By: Jason CookI grew up in the Old Time Religion. I didn’t realize until I was older that I grew up in fundamentalism. There’s no denying it, now that I’ve seen the bigger Christian world around me. Old Time Religion can be very hard. It was often hard on me. I have also seen how it can be even harder on groups of people who are not like me, who don't fit neatly into the surrounding culture.
I won’t pull any punches about the harm or hesitate to criticize the sinful behaviors I saw. But I won’t be ungrateful either. Herein lies the contradiction I feel when I think about my religious upbringing. I wouldn’t be where I am today in my faith if it weren’t for my raising. I haven’t gotten above it. I am grateful for it.
So don’t expect this to be a deconstructionist piece. I still (and perhaps always have) felt the gentle pull of faith even in the roughest churches. It is more difficult for me to scorn the people caught up in that movement. Even though there are real bad actors, it is hard to see them as villains. I can even see myself sometimes when I hear their words.
Many of them were victims first. Many more are doing the best they can and doing the right thing according to how they were raised. None of this excuses harm or abuse. But it does inform. I understand, this is my own story.
I have loved, lead, and left Old Time Religion.
Old Time Religion is the beautiful and severe religious heritage of my home. My roots run deep. I am a veteran of Vacation Bible School (VBS) and skilled in Bible sword drills. The Super Bowl was foreign to me because it was on Sunday night. I’ve heard a hundred altar calls where the possibility of getting hit by a truck after the service was seriously contemplated.
I know how inerrant the minute book can be and what a huckster wagon is. I remember hearing about the “Trail of Blood” and how my denomination traced its roots straight back to John the Baptist. I rededicated my life every year at church camp, sometimes more than once. I know how dangerous it can be to touch the church thermostat.
Childhood
My childhood church was the most important place in my life. It was a safe place for me. My conversion was gradual, the product of growing up in church. I didn’t have a dramatic Damascus Road moment. I was raised in the fear and admonition of the Lord.
It was a small church (around 40 people) with all the benefits a small church bestows. I knew everyone in the church. There were only a few kids my age, but we became best friends. Church was also where I had my first bully and where I figured out how to handle bullies. I rolled him during a wrestling match in the sanctuary right under the pulpit. Twice. That ended the bullying.
I grew up around a lot of older people who were very supportive of me. There are so many examples I have of this, but one sticks out. I was at the funeral of a man who I grew up with in church. I hadn’t seen him in probably 10 years. As I offered condolences to his wife, she told me she still had my high school graduation announcement and picture in her Bible because she was so proud of me. That kind of love and encouragement is hard to capture in words.
My church was instrumental in helping me find my way as a teenager. I was President of the Youth Convention, a prestigious title I laugh about now, but was important to me then. I remember carrying a black briefcase around everywhere because it made me feel important. I was allowed to participate in the life and function of the church whether it was leading services or singing in the choir. I have many warm memories, and also a few funny ones that were produced by the culture of the church.
I have been in some wild church services where a variety of unruly behaviors were attributed to the Holy Spirit. This was often comedic but slid into the hurtful more often than it should have. Exuberance in public worship is seen as spiritual by many, but I have seen people loud in public and depraved in private more times than I wanted to. Public worship did not always correlate with personal holiness.
There were some wild testimonies, but I later found out many of them were greatly exaggerated. It’s hard to know what’s fake and what’s real when the service is a spectacle.
I also remember burning all my Metallica CDs and forsaking worldly music. I was told Harry Potter was witchcraft and still haven’t gotten to the book series. Fiction brought me so much joy as a kid, but I felt so guilty about reading fiction that I didn't pick it back up until I was 33.
There was so much beauty in my childhood in the Old Time Religion, but there was also a shadow side that cannot be ignored. A lot of people were hurt in church. A whole lot. People were hurt for not dressing the right way. People were hurt for having a different personality. I know of a couple publicly shamed for interracial dating and a woman who faced church discipline for discreetly buying a bottle of wine at the grocery store.
I have seen a lot of things done in God’s name that was nothing more than recklessness wrapped in righteousness. I have witnessed a lot of misery and sin at business and denominational meetings. Some of it still hurts to talk about over a decade later.
There were many arbitrary rules. Some could claim a tenuous hold on the Bible, others could not. Some views were extreme whether it came to race or politics. We have forgotten in the age of social media that it is hard to challenge extreme views in real life.
