When the Saints Go Marching Out

After spending more than twenty years as a stay-at-home mom, my restlessness and discontent were getting the best of me. ("Best" being a generous word since I had not, up to that point, given my best effort to many endeavors.) Seeking identity apart from the roles of someone's wife and someones' mother, I began volunteering at my church. Established in the 1930s, by the year 2000, it was on its way to becoming a mega-church, a sure sign of its relevance and hipness, in my book. Therefore, when I was allowed to relieve the front-desk receptionist for several hours each week, I felt closer to the inside track, quite literally nearer the seat of authority. A variation of Sally Field's infamous Oscar speech echoed in my head: "They like me. They really, really like me!" I would have continued doing the work for free, but when, after a few months, they offered me a "real" part-time job, I accepted as though I'd been crowned Homecoming Queen. I was now officially a member of the in-crowd. And while I was merely a handmaiden within the king's court, I was at least inside the walls and periodically acknowledged (by name!) by the authorities. For a woman existing within a fundamentalist mega-church, I felt I had arrived ("but where?" might have been a productive question; then again, probably not, given my mindset).

After working there for a while, I realized that most of the church's female employees did not attend the church's Sunday services despite the fact that such attendance was an explicitly-stated condition of their employment. Besides fueling my sense of uber-righteousness, this fact piqued my curiosity for three years. However, during my final two years of employment, my curiosity was satisfied. One week after resigning from my job, I sent a letter to the board of elders, requesting that my name be removed from the membership roll.

I have stories to tell, believe me. But most of them target me as often as they target others. After all, when used as a controlling device, the fear of the Lord is not the beginning of wisdom; rather the seedbed of arrogance and intolerance. I both upheld and acquiesced to distorted versions of such fear. I am still making sense of all I once knew to be certain. One thing about which I'm fairly sure: Church is not a shortcut to righteousness; in fact, it may be a longcut.

While many young women in their 20s and 30s are now blogging about their experiences as recovering fundamentalists, I have noticed only a handful of baby-boomer bloggers among these escapees. I am now joining their ranks.