were weird, and he knew it, and our age differences kept us at bay. Until I moved out. The day I moved out, we had our first official date. We went out to the St. Louis Zoo, watched the polar bears, and then went to a wonderful Irish pub for lunch. We talked incessantly the entire time. Ironically, though I had a strong desire to flee my family and knew that I was abused, I still maintained that homeschooling was something that I wanted to do and I wanted to do it differently. And even more ironically, this came up in our first date, and Darren felt the same way. Funny how God works. On New Year’s Eve, we became an official couple and watched the fireworks on the Riverfront underneath the St. Louis Arch as the New Year dawned.

I had moved out of my parents’ home and got a boyfriend all in one week. And I had never been happier in my life. I refused to call my parents and I was free at last. I was so happy! For the first time in my life, I finally knew what it was like to be loved and to have the freedom to love completely. My whole life, I thought that I was some sort of freak, some degenerate pagan that was so unlovable and unlovely that God simply didn’t care about me enough to let me experience that. I believed that there was something so inherently and deeply flawed with me that no one would ever find me lovely or acceptable.

Hope sprang eternally in my heart and even though I felt this way about myself, I kept on hoping that maybe there was a chance that love could hypothetically happen to me. And even if it was a tiny sliver, I refused to snuff it out. And to my amazement, he loved me for who I was and didn’t want to change a thing about me! He accepted me just The Way I Am and it was the first time in my life that anyone had ever shown me that kind of love or compassion. My dreams were coming true, and the wounded heart inside of me was finally beginning to thaw and melt into a lovely array of blossoming fragrance.

With my continued therapist sessions, the new love in my life, and my new condo, all was well in my world. I had my cat-the only friend I ever truly had until recently, a group of besties, a wonderful job, and this amazing man (the only thing lacking was that I couldn’t wear heels around him!). My heart was happy, it was free, and it was free to be loved and to love.

Darren and I became serious with one another. But the enmeshed web that I was raised in came back to haunt me as our relationship grew to the point where we were desiring to become engaged. It was as though my parents had grown invisible fingers and knew how to have a hold on my life, and continue to control it, even though I was physically gone from their house. It’s a thing called, “spiritual molestation” according to Stephen Arterburn. I was the victim, and they were molesting me of my dignity and self-respect. Robbing me of joy. My mother had become an expert in exactly what to say and how to phrase it in order to get me to acquiesce. This time, it had to do with a guy they didn’t like. It proved that if I was going to find true love and happiness, that I would have to fight. And it was only just the beginning.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

Read all posts by Chandra!

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by Chandra

It wasn’t until this past year, while speaking to my counselor, that she looked me in the eye and asked of me, “Did you ever think to call 911?”

Something like a tidal wave went through me. I still feel like I am picking up the pieces of that.

“No,” I replied. “It never even dawned on me.”

I still don’t understand the full implications of living in such a mind-controlling cult. I really don’t. It’s…indescribable really and I often feel like a blundering, clumsy writer trying to articulate it to the outside world. The truth is that I had been trained to believe since I was six that all law enforcement was to be feared. The only authority that was to be trusted was that of a God-ordained institution: marriage, family, and sometimes, the church (if that church was legalistic or a home church). Government, social workers, doctors, lawyers, police officers…were all to be feared implicitly and never, ever trusted. I had become so trusting of my caretakers that I had turned into the girl who was ignorant of their abuse: because I had been trained to rely on them for everything.

I stumbled through the next few months after my graduation with a feeling of being a nomad, feeling like I was waiting for a game of chess to end, but somehow the game continued to be sustained by a few pieces. In retrospect, I see how certain events were orchestrated to my benefit, leading me slowly into the path of freedom. Even in June, after I had graduated, I was still weak and sickly from my previous pneumonia and ARDS. I got tired very easily, and frequently felt short of breath. I was also depressed. After all, I was a newly graduated senior and I was without friends. It had been well over four years since Hannah and I had last spoken to one another and probably about a year at that point since we had seen each other. Still, somewhere in my heart there was a longing and an aching for the hope that we could renew our once precious and sisterly friendship.

In truth, I had never had another friend like her. We were more alike than not, even in the way the thought about life. What I didn’t understand, even at nearly eighteen, was that we were both cut from the same cloth: brainwashed, controlled, and manipulated. Because our parents were the best at manipulating and “raising godly daughters as a heritage unto the Lord” it was a very natural thing that we would approach the world in the same way. But at almost eighteen, I didn’t understand that. All I knew was that there was loneliness, an aching, a void, a starving and thirst for human companionship and the sisterhood of true friends.

