Once Saved, Always Saved

My partner (my Angel) and I were talking about baptism a while back.  She was raised Presbyterian, so she was sprinkled as a baby.  She was shocked that I hadn't been sprinkled as a baby too.  "What about if a baby dies?" she asked because Presbyterians believe that baby baptism is necessary for the baby to be able to go to heaven if it dies tragically before confirmation. 

In answer to her question, I tried to explain that Baptists (and I speak from the perspective of the circles in which I was raised) believe that people should only be baptized if they have been saved.  And they believe that, in order for a person to be saved, she has to first understand her desperate situation as a sinner so she will call on Christ to save her.

What about the babies, then?  Well, Baptists believe that the baby is safe in innocence.  As long as he cannot understand that he has a sin nature, then Jesus will certainly take him to heaven if he dies.  There comes a time, however, when a child reaches the age of accountability, that he becomes able to understand his need of a savior.  After that time, if the child has not gotten saved, then he will go to hell (where all the unsaved will spend eternity separated from God).

The problem is that nobody agrees on when exactly a child reaches the age of accountability.  An especially bright child might see himself as a sinner at the age of four.  Others might not "get it" all the way up to the age of twelve.  And the rare mentally handicapped child could be thought of as protected in innocence through her entire life.

So the parents of average children are left with a quandary.  They don't want any child of theirs to slip through the cracks and die a sinner.  The sooner a child makes a profession of salvation, the better -- but it HAS to be genuine, or it won't count.  Young children are so impressionable, they will often make a profession to make someone they love happy.  Great care has to be taken to ensure that a child expressing interest in getting saved *really* understands before leading him through the sinner's prayer.  One wouldn't want to give him a false sense of security if he didn't really mean it.

Because Baptists believe that once you get saved, you are saved for all of time.  It doesn't matter what you do after that point, you will always be saved and are guaranteed to go to heaven when you die. 
Some Baptists use this teaching to justify "easy believism".  They can speed walk a stranger through the plan of salvation in 30 seconds flat.  If the person prays, she is saved!  Chalk one up for the army of Jesus.  It doesn't matter to them if the woman's life ever changes; she's saved now and that is one more soul for Jesus.

Other Baptists are more careful.  They want to see "fruits worthy of salvation".  They slowly and methodically prepare a prospect to understand every aspect of salvation.  That way, if the person chooses to get saved, it is more likely to "stick" and he will want to devote his life to God (ie, get baptized, go to church, tithe, etc).

Papa Preacher is the easy believism type of Baptist.  One, two, three, bow the knee.  My Dad became the careful type, but that's another story for another time much farther down the road.

When I was a young child, Mom and Dad did their best to help me understand my need for salvation.  Whenever I did something wrong, they told me it was a sin.  From the youngest age (even before a profession of salvation), they taught me to pray for forgiveness for my sins every night.  "Dear God, thank you for this day.  I'm sorry for fighting with Boss today.  Please forgive me.  In Jesus' name, amen."

I had a little picture Bible back then.  I loved looking at the pictures since I had not learned how to read yet.  There was Samson pulling the house down on the Philistines; there was Jonah getting eaten by the whale; there was Daniel in the lions' den; there was Jesus with the little children; and many others.  My favorite picture, though, was the one of Jesus on the cross.  I would squat down against the wall after church with my picture bible on my knees, and I would study and study that picture.
Jesus loves me this I know, for the bible tells me so.  Jesus died for my sins; I knew that, and I loved this suffering Jesus so much. 

One Sunday morning, Dad gave the invitation after the junior church lesson that, if anyone wanted to get saved, they should come forward.  I went forward, so Dad took me to a little side room with shag green carpet and little black child-size metal folding chairs.  He showed me the wordless book, which only had pages of different colors and no words.  Black was the color of my heart because I was a sinner.  Red was the color of Jesus' blood when he died on the cross for me.  White was the color that Jesus would make my heart if I asked Him to save me.  And oh! how I wanted my heart to be white.  Then green was for growing by reading my bible and praying, and gold was for heaven, where I could go when I died.

I said I wanted to be saved, so Dad led me through the sinner's prayer.  And I was saved!  I was so excited, I wanted to get baptized right away.  But Papa Preacher said I was too young.  Even he was skeptical that I might not be able to understand everything yet.  But I was FIVE years old and I knew what I wanted.  I pestered Papa Preacher for a whole year and then he finally let me get baptized.  I was so proud that night looking out over the congregation.  Even my kindergarten teacher came to see me get baptized.

Ah, the faith of little children as praised by Jesus in the gospels.  I remember my faith at that age, the purity and certainty of it.  Where is it now when I need it?

When Church Took Over

When I look back at my family history, I remember a time when my family was "normal" and "happy".  Before things got bad.  And I can even pinpoint the event that started it all.  Change often occurs slowly, the scales tilting imperceptibly, balancing until that pivotal Moment which tips the scale to the other side.

