Incredible
Chapter 1 and 2
I am reposting Chapter 1 because I have made some clarifying edits.
It was December in Montana. I was standing in foot-deep snow, waiting for a bus and shivering in my blue wool cape. The flat white landscape seemed to stretch on forever–I was the only colorful thing for miles. I was going nowhere without that bus. I waited for what seemed like hours but it was probably more like 15 minutes until the bus arrived.
At the health clinic, when they heard my whispered voice and my cough, they took me back to a room immediately. A young doctor arrived quickly. "I heard you all the way down the hall. That's some cough you have."
He checked my temperature and listened to my heart and lungs. "You have a fever, and your lungs are congested. Do you have a history of asthma?"
I nodded. That's why I was struggling to breathe.
My voice wavered. "I only have about $50 right now." Another rattling cough. What I didn’t say was that I had been in a cult and had given them all I had.
He nodded. "I understand. We see a lot of people who can't pay at this clinic. I have some sample antibiotics that should work. If you are not better in a few days, call me so you don't have to come in. I also have something for that asthma." He paused. "Hang in. It will get better with time."
With the medicine in my purse, I returned to the small white farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, Montana, where my client Corrie was waiting. Taking care of her was how I earned my $50 per month.
How did I find myself in this predicament? It's complicated. I am still trying to figure out why I went along with everything when it got crazy. One thing I already know contributed: I was a vulnerable lonely kid with no self-esteem, and no support network. I was a perfect mark.
As a young person I had a knack for finding unusual churches. For example, in college, I attended a charismatic Presbyterian church, where speaking in tongues was common, but so was Calvinist doctrine. That’s quite a mash-up, doctrinally speaking. Presbyterians are sometimes referred to as “the frozen chosen,” while charismatic Christians believe in “letting the Spirit move.” Put the two together and you may get this:
The Charismatic Gifts
The charismatic movement [is] that section of Christendom which insists on the continuance today of the extraordinary gifts of the Holy Spirit recorded in the New Testament, such as speaking with tongues unknown to the speaker, uttering divine prophecies and performing miraculous healings…
There are two approaches to dealing with [this]. The first is to lop off the branches one by one. This we could do with the charismatic tree, beginning with the false inspiration of its prophecies and revelations; the absurd manifestations of its Toronto blessing; the God-dishonouring and truth-denying embraces of its ecumenism…. (By Rev Keith M Watkins, a Scottish Free Presbyterian pastor, published in the Free Presbyterian Magazine in November and December 1999)
In other words, denominations tend to be set in their ways, and treat new things with hostility. I also knew a charismatic Episcopal community on Cape Cod-–another strange mix. They were, well, friends with the charismatic Presbyterians. Both the Presbyterians and Episcopalians were a mono-culture of white, upper-middle-class, well-educated folks.
So when I moved to New Jersey from Boston after college to take a job teaching high school, I had trouble finding a church I felt at home in. I ended up attending an unorthodox Church of the Nazarene–basically a conservative evangelical church with Methodist roots and non-denominational views. It was a small, mixed-race congregation with lower-middle-class members. I was the one who didn’t fit because of where I went to school and my family background. I tried, but I made no friends there. After a year of this loneliness, I wrote to the community on Cape Cod and asked them for recommendations. They wrote back, "We are sorry, but we don't know of any charismatic churches in the area. There is one small house church you could try. It is at 170 West Palmer Street in Rahway. But we cannot vouch for them."
A house church? That is a small group of Christians who meet in someone’s home because their ideas don’t fit in a particular church denomination. Such a “church” can be the wild wild west of Christian groups. It depends on what the members hold in common. When the Cape Cod Community said they could not vouch for this house church they meant ‘be careful.’
That didn’t stop me, so hungry was I for friendship. I gave the house church a call that week and was invited to attend their community bible study/ encounter group on Thursday evening.
I arrived in the 7 PM twilight. The house was a large Victorian that had been painted stark white. It had a tricycle on the porch and a neglected garden in the yard. The lawn had scattered dandelions throughout. It was clear that whoever lived in the house was either too busy or not interested in yard work.
When I knocked on the weathered door, I was greeted by a young woman with a friendly smile. "Come on in! We haven't started yet."