After I graduated, I received a sizable amount of cash, and combined with money that my grandparents had generously gifted me with over the years, this allowed me to purchase my first car. My dad actually spearheaded the entire purchase of the car. I purchased my first car when I was 18: a 1993 Red Honda Civic, with all the bells and whistles. I loved that car! It was the best thing that had happened to me in nearly seven years. I would drive with the sunroof back, the stereo blaring and loved the feeling of burning rubber. This car held out its metaphorical hand to me, encouraging me to embrace the freedom of my future. And I took it.

I began to look for a job, since going to college was completely out of the question. I was actually encouraged to get a job, because I was “creating a strain” on the family budget, according to my mom. My parents lived frugally, but they were always in massive debt, something that I did not understand. I saw how little they spent on us kids (my grandparents bought all of our clothing and they spent next to nothing on our education), and I saw how much my mom did without. My dad’s profession was a white-collar one, and even though he was largely unsuccessful at what he did, he did not make bad money. With only two kids to support, their lifestyle and the debt to which they incurred did not match. But as I aged, and especially when I began to work, I was made to feel like a financial burden if I did not help out with purchases around the home.

There were several of these arguments, where my mom would take out her frustration on their financial situation on me- blaming me that I was the reason why the family was in so much debt. Given everything that they had put me through in my short life, I believed her and internalized these perceptions.

I was desperate for friendship, and since I had a car, I sought it in every way possible. I really only had one dear friend at this time, who was two years younger than me, Dani (You can read about her story here). I was in her family’s home as much as I was able. I had no other friends in the homeschooling arena, since all had long since shunned and abandoned me year’s prior.

Since I was 14, my family had attended a large, suburban church. This was something that Candi hated and sought to actively undermine my mother’s commitment to the church whenever she caught a whiff that my dad was influencing her to become more active with church and less active in the homeschooling Movement. Without fail, she was successful. Her charisma and powerful sway over my mom’s thinking prevented me from becoming involved in church youth groups, activities, or even Sunday school.

According to Candi, it was fine that we attended church, as long as my parents didn’t hand over the responsibilities of training their precious children into the hands of the youth group or youth pastor. We attended Sunday school with my parents, which was incredibly humiliating and of course any other social activities were out of the question, since we were leaders in The Movement. I hated the way that they treated the church- like it was something to be afraid of. They were terrified of me learning things and inappropriate ways of relating to guys in the youth group. Mom and Dad viewed the kids in the youth group as being worldly and bad influences. They were also terrified that I might start to think for myself.  The youth pastor, on one occasion, met my mom and me outside the sanctuary after service. He was incredibly gifted with perception and sensitiveness to the needs of adolescents. He asked my mom if I could come to Sunday school that day and my mom coldly shot him down with a glare, telling him that it was her responsibility to “teach and train her children.” He shot me a glance of, “I’m sorry, I tried,” as I returned his gaze with something that probably spoke volumes of my depression and unhappiness.

Somehow throughout the years, my family continued to attend church. After the encounter with our youth pastor, I knew that there were people who were watching our family, and knew that they were extremely enmeshed, unhealthy, and controlling.

For a few years, the sole motivation to attend there was because as members, we could request the facility to use for our State Homeschool Convention. And with the purchase of my car, and my recent graduation from the homeschool world, there was no way that my mom or dad could keep me from seeking authentic relationships through church, which is something that I had very much longed for. I tentatively began to stretch my wings.

I signed up to become a staff member at our church’s nursery. It was a paid position, but it felt like a safe place to begin to seek out relationships. I have always loved little ones, and my level of commitment to them soon brought me into more babysitting jobs than I knew what to do with. This was a blessing, as I was still living at home. I could be gone for hours on the weekends, away from the toxic environment in my home. Within a couple of months, God answered a prayer that I had been praying faithfully and unceasingly for: a friend.

I was asked to join a tiny group of about four girls for a college girl’s bible study. I jumped at the opportunity and within a few short weeks, these girls became the sisters that I had been praying for. To this day, though scattered to all corners of the United States, we remain the closest of friends. These girls had something I longed for: peace in their hearts and an enthusiasm for Christ. They all grew up in public or private schools and yet they were more real, more accepting, more authentic and more fun than any other person that I had met in my narrow circle. Hardly a day goes by that I do not thank God for at least one of them. They met me where I was at, welcomed me, and loved me for who I was. It was the first time that I had ever experienced that kind of acceptance from anyone and it did my broken heart amazing wonders.

