I grew up in the ultra-conservative western side of Michigan (the lower peninsula—you know, America’s high-five). It is super-Dutch, blindingly white, and oiled with the budget-friendly grease of the Reformed Church. Okay, I am kidding about the greasy part, but have you ever eaten at Russ’? Anyway, the area was conservative, but my parents seemed to be liberal enough, and they were always open to answering questions and fostering our curiosity. I am thankful that my parents valued these things, as well as creativity and individuality. Unfortunately, they also valued church and I had to go every Sunday for eighteen years.

One of my first church memories was when I was still really young and the lady who ran the programming for kids read us a story about what it’s like in heaven. “In heaven, the streets are paved with gold and pearls. To worship Jesus, you go to church seven times each day with all of your friends and family.” SEVEN TIMES A DAY? EVERY DAY? NOT JUST SUNDAY? That sounds horrible! I remember wondering why anyone would want to hang out in a place that looks like QVC exploded there, not to mention that church was awful and having to go seven times per day seemed more like hell to me. I wondered, “How does she know?”



Yeah. I’m adorable. Yeah. I’m adorable.

Another time, I learned about how kids in other countries have different religions. I knew that you had to believe in Jesus to get to heaven, so what if your parents didn’t believe in Jesus? What if you were born somewhere where people weren’t Christians? Does that mean that you’re going to hell because you didn’t know that Jesus existed? Why would God do that to other kids who are probably just like me?

I think my parents would have done their best to answer my questions had I decided to ask them, but it never seemed like there was a good time to ask. When we went to church or Sunday school, the format was always that you sat there and tried to pay attention and not sleep. No one ever asked if you had questions. There was a benediction and then you were done and ate windmill cookies. I had always just internalized my doubt and decided that I didn’t really believe certain parts of Christianity. I never had a problem, even as a kid, not believing parts of the dogma; it wasn’t until much later that I realized I believed in none of it.

I went to the same Reformed church for fourteen years before switching when my dad remarried. I didn’t mind switching; church was church to me unless it was Catholic. My mom apparently insisted that my brothers and I be baptized Catholic, but I have only attended Catholic services twice that I could remember, and boy was it creepy. The new church we went to for the remaining four years was still the same denomination, so I didn’t care. We still had to get up early on Sunday, miss the best cartoons, sneak cups of the worst coffee, and sit through the most boring sermons. At least by that point I was free from the bullshit rule that I was a girl and couldn’t wear jeans to church.

I never liked the songs. I didn’t enjoy the sermons. Sunday school was my own personal hell with reprieves only on days when we had snacks, time outside in the sun, or when I was ill enough to convince my parents that I should stay home (which was never). The new church that I went to didn’t have Sunday school for kids as old as I was, so I was encouraged to go to youth group, but outside of a few months when I went to one across town with some friends, I never liked youth group, and only attended a few times.

The most vivid memory that I have about church was when I was about thirteen, still going to the first church, and had decided or been talked into going to the youth group. The former youth pastor was alright and the stuff we talked about was usually okay, so I went for a few weeks.

One day, my friend and I got bored enough to go and ended up sitting at a table with an older couple from our church. They were running the gathering. The group seemed really small compared to what it used to be, plus it was even more boring. They held a lecture by sitting at a table and talking to about twenty of us in the Fellowship Hall. These two were older, stuffier, and seemed out of touch with what we were interested in. Apparently, the former youth pastor left. I figured that this was why the attendance had plummeted.

I don’t remember how the lecture started, but they completely lost me forever within minutes. If there was ever any chance for me to feel that I was a Christian, it was destroyed that day.

I can’t possibly recall exactly what they said, but they were talking about who is going to hell. It didn’t take long before they came to “gay people:”

“There is a guy that we know who works with us and he is a really nice person. He’s always been great to work with and really pleasant to both of us, but the truth is that he’s gay, so he’s going to hell.”

I couldn’t believe that they said this. I’m surprised that they didn’t say anything about my instant disbelief/rageface. Nope. No way. That’s crazy. I was only about thirteen and there was no way I could really understand everything there was to know about Christianity, and I hadn’t read any religious texts other than the Precious Moments Bible, but no one could have convinced me that a loving, all-knowing God would send someone to live in hell forever because they’re gay. I knew gay people and they were just like me. I wasn’t buying this.

They said a few other things about people going to hell, like alcoholics and addicts. That went over really well with me, the girl who had relat

ives die as alcoholics, and who loved psychadelic rock more than anything. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t sit there any longer no matter how much they knew that I was disagreeing by leaving, or how afraid I was that they’d tell my parents who might be mad that I left early. I wasn’t going to sit there and let them tell me that the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to someone was going to happen to every gay person, and every alcoholic on the face of the whole stupid earth. My face and ears burned at the thought that these people were sitting in front of all of us, purveying this hate.

I left and I never went back to youth group. My parents could make me go to church, and I could get away with sleeping or drawing on the bulletin, but no one could make me go back to that youth group. Not a chance.

Looking back now, I don’t remember anyone ever telling me what it really meant to be gay, or that people in the LGBTQ community deserve the same rights and love as the rest of us. The thing is, nobody had to tell me. I knew that the church was wrong because, either God didn’t love everybody, or God did love everybody, and wouldn’t send people to hell. Everyone had assured me that God loved everyone, so the group leaders were wrong. If they were wrong about that, then they were probably wrong about a lot of things. My mind was made up.

I stayed in church through high school, but I moved out of my dad’s house when I was eighteen and have only gone to church maybe twice for a wedding and a baptism (it was weird—I think Christians can tell that I’m an atheist, like Rowdy Roddy Piper in They Live). I spent a lot of time thinking about what I believed during that time. I ranged from something like Unitarian Universalist to being a humanist without really knowing it. I remember one day I was thinking about it while I was driving, wondering what I believed, and I thought, “I don’t believe in God.” I said out loud, “I don’t believe in God.” I fully expected a lightning bolt to come down and kill me, but nothing happened.

Nothing happened at all. I immediately had this feeling like, wow, how did I ever think that any of this was true?

It made so much sense to not be religious. I didn’t really proclaim it to anyone because I didn’t know any “out” atheists, and the word sounded so absolute that I wasn’t sure I wanted to assert that, but it just felt like I didn’t believe in God and that was okay. That was the truth and I wasn’t ever going to be able to think about religion in the same way.

Part II coming up with ghosts, suggestions, and why all of this matters!