In an old-fashioned parlor with faded flowery wallpaper, five chairs were arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. Three were seated, two women and a man. The woman who had originally greeted me took a seat and invited me to do so. The man stood up and began to talk. I noticed a bit of stiffness in his manner, and in the members of the house as he stood.
He said something about the house and the people who lived there, but I found his manner irritating. He was small and thin, dressed in a gray sweater vest over a white shirt, gray slacks, white socks and brown loafers. He had a precise manner of speaking and an attitude that said of course he was in charge. If a person could be freeze-dried and still remain animate, then he was a prime example. Cold and desiccated–that was him. Former Presbyterian, it turned out. It was remarkably difficult to focus on what he was saying.
I did catch his name, Frank, and his wife's name, Nancy. The woman who had let me in was Elena. She stood out from the beginning as someone who was NOT one of the frozen chosen. She looked like she could have been at Woodstock, with her free-flowing dress, long auburn hair, dangly earrings, and Birkenstocks. Indeed, this was 1976, not so far from the hippie, Jesus-people days of the 1960s. She was by far the most attractive person in the room. The remaining woman was Suzie. She was stocky with frizzy mid-length blonde hair, pale eyes, and standard mom clothes. Suzie faded into the background.
They all lived together in this house. I didn't find that unusual, as I knew the Cape Cod community did the same.
We did a regular bible study on a passage from the Gospels--I think it was from Matthew 10, because I remember the verses "Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me. He who does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me." (Matthew 10:37-38). This passage always scared me. Taking up my cross sounded horrible.
Then we had a time of fellowship, something like tea and cookies with gentle cross-examination.
Frank asked me what I did.
"I teach high school chemistry."
"Interesting! May I ask, where did you go to school?"
"MIT."
"Impressive!"
"Well, not really. We are not all geniuses; we are ordinary people."
'That I doubt. Welcome to our little group! I take it that you are a charismatic Christian. Who gave you our contact information?"
"The community on Cape Cod."
"Oh! Very good! Thank you for the information, and again, welcome."
I had just been interrogated.
Elena stepped into the awkward silence. "It is good to have you. We don't have new people come to our group often. How did you like the bible study?"
"It was wonderful! I have always found those verses to be very challenging."
Elena’s eyes lit up. "It's not so difficult when your love is strong and aimed in the right direction." She looked at Nancy. I didn’t know what to make of that.
Nancy was silent for a moment. I looked at her fully for the first time. She was tall, with black hair, stooped shoulders, and a pale face. She said, "Love conquers all our fear." Her voice was quiet and cool, as if speaking from a distance.
"Yes! 'Perfect love casts out fear.' I hadn't thought of that reference from 1st John! Thank you…. I wonder what counts as perfect love."
We all sat there in silence for a moment, thinking about perfect love. For some reason, the tension in the room increased.
To lighten the mood, I said "Frank, you seem to know a lot about scripture."
"Yes, I used to be a pastor, but that didn't work out." Frank quickly glossed over that fact. "Now I do freelance copyediting. Nancy dabbles in creative writing, mostly for her own entertainment." There was just a hint of scorn in his voice.
Elena spoke. "Oh Nancy, what you write is beautiful!" Elena turned to me. "Frank doesn't appreciate her talent. I could listen to her stories and poems all day. I hope you will be able to hear some of it soon."
Nancy smiled. “Thank you, Elena. Ann, perhaps you would like a tour of the house?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” The house was very spartan, with little artwork or softness, just bare walls and windows without curtains, and wood floors. Yet, as we stood in the upstairs hall looking at an ordinary corner with an ordinary plant, I suddenly knew I would be living there. Have you ever had a sudden insight about something that would happen? I didn’t want to live there. I just knew I would.
Chapter 2
I had moved before the beginning of school into a new apartment. It was very nice but also expensive. I had invited two members of the Nazarene church to move in, with the understanding that we would share expenses. We were all good Christians, right? (Nazarene theology emphasizes holiness.) What could go wrong? A lot, it turns out. It had been several months since they had paid any rent or utilities. Or even food. I talked about this with the house church over the next month.
After one particularly challenging meeting, as I was leaving, Elena hugged me and told me she loved me. This touched me to the core.