I increasingly became more and more involved in the church, and because my parents were consumed with trying to control me through over-involvement in my life, they decided that it would be a good idea for them to start as well. The business executive at our church understood this and approached my mom to ask her if she would consider letting me interview for a full-time staff position in the church office. He knew that if he asked me without their approval, it would never happen. God proved himself to me yet again, when my mom amazingly consented.

I started within a few short weeks, and was quickly busier than I had been in years. The main part of my job was assisting the counseling staff with their clientele and developing their programs. I was encouraged to read everything that they recommended to clients, and I met with the counselors once a week. This soon grew into personal counseling for me, which I actively pursued. I understood that I had much that needed working through and understanding before I would ever consider becoming someone’s spouse.

This job was nothing short of a gift. Not only did it provide me with the healing that my heart so desperately needed, it also provided me with the income that I needed in order to leave my parent’s home. One of the other girls in the bible study was ready to move out of her parents place, and together we began searching for a place to live. It all seemed so simple: get a car, get a job, move out. But there were two things that I had not planned on: falling in love and just how deep the clutches of control my parents had over me were.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

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by Kristen Rosser ~ aka: KR Wordgazer

The founders of No Longer Qivering spelled “Quivering” without a “u“ because, as they say, “There is no ‘you’ in Quivering” – there’s no place for self - and they claim this is a bad thing. But Jesus said that a true believer must deny himself, take up his cross and follow after Him. Quiverfull women take the Bible’s admonition to die to self very seriously. We use the acronym J.O.Y., for true JOY comes from putting “Jesus first, Others second and Yourself last.” How can you encourage Christian wives and mothers to turn from Christ’s teachings by making “You” a priority?

The problem with the way Quiverfull followers use the J.O.Y. teaching is that while they claim the “Y” is for “Yourself last,“ what is often actually practiced is “Yourself not at all” - and this particularly applies to wives, mothers and daughters. Quiverfull women believe that in putting their husbands and children first, they are putting Christ first, and that they are not to consider their own needs in any other way than as a means to an end, giving themselves just enough minimal care that they can go on serving “Others.”

J.O.Y. for Quiverfull women, in practice, usually looks more like O.O. – “Others Only.” But is this what Jesus actually taught or practiced?

The story of Mary and Martha is the story of how two sisters understood Christian service. Luke 10:38-42 shows how Martha “received” Jesus into “her house” – which is interesting in and of itself, for Luke apparently didn’t think it necessary to identify Martha in relation to a male authority (such as her brother Lazarus, seen in John 11 and 12). No, it was “her house” that Jesus came to, and Martha did what any good Quiverfull woman would do. Forgetting about herself, she bustled around preparing a meal. But Mary went and “sat at Jesus’ feet and heard his word.” “Sat at his feet” had a particular meaning according to the understanding of that time, which was “to learn as a disciple.” In Acts 22:3, Paul identifies himself as a disciple of Rabbi Gamaliel by saying, “I [was] brought up in this city at the feet of Gamaliel.” (Emphasis added.) What Mary was doing in Luke 10:39 was making herself a disciple of Jesus, sitting at his feet to learn with the other disciples.

Martha was upset. Here was Mary neglecting her womanly duties, leaving Martha to do it all herself while Mary took her place among Jesus’ disciples! So Martha went and complained to Jesus, asking Him to make Mary do her womanly duty and help in the kitchen. What did Jesus say? “Martha, Martha, you shouldn’t be thinking about yourself or your needs. If you have to prepare the meal alone, God will bless you all the more for your godly selflessness. But Mary, what do you think you’re doing? How will you find a husband if you continue to rebel against your God-given role?”

If Quiverfull teachings are to be believed, this is what Jesus should have actually said. But what He did say was quite the opposite. “Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things. But one thing is needful, and Mary hath chosen that good, which shall not be taken away from her.”

Jesus was telling Martha that it wasn’t necessary for her to be working in the kitchen at all! Instead, what was “needful” was to sit at His feet as one of his disciples, and Mary was right in what she had done. Jesus neither rebuked Martha for thinking about herself, nor said a word to Mary about forsaking her proper gender role. He made no distinctions for the practice of discipleship according to gender at all.

All right, I can see making an exception to serving “Others” if it’s really about putting my relationship with Jesus first. But isn’t Christian life about denying ourselves? Aren’t we just being self-absorbed if we focus on our own needs or desire things for ourselves?