For us, the Moment came one Sunday after the morning service.  Us kids didn't know it was different than any other Sunday when we piled into the family car.  We were quite young: Indie would have still been a baby and I would be four years old.

Something was clearly wrong with Mom and Dad, however.  They were arguing about something and Mom was getting very upset. We pulled out of the church parking lot as the argument escalated.  Us kids sat in uncomfortable silence in the back seat. This may have been the first time I heard Mom and Dad argue, but definitely not the last.  Suddenly the car slowed down and Mom got out and marched away down the road. Us kids were distraught, not understanding, when Dad pulled away and drove us home.

I don't remember what happened after that, but my parents often retold the story.  That morning, Papa Preacher had approached Mom and Dad about teaching in junior church (a children's service which took place during the weekly adult worship service).  The key thing in all this is that neither Mom nor Dad wanted to do it, but Dad took Papa Preacher's request like an injunction from God and felt like there wasn't much choice in the matter.

Mom let her feelings be known.  She didn't want the preacher telling us what we had to do.  In the end, she repented of her rebellion (her words).  The rest, as they say, is history.  Their first Sunday running junior church went horribly.  It happened to be during a revival, and the guest speaker preached a loooong time.  Apparently, they sang "Jesus Loves Me" a Lot.

After that, Mom and Dad went to conferences to learn how to run junior church better.  They learned about puppets, ventriloquism, balloon animals, and christian magic tricks.  They learned lots of new songs and review games.  Never again would they be caught unprepared.

Dad quickly came to prefer ventriloquism over puppetry.  He wrote lots of his own skits and invented nearly a dozen different characters.  He only bought one dummy in the very beginning.  After that, he and Mom fabricated them, either from scratch or from over-sized stuffed animals.

Mom filled poster pads with songs to sing, and created their most popular match game on index cards, drawing all the artwork herself.

They worked well as a team.  Pretty soon, Dad's ventriloquism got to be so popular that other churches asked him to come and do skits.  Papa Preacher was so pleased with their creativity and hard work that he made Dad the Director of Children's Ministries.

This is what got my parents involved with Saturday morning visitation.  They started running the church van route, so Saturday mornings were spent visiting the roster of kids to see whether they would be riding the next morning.  Us kids had to come along, of course.  It was boring, but we got to have donuts.

That was the beginning of church taking over.  During all of this, Mom and Dad changed.  At the time, we lived near two of Mom's sisters, and, as I said before, they used to be pretty close.  It was common for a bottle of champagne to be shared at family gatherings.  No more at Mom and Dad's house.

They tell the story that, when they were uncertain how to tell the family about their new abstinence from alcoholic beverages, the bottle of champagne exploded all over the living room.  Cleaning up the mess seemed fortuitous to them, though.  God had asserted his opinion about alcohol, and now they weren't afraid to say so.

Another time, my aunt gave Boss an action figure for his birthday.  Unfortunately for him, it looked demonic to Mom and Dad, so they decided it had to be burned.  I remember watching the scowling little face melt in the flames of our fireplace.

These things, plus the duty my parents now felt to witness to our "unsaved" relatives, drove the once close sisters apart.  It wasn't long before they wouldn't have anything to do with us. 

 

Religious Addiction, Spiritual Abuse - What is it?

Hi. My name is Shaye and I'm a religious addict. I come from a family of religious addiction. Due to this addiction, I suffered spiritual abuse, and was guilty of perpetrating the same.

They say the first step toward getting help for an addiction is being able to admit you have it. It's mostly true. In my case, I first had to understand the terms "religious addiction" and "spiritual abuse". To someone with my background, these terms seem harsh and derogatory, like they were coined by someone with an angry prejudice against fundamentalism. They are off-putting and more than a little threatening.

Every now and then since I left the ifb church, I have stumbled across these terms, particularly "spiritual abuse". While I could eventually admit that, yes, I had been the recipient of spiritual abuse, I could not think of the people I had known and loved as deliberately abusive. About a month ago, I came into possession of a book written by Rober N. Minor called When Religion is an Addiction. I bought it, and then stuck it on my shelf, too intimidated to read it. It felt like, by reading the book, I would have to start thinking of my parents and other addicts in the ifb church as bad people, instead of the caring, sincere individuals I knew most of them to be.

On the contrary, now that I have finally found the courage to begin reading the book, I am finding a degree of self-understanding I didn't know was possible. And as for my parents and the other ifb addicts I know, I can think of them as sincere believers who have become caught up in an addictive process. The harmful choices they have made in the midst of their addiction come from a place of deep brokenness versus deliberate intention to harm.