They offered me the chance to move in with them, but I said no. I was uncomfortable with the idea because I sensed something was going on, and it had been only a few short months since I had moved before. I also disliked Frank. He had no warmth at all. His smile never reached his eyes. He seemed to me to be a man who wanted to control everything but was frustrated because he couldn’t.
By November I couldn't continue with the apartment any longer. At the next meeting, I told the house church community that I had decided to move. Dennis agreed to help me move. Elena was delighted. The next day I told my roommates I was moving out and then told the landlord.
The move was at the end of November. All went well, apart from the unhappy roommates and drizzling cold rain. But after the move something strange happened. Elena and Nancy quizzed me about Frank’s behavior.
“Did you notice anything strange?” Elena said
“...No…Like what?” I wondered.
“Did he say anything unusual? Talk about us or the house?”
“Not that I noticed. Should I have?”
Nancy said nothing.
Elena smiled. “No, it’s just that he doesn’t always act very welcoming.”
What comes next is very hard to believe. So I have to provide some background to explain how I became so enamored of Elena.
I was a shy introverted girl by nature, and my father’s career didn’t help. He was a career army officer, and we moved every two years on average. I had few friends growing up, so I had no feedback from other kids about how to handle relationships. Both my parents were workaholics, with little time for us kids. The family expectation was to do very well in school–all A’s, top of the class.
In junior high I was verbally abused by some teenaged boys, talking about me in gross sexual terms loud enough for many people to hear. I didn’t know what to do, so I froze. Finally, a senior girl told them to shut up, but the damage was done.
We moved every year when I was in high school. That pretty much deep-sixed any chance of long-lasting relationships. Kids need people to reflect back to them who they are, especially that they are valuable and loved. So far my feedback was negative. I had no idea who I was, apart from being a good student, and MIT took that idea away. My church in college, the charismatic Presbyterian one, also rejected me for some reason. I didn’t fit in, and the pastor in particular thought I was a bad person. Nobody told me what I was doing wrong. I tried making connections with another community, the one on Cape Cod, but was rejected there too. I repeatedly received the message that I wasn’t valuable and was unlovable.
By the time I moved to New Jersey, I had been a Christian only four short years. I felt this giant hole in my heart that nothing or no one could fill. I pleaded with God to show me he loved me. Intellectually I believed but not emotionally. So by the time I moved in with the house church, I was a walking ball of neediness looking for love pretty much wherever I could find it. Elena had said she loved me. I hoped it was true.
In the beginning, Elena was good to me. She encouraged me to discover who I was and to think about what my dreams and gifts were. She encouraged me to feel good about myself as a woman and not deny that side of myself. She challenged me to grow, to become more alive. She taught me indirectly to be more open to new ideas, and to have faith that God would provide.
She also pushed me in negative ways. She asked me to write a letter to the pastor of the Nazarene church, telling him what I thought was wrong. “You should write to that pastor and tell him why you left. Tell him about the music, and the preaching. He needs to know.”
Normally this was not something I would do. But to please Elena and to show I was a strong person, I wrote that letter to the pastor. Elena seemed especially pleased.
“Do you think that’s wise, Elena?” Nancy smoothed out the afghan shawl in her lap as she spoke.
“We have to speak the truth. He needs to hear it.”
Once it was written I gave it to Elena for approval. I already wanted her approval.
As expected, the pastor from the Nazarene church was angry. He and a few of the church elders wrote me a letter saying that I was deceived, that I was listening to the devil.
This was my worst fear. Suppose it was true? It was easy to rationalize and see myself as being persecuted by Pharisees, like in the Gospels, rather than being badly off track and misled. What if the pastor was speaking the truth? I needed someone to trust outside of the house church and the Nazarene church, someone whose judgment was sound to help me discern what was true. But there was no one I felt I could talk to about my confusions, apprehensions, and doubts. So I lived with unresolved tension and anxiety. Note--already the pattern of thinking that everyone in an established denomination was wrong or would not understand was in place. Perhaps it was because of my non-standard church background. Perhaps it was my desire for Elena’s approval.
How do you know if you are underneath the influence of the devil if you don’t know who you are?
If you subscribe you will get each chapter in your mailbox as the story unfolds. You will also let me know that you value this work because it’s hard to tell this story. I do it in the hope that someone who finds themselves in a similar situation will be encouraged to seek help. I also write to let people know that change is possible. I am no longer the scared confused girl I was then.