Jesus did say to deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow Him. But does this mean it’s wrong to prioritize our own needs, to stand up for ourselves, or to ask others to do things for us?

Matthew 16:36-46 is the story of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He is just about to give His life for the world. A greater example of self-sacrifice could not be shown. But listen to what He says to Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, His closest friends:

“My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.” Is that Jesus expressing a deep emotional need, and asking His friends to help meet it?

“And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep, and said unto Peter, “What, could ye not watch with me one hour?” Is that Jesus, expressing disappointment, telling His friends honestly that they have let Him down?

Yes, that’s Jesus, thinking about His own human needs and asking for something for Himself. That’s Jesus, honestly telling others how He feels about not getting His needs met. It could not have been wrong for Him to do this– so how could it be wrong for us?

And look at Paul in the city of Philippi, in Acts 16:12-40. He and Silas are preaching, and a group of powerful men arrange to have them arrested, beaten and thrown in jail. When the magistrates send for them the next day, saying “let those men go,” Paul says (verse 37), “They have beaten us openly uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into prison; and now do they thrust us out privily? Nay verily; but let them come themselves and fetch us out.” Is that Paul standing up for himself and practicing limits on submission to those in governing authority over him? Is that Paul acting in his own best interests? Is that Paul, asserting his own rights?

Yes. Paul is not sinless as Christ is, and yet the passage says nothing to condemn what he has done, nor does Paul ever express remorse or show in any way that he believes he has done wrong. Paul was taking care of himself as best he knew how. If it was not wrong for him, how could it be wrong for us?

Genesis 1:27 says we have all, male and female, been created by God in God’s own image. His gift to each of us is ourselves. Doesn’t He want us to take good care of the gifts we receive from Him?

Romans 6:19 says, “What? Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?” If our bodies are His temple and we are made in His image, then we have a responsibility to take care of ourselves. In fact, each of us has built into us a deep instinct for self-preservation, even as Ephesians 5:29 says: “For no man ever yet hated his own flesh, but nourisheth and cherisheth it.” Jesus said the second greatest commandment was to “love thy neighbor as thyself.” Matthew 22:38 (Emphasis added). It is our nature to want to take care of ourselves and see that our own needs are met, physically, spiritually and emotionally– and this self-love is not sinful, or Jesus would not have mentioned it as part of the commandment. It is merely a part of our stewardship of the creation: stewardship over our own selves, made in God’s image.

In fact, if we say that it is wrong to seek good things for ourselves, or that it indulges our flesh to take care of ourselves, then what are we saying? Since Jesus said, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” then if it is wrong to seek good things for ourselves or to take care of ourselves, then it wrong to seek good things for others or to take care of others. If good things for ourselves indulge our own flesh, then good things for others indulge their flesh, and the best thing we could do for others is help them deprive themselves. But if the Bible teaches us to do good to and give to others, then it is also good to do good to and provide for ourselves!

The Proverbs 31 woman is held up to Quiverfull women as their role model. Women are taught to focus on verse 13: “she worketh willingly with her hands,” verse 15: “she riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household,” and on verse 27: “she looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.” But look at verse 16: “she considereth a field and buyeth it,” verse 17: “she girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms,” and especially verse 22: “she maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple.”

Here we see a woman who thinks for herself, makes decisions for herself, takes care of herself, and even gives herself the very best. She clothes her “household” with scarlet (v. 21) – good, high-quality clothing. But she makes her own clothes “silk and purple” – the very finest! She makes sure her own arms are strong and healthy. She decides for herself what do with money she has earned for herself. Yes, she gives and makes sacrifices for her family. But she makes herself a priority too. And nothing in the passage faults her for self-indulgence or tells her she has stepped out of her role; in fact, she receives nothing but praise.

In Colossians 2:22-23 Paul talks about the kind of service to God which looks good, but is actually “after the commandments and doctrines of men.” This type of service, he says, is characterized by “will worship, humility and neglecting of the body.” “Will worship” refers to a kind of worship which is centered on our own wills – “will power,” if you will, rather than resting in Christ. Humility to the point of neglecting our own bodies is not true worship to God and does not help us become more godly. Instead, it focuses on our own will power in denying ourselves. But this is not the kind of self-denial Jesus wants. The rest of the verse says that this is “not in any honor to the satisfying of the flesh.” We have within ourselves a strong instinct for self-preservation, just as Ephesians 5:29 says. “No one ever hateth his own flesh.” And our will-power is only so strong. If we continually treat ourselves as if we hated our own bodies, it will backfire on us. Our own neglected needs will become so pervasive that we will be unable to concentrate on anyone else; nor will we have anything to give to others.