Here are some quotes from the book:

Arguing that religious addiction is a process addiction, the same as workaholism and addiction to gambling… “A process becomes an addiction when the process becomes the center of life, the most important reason for living, when a person becomes dependent upon the process for mood-altering relief from the rest of life.” [pg. 34]

“The addictions cause us to think and do things that might otherwise be inconsistent with our deepest intuitions and humane feelings.”  [pg. 36]

“Like substance addictions, process addictions substitute the “message” of the addiction for the messages inside us.  In themselves, they keep us from being aware of and really feeling what is going on inside.  These addictions come with messages that tell us how we should feel instead of how we do feel.”  [pg. 37]

This next quote shows how easily the addiction can move into abuse: “As addicted ones lose contact with themselves, they lose contact with others.  Others become like objects useable for the addiction.  Addicts define others in terms of the addiction… They become out of touch with how what they are doing is affecting, even hurting those around them.”  [pg. 38]

As I relate stories from my journey out of the ifb denomination, I will sometime use the terms “religious addiction” and “spiritual abuse”. When I do so, I will have the above quotes in mind. Any commentary by me refers only to my life experiences and individuals I have known personally; it is not meant to imply that all ifb churches or members are the same.

I recommend Robert Minor’s book if you or someone you know needs help with religious addiction, or if you want to learn more about the topic. I’m still reading the book, however, so I can’t recommend what I have not read.

The Good Years

If you watch HGTV, you are familiar with the following scenario: a couple goes on vacation, they fall in love with the destination, and sooner or later decide to move there. This was true of my parents shortly after their conversion experience (described in the previous post). After visiting relatives who lived in the beautiful northwest, they fell in love with the mountains, and quickly decided to relocate.

They left as carefree young adults and first-time parents and returned nearly 25 years later as embittered, disillusioned middle-aged adults with a family whose fabric hung in tatters. Dad voiced the question on all of our minds then - if we had never left, how different would things be? Would he have ever become a minister? Would our family still be happy and loving as it once had been? Would my sister and I still believe?

What if -- useless words to ponder, I know, but irresistible just the same. I think I can speak for all of us by saying that we (at least secretly) think our lives could have been better if mom and dad had stayed in the midwest.

But if that were the case, I wouldn't have nearly as interesting a tale to tell.

Life in the northwest started out idyllic, though even the early days held portent of the coming change. Dad found employment at an auto-body shop, and he settled the family temporarily in a small apartment.

I surprised mom and dad by arriving 18 months after my brother (I'll call him Boss). I was born with fuzzy red hair, like Boss had been. According to an agreement my parents had, the red hair meant dad got to name me; however, mom begged and pleaded, so I ended up with her pick for a name. Later, my hair fell out and grew back blond, so she says I was meant to have that name. For this blog, I will refer to my earlier self as Song.

An important part of settling into their new home in the northwest was finding a "good" church to attend. By good I mean one that taught the correct biblical doctrines as my parents understood them. The first baptist church they tried did not measure up because it was not evangelical enough (it did not emphasize door-to-door witnessing).

Before long, mom and dad found an ifb church that was just starting up. The preacher fit their ideal, so they moved their membership to his church. Papa Preacher's style of leadership had two approaches. He could be gregarious, persuading compliance through personal charisma. If that didn't work, then he laid down the law. The person could take it or leave. And they did leave sometimes. As a young child, of course, I only saw Papa Preacher's friendly side. He and his wife were like grandparents to us kids, and we loved them fiercely.

In this time period, dad experienced trouble at work. This was in the days before safety procedures became mandated in the workplace. Imagine working in an auto-body repair shop where wearing even rudimentary masks met with derision, where proper ventilation and air conditioning did not exist, and where workers would only be dismissed if the outside temperature reached 100 degrees. Many employees came down with mysterious illnesses, my dad included.

He became plagued by severe headaches, mental confusion, body aches and weakness. One day he lost time, driving for two hours and arriving at home with no idea how he had gotten there and no memory of where he had been. These symptoms drove him to quit his auto-body career and find other employment. Gradually, the symptoms disappeared and his health seemed to return to normal.

A few years passed, during which, our family moved from the apartment into a little house with rough wood siding. Mom's mother made the move to the northwest and married again. Then my sister, the last of us kids, was born. I'll call her Indie (short for Independent) since she's always had her own way of doing things and she never bought into what we were raised to believe (the way I did).

Sadly for her, she doesn't remember when our family was beautiful and happy and the smiles on family portraits were genuine. Back then, we went to the park and fed the ducks. Boss and I got to go swimming in the public pool. We often rode bikes to the nearest playground and spun on the tire swing. And we stopped at the salt licks to see the mountain goats every time we went to visit Grandma and her new husband.

Something else she doesn't remember is an older sister that was wild and crazy, who loved to run and laugh and play tricks on people. Who used to get scolded for belly sliding down the stairs at Grandma's house and scaring everyone with the thump she made at the bottom. Who got in trouble for being too rowdy in the house with best friend "Sammy". And who was a daring tomboy who liked to climb trees and hang upside down on the monkey bars.