Laughter is quite therapeutic, so I’ve often found laughing at the shenanigans better than crying, though that has had its place too. However, when I consider the fate of my friends and even the adults in the church who raised me, crying seems more appropriate. Only a few of my childhood friends still go to church. Several were swept away in the opioid epidemic that ravaged my state. I remember watching my closest church friends huff gas when I was a teenager, after which they invited me to participate. I can’t fully explain why I didn’t, but I later watched them be destroyed by drugs.
Others came out unscathed physically but scarred spiritually. Many of the adults that raised me, for one reason or another, left the church over the years. Some of them couldn’t “keep the high standard” so they were quietly drummed out of church life.
This was my raising in the Old Time Religion. But something funny happened, instead of leaving it and following so many of my friends out the door, I doubled down and became a preacher.
The Man of God
When I was nineteen, I was placed into the United Baptist ministry. I had no idea what I was getting into. Growing up, the ultimate pinnacle of service and devotion to God for a young man was to become the Man of God (MOG). My Pastor would have me lead evening services and lead youth activities. I remain extremely grateful for these opportunities.
Being a young person interested in God in fundamentalist spaces makes you important. You are like a child star, a unicorn. As we all know though, being a child star rarely turns out well. I was way too young. I think the Bible would agree. (See 1 Timothy and Titus). My entrance into ministry was voluntary, but there was also a lot of pressure without much counsel. Once I announced that I might be called, I wasn’t really mentored or even advised. And I was told it was for life, like a marriage or medieval knighthood, until death do us part.
I was “set aside” for one year then I went before an examining board where I was grilled about certain important issues to the denomination. My theological education consisted of 6 clock hours of training by the denomination on pet issues, such as the importance of the King James Version of the Bible and why our denomination was right and other denominations were wrong.
Now 20 years out, I have often asked myself: Did I make the right decision? Was I called by God into the United Baptist ministry. I often felt like I didn't fit in with the ministry of the Old Time Religion. I was told that a few times too. But I also had some of my best moments in ministry. I spent 10 years at a church who became family to me. I received so much love and support it would feel wrong to deny it. Like my childhood in the Old Time Religion, it’s complicated.
Exodus
I left the denomination, and by extension the ministry, in 2018. When I left, it was for a variety of reasons, both corporate and personal. The truth is, I couldn’t take it anymore. That’s not eloquent, but it’s honest. A man can only take so much.
The ministry I had invested every moment of my life into for almost ten years was falling apart and much of it was out of my control, though I had my share of failures. Conflict and unhealthy leadership distanced me from a pastor and colleague who I once counted as my best friend. We stopped regularly talking years before I left the church. I wanted a different life for myself, my wife, and my son.
But at the center of my leaving and finding a new life was God. I didn’t fully see it at the time, but he was graciously renewing me in the Gospel. I felt, even in my darkest moments, the gentle pull of faith. I am a totally different person now by the grace of God. The best way I can think to describe it is that I have been born again!
Though I am not now in the ministry or in any kind of leadership position, I came to the conviction that being in a healthy church was more important to me than being in ministry. I can live without one, but not the other. Leaving was the best decision I ever made. But it’s not been without loss. I thought I would die a United Baptist and thought I would stay at my previous church for life.
Leaving the ministry for ordinary church life is also complicated. I had to reassign myself and let go of control. People also talk, though time has swept most of that away. I have been greatly humbled no longer being in leadership. It was hard on my ego, but life-giving for my soul.
So many people have been encouraging, but there have also been quite a few who just don’t understand. Some undoubtedly feel like I have abandoned my call. At the time, if it were not for the unexpected validations about my decision from two men I deeply respect and love who are pillars of the denomination, I may not have had the courage to leave.
And even though I wouldn’t trade my new life for anything, I still have the feeling of losing my tribe. So, for me, grief is complicated. Healing came in time, but the scars remain. The formulaic faith of my childhood didn’t prepare me for the suffering I would face, but God has provided what I needed.
I am now in a healthy church. I love my church. I was afforded the gift of a second chance, a new life. And the anchor holds. My faith remains, hard fought for though it was.
But here’s what I have come to realize. God was fighting for me. It was God who, no matter how done I was with “religion”, drew me to himself. I often wasn’t interested, but the gentle pull of faith persisted.
God was renewing me in the Gospel! He was calling me home. Much ink has been spilled about the Prodigal Son. And for good reason! But I was always more like the older brother, Martha and maybe even Nicodemus too. I was a rule follower. I thrived in Old Time Religion. I was the responsible kid (still am!). I am the oldest child. I was the kid who made a list and at the top of the list was to “get closer to God.”
I am thankful that God has a place for rebels and prodigals; but I am glad he made a place for older brothers like me too.