But taking care of ourselves is more than just a means to an end. It is a way of showing that we appreciate the value of what God has made in His image – namely, us! If we do not see ourselves as worth taking good care of, then we are, in a sense, telling God that He made a mistake when He made us and our needs and desires. “Delight thyself also in the Lord,” says Psalm 37:4 “and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.” God gives good desires to the heart that trusts Him and then meets those desires out of His love.

But the Bible says the heart is deceitful and wicked! Surely you’re not telling us to trust our hearts!

It is true that in Jeremiah 17:9, God says, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it?” But in Jeremiah 31:31-33, God adds that He is going to make a new covenant in which “I will put my law in their inward parts and write it in their hearts.“ And Proverbs 12:20 says, “Deceit is in the heart of them that imagine evil, but to counselors of peace, it is joy (emphasis added).” Trusting God means trusting Him to purify our hearts. If our hearts are turned to God, we need not fear them. We can trust that our desires are good and are from God.

So what did Jesus really mean when He said things like, “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me, for whosoever will save his life will lose it, and whoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it” (Matthew 16:25-26)? Or “Verily, verily I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit” (John 12:24)?

Jesus wanted us to prioritize the kingdom of God, seeking it first, even as He said in Matthew 6:31-33: “Take no [anxious] thought, saying ‘What shall we eat?’ . . . But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all these things [your earthly needs] shall be added to you.” The Greek word for “take thought” there is merimnao, which means “be worried about.” He is saying to let go of having to be first in our own lives and making our own needs top priority. He is not saying to never think about our own needs at all! Notice that He doesn’t say, “Seek only the kingdom of God.” The Lord’s prayer includes a prayer for “our daily bread,” and other needs that we are encouraged to ask God to meet. This is not an “either-or” proposition, but a “both-and” one. The kingdom is to come first, and we are to put it above our own desires and let go of any greedy self-indulgence for its sake– but we are part of that kingdom, we have good desires and legitimate needs that God values, and we need to value ourselves as God values us (Matthew 7:11 &10:31).

But what is this kingdom of God? Are we to be prioritizing a certain earthly lifestyle? Elizabeth Rice Handford, in her book Me? Obey Him?: The Obedient Wife and God’s Way of Happiness and Blessing in the Home appears to believe so. She believes that for a woman, the kingdom of God is all about being married and obeying her husband, and that in obeying her husband, she is obeying God. On page 69, she says: “Why doesn’t the husband have to do his part first? Why? Because you are the one burdened for a Christian home. Having a home where Christ is the head is cheap enough at whatever price you have to pay!” And on page 88, she adds, “There’s a strange paradox in Scripture, echoed in many places: If you would live, you must die (John 12:24). If you would keep your life, you must lose it (Matt. 10:39). . . And there is one more paradox which must be taken by faith as well: if you would know true freedom, you must submit to your husband’s authority. . . . Obedience brings happiness!”

But Jesus never said anything like this to the women who followed Him. Luke 8:3 says that “Joanna the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna” were among the women who traveled with Him and provided for Him out of their own money. Joanna, at least, was married; but there is no record of Jesus telling her to leave Him, go home and keep house, and be obedient to her husband. In fact, Jesus said nothing about women who followed Him having a different calling than the men, or that anyone in His kingdom had higher status than others.* He never said His kingdom was about obedience to anyone but God. He certainly never said that only some of His followers must deny themselves and serve others of His followers, who would be the recipients of the good things the first group denied themselves!

He said that everyone who comes to him must come in the same way: as a little child. Luke 18:17. Little children had no status in that society and were not recipients of any obedience by anyone else. Indeed, in Luke 9:48, Jesus used a little child as an example of “the least among you.” And we are all to seek to be as that child– not just wives, and not just mothers. In order to follow Jesus, husbands too must do their part, contrary to what Handford’s book says. “Denying yourself” means laying down earthly status for the sake of the kingdom. And it’s for men as well as women, husbands as well as wives.

Nor is the kingdom of God about following a certain earthly lifestyle. Jesus never married or had children. If He wanted to promote the “godly family” as the goal of the kingdom, would He not have provided Himself as an example? Or if not, would He not at least have told us, in addition to “follow Me,” to “follow God’s command to be fruitful and multiply”? But Jesus never says a word about this. Jesus tells many parables of the kingdom, and teaches many things about it – including that for its sake, some could choose never to marry (Matthew 19:12) – but He never speaks of it in terms of “godly families” or the obedience of wives to husbands. Instead, He speaks in terms of mercy, repentance, spiritual change, and a new closeness with the Father in each individual heart.

Self-denial and sacrifice when necessary for the good of others, are different from self-deprivation and self-neglect. Much of the unbalanced self-destructiveness of the “deny yourself” teachings practiced in Quiverfull results from exempting some Christians from self-denial while requiring complete self-abnegation by others, to seek an earthly lifestyle that exalts some believers into higher status than anyone else. But God’s kingdom is not about an earthly lifestyle. No one has any higher status than anyone else in Christ. “Deny yourself” is supposed to be about putting His kingdom first. And the kingdom is supposed to be about loving God, our neighbor and ourselves from hearts changed by God’s grace.

And that applies to all of us.

*For more on this topic, see “The Bible and the Nature of Woman” and “The Bible and Male Headship” in this FAQ series.

For more information, read 12 “Christian” Beliefs That Can Drive You Crazy
by Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend, 1994, and see “Stewardship of Self for Christian Workers: Biblical Bases.”

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!  Comments are also open below.

[Note: This article is intended for those readers who have chosen to accept the Bible as authoritative for faith and practice.  If you are not one of those readers, please be understanding of the intended audience and refrain from commenting on the assumptions on which it is based.]

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Thick summer haze blended with the spirals of smoke belching from the backyard grill. A teenage girl in a sepia-colored seventies outfit poked at the flames with a stoic face, silently urging them to gulp up more pages from the notebooks she fed them, one after another. The fire surged with joy and then abated, leaving only charred fragments sinking into dust or drifting lazily into the air. The  grill was stuffed, but not for long. Soon the makeshift altar had reduced its sacrifices to embers. The girl sighed with relief, though the anger blazing in her chest had not subsided.

Her mother had read her diaries. They had to be burned. Her most private thoughts unmercifully exposed, her trust breached, the girl vowed to herself that no one would see those words again. As I would discover thirty years later, she also made a promise to her future daughter: she, unlike my grandmother, would never so mistrust and mistreat her own offspring.

“I trust you.” My mother said, over and over again. “I will never invade your privacy.”

I kept journals sporadically, largely as an outlet for childhood frustrations. When other girls shut me out of their circle, I scribbled furiously about it. When I realized guiltily that Christ had commanded us to love everyone, I hastily amended, “Ignore my last entry. I love everyone, those girls especially!” Sometimes the pages were filled with incoherent childhood rage: “STUPID STUPID STUPID!!” I vented. I knew more emphatic words, but good Christian girls never swore.

Despite knowing that my diaries would never be read by mortal eyes, I nonetheless resisted uttering any religious fears or insecurities. I had been told that Satan could not read our minds but could definitely hear what we said. I surmised, though I was never told, that the devil was probably smart enough to read, too, so I avoided showing fear or doubt in the pages of my journals. I alluded in the vaguest possible terms to crushes I had on boys, convinced that to have a crush was to succumb to sinful lust and thus to leave an opening for Satan. Those thoughts were evil, and must be repudiated and denied.

In time, new media burst on the scene. I sent my first email at 11 years old. My mother, still adamantly adhering to her promise to trust me, didn’t stand over my shoulder or vet my communication. I was free to email my friends at church as though we were having a private conversation. At least, that was my assumption. I was quick to discover, yet slow to appreciate, how different the lives of my peers were.

The internet was new to most people I knew, but some guidelines had been established rather quickly: the first rule was to remember that the people in chat rooms weren’t always who they said they were. The second was related: never share identifiable information. Armed with this common sense, I  boldly entered chat rooms and held conversations with strangers. Their potential wiles and innuendos flew over my head like a fleet of supersonic jets. If they were there at all, I was none the wiser for a long time.

Among the interests I pursued on the internet were websites for other children who played the Catz video game, which allowed the player to raise and breed virtual pets and show pictures of them to others. I also discovered MIDI files, which exposed me to music I had never heard before and yet held none of the threats of Satanic infiltration like rock music on the radio. MIDI files had no beat or lyrics. They couldn’t infiltrate my brain with images of sex and drugs. This latter discovery soon led to my first jolt of surprise at the exceptional quality of my mother’s trust.

I had taken to downloading MIDI files in bulk and listening to them with musical enhancement software that made their tinny sounds more realistic. I also forwarded a few to my friend Sara, the pastor’s daughter. I shared the ones I liked best and least, along with the ones that sounded most unlike any other music I’d heard before. With all the enthusiasm (and abuse of punctuation) of a twelve-year-old engrossed in a new toy, I attached my latest MIDI in an email to Sara with the subject line, “THE WEIRDEST MIDI IN THE WORLD!!!!~!!!~!!!!!”

Within hours I received a sobering reply – not from Sara, but from her father.

“This is very serious and I think you need to talk to your mother right away,” ran the email. “I have deleted this file and you need to do the same. Hotel California is a rock and roll song and I will not have it in my house.”

Scathed and ashamed, with tears brimming in my eyes, I dutifully searched out my mother and led her to the screen. “I had no idea it was rock and roll,” I explained, utterly unfamiliar with the song. At once I felt horrified, guilty and betrayed – no one had told me that Sara’s dad read her emails! Furthermore, the MIDI had no words and no bass! How was I supposed to know it was Satan’s music? If I had been caught smuggling LSD into Sara’s bedroom, I couldn’t have felt more guilty, more dirty, more wrong.

My mother rolled her eyes at the email and told me not to worry about it. The next time I saw our pastor, though, I was convinced that his eyes were burning a hole through my skull, probing for my darkest sins. He knew what a terrible girl I was, duped by rock and roll. The evil that lived in me clamored to get out. I felt my sin bubbling near the surface, about to burst forth and condemn me to death and hell in one great, horrible bang. I avoided the pastor. I avoided Sara. I avoided the computer. But time was strong enough to make me forget, or at least to think that next time might be different.

“Sometimes I struggle with all these doubts. I’m not sure the Bible is really true. I’m not sure God exists at all,” Sven wrote over instant messenger. We were seventeen.

I sucked in a sharp breath. He was confiding in me! My heart fluttered with honor and with fear at the gravity of his confession. What should I say?

“I know what you mean,” I finally responded, hesitantly. “But I’m usually afraid I’m not one of the elect. I mean, why me, of all the people in the world?”

“Hmm,” wrote Sven. “No, I don’t worry about that at all. Sometimes I just feel like it’s all made up, like there’s nobody on the other side when I pray.” Apparently realizing our depth, we soon retreated to safer topics, but the sobriety of that moment clung to me like static electricity.

Sven and I had begun chatting online whilst playing video games, an activity that caused many heads in our church to wag in consternation. Soon, however, our conversations took more serious avenues. We plotted group excursions to the Renaissance Faire, and talked about the books we’d read and the few movies we’d seen. We shared aspirations to open small businesses one day and to see more of the world. The internet was a lifeline to me, stuck at home in a rural area with no wheels, no work, and no school. Talking to Sven made me feel connected. But I wasn’t prepared for the next jolt to my misplaced sense of trust and confidentiality.

Minutes after Sven confessed his doubts about the existence God, he began to type: “My mom says…” and my heart froze. The rest of the words blacked out in my head. Had she been there the whole time? Had I just bared my own soul, unawares, before the woman who hated me? Sven’s mother had been trying for a decade to break up our friendship: she forced him to discard the gifts I gave him and forbade me to see him alone, then invited another girl to stay in their home and sent them off to run errands together in the car (a privilege and trust that I apparently never merited). When groups of his friends gathered in their house, I was conveniently shunted from the list, though the rest of the church seemed to know. Even as far back as second grade, I could recall her telling my mother that we couldn’t play together anymore, lest I seduce him with my deadly seven-year-old wiles. I had not forgotten this litany of insults, and was horrified to think that I had just given her new ammunition. “She isn’t even saved,” I could imagine Sven’s mother saying of me snidely. “She admitted it: she isn’t one of the elect!”

My mind whirled. Was it a test? Had she read the logs from every conversation we’d had together? How could I be so stupid as to think we were allowed to talk alone? Boys and girls were never allowed that! Then anger rushed into my head: why hadn’t he told me? How could he have that conversation, so obviously private and confidential, right in front of her and not think to let me know she was there? I felt a sting of shame that I had dared to hope for confidentiality in the first place: what I said to him, I should be willing to say to her, too, right? That was what it meant to abstain from the very appearance of evil, wasn’t it? Still, I chafed at what felt like betrayal.

Hesitantly, I asked as casually as I could if she’d just walked in, hoping that the question didn’t raise even more suspicion. To my vast relief, he said she had, and that she’d left again. Perhaps she’d missed our sacrilegious doubts. I remembered my mother’s statement, “I trust you,” with fierce pain and pride. Was I the only one whose mother trusted her? I had been spared this time, but now I knew that Sven’s mother might walk in and read his screen at any moment. No written conversation was safe, no confession private. No friendship existed between only two people.

When my mother said, “I trust you,” she was unique.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

Sierra is a PhD student living in the Midwest. She was raised in a “Message of the Hour” congregation that followed the ministry of William Branham. She left the Message in 2006 and is the author of the blog The Unspoken Words: A Non-Prophet Message.

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by

We had two children nineteen months apart. We wanted a larger family than just two. At that time we had never heard of patriarchy. We just loved kids, and we loved making them. However, after that I did not have any more. Of course I was disappointed, but we were alright with that at the time. As they approached school age I began to fret. I loved being with my kids and I did not want to send them away. I had met a family one time that educated their children at home. I was still working part time, but we decided that I would stay home with the children and teach them myself.

If that is all that I would have done it would have been great, but of course I had to join a support group. That is were the trouble began. It was full of very fundamental families with many children. And of course none of the other mothers worked outside of the home. Their kids always seemed to be so well behaved. One thing I should have noticed is that there were very few families with teenagers. Since I did not have any I did not notice. I have come to realize a lot of these beliefs cannot make it through teenage years. Many of these moms were so “helpful”. They began to give me all sorts of advice, and that included Created to Be His Helpmeet and To Train Up a Child.

At that time I was questioned about how many children I planned to have. We were not trying to prevent pregnancy, so I shared that. Many mothers determined that God must be trying to teach me something, like maybe I was not being submissive enough to my husband and on and on. I began to feel like something had to be wrong with me, so I began to try to be the perfect, Godly wife. The only problem: I wasn’t reading the scripture, I was relying on Michael Pearl, Bill Gothard, Little Bear Wheeler, and eventually satan himself – Doug Phillips.

So, instead of being my husband’s capable helpmeet, I now became a meek, submissive, and unable to make any decision on her own little wife. He was also being counseled by men who were into ATI (Bill Gothard’s Advanced Training Institute) and finally followers in a very big way of Doug Phillips. I still am not ready to reveal how closely we are associated with Phillips. But it is very close through friends of ours.

My husband was now becoming the “leader” of his home. He stopped helping me with chores around the house. If he needed something done I was expected to drop everything to meet his needs. I never went anywhere that he did not want me to go. I even missed a going away party for a dear friend of mine. She was very hurt by this and our relationship has never been restored. He wanted me home to be at his beck and call.

Our sex life was ruined, as he would get mad and pout for days if I did not give in anytime he wanted. I began to never say no, but then he would be mad if I was not “in the mood.” It was damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I really resented him at this point, as I felt like I was being raped. Just to keep the peace and keep him happy I would pretend. If I did not he would treat me and the children horribly.

I was in the hospital with a bad infection, and he decided he wanted to go play baseball. Instead of being with our kids he played ball. It was always up to me to see that the kids were taken care of, even when I was sick. I took them to most of their activities, and would never dream of asking him to help. No matter that they were his responsibility too. However, he did coach my son’s baseball teams for many years.

My husband did work hard though. He would work two jobs since I was no longer working and I had made very good money. When I quit our income took a huge hit. Even with his working two jobs we were struggling to make ends meet, as we still had a huge house.

One of the worst things was that he no longer considered my feelings about anything. If I dared ask him for help doing anything, he would inform me that he worked hard, and since I did not have a job, then I could do what I needed done. One of my lowest points was when I was having trouble with my son in school. He was being very defiant. My husband was in his shop tinkering, and I asked my daughter to go get him. He chewed me out for disturbing him and informed me that he was busy.

Discipline became a huge problem. He was very strict, punishing the children for every little infraction. He would make rules that I was expected to carry out. I would be blamed if the kids misbehaved. I became so weary, that I just did not care. I would yell and scream at my kids to try and make them do everything right. You see I was terrified that if everything was not perfect then he would leave. Where would that leave my “perfect’ family? My children would be scarred for life and it would be all my fault for not being the perfect wife.

After ten years with no more children I was pregnant. I was overjoyed. I was finally doing it right and God was no longer withholding His favor. I was a blessed woman. Little did I know how much of a blessing the child would really be. She would eventually become the turning point in our messed up life.

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