People in Glass Houses

by Tanya Levin

  No one has been able to answer my questions about the ban. Is it for life? Am I offered no opportunity for atonement or forgiveness? Is it international? Am I able to worship at any of the other locations, London, Paris, Kiev? Is it multi-generational?

  My son got saved at Hillsong. That’s the ironic best. During the couple of times I left him at Kids Church, they got him. He told me months later when we were talking about prayer. He said they had all prayed at Hillsong for Jesus to come into their hearts. Is Sam banned by proxy?

  I am no longer allowed to visit the characters from my youth. I am not permitted to see the faithful in the congregation, the kind faces that smile at me; even the ones who ignore me provide sentimental comfort to me in my own private way. They were always friendly to me, and any time I wanted to I could go in and see the girls and their husbands and children, and glean a little Christian gentleness from the people still there all these years later. Like going back to one’s hometown for a wedding or just to shoot the breeze. No more of that for me. I’m uninvited.

  I am a single mother. I haven’t really been anywhere except Hillsong since 1999. I don’t mind that. I’m tired these days. I rely on my best friend Ilona to introduce me to interesting people. Around this time, she told me of a lawyer friend who knew all about the church. Emails were exchanged and Michael and I met for coffee.

  Michael is an environmental lawyer of much success. He is also a devoted athlete. His time is precious. Coffee started at 7 pm, although Michael doesn’t really drink coffee. He left at midnight because his morning started at 6. He never invoiced me. I couldn’t have afforded him. But the sun rose differently the next day.

  Michael was openly agonised by dredging up the pain of the Pentecostal problem. At university, his older brother became a strict fundamentalist Pentecostal and changed completely. Determined to understand what his brother was going through, Michael spent fi ve years researching, studying and attending the Pentecostal churches. He emerged with answers.

  Michael defines himself as a ‘weak atheist’. In other words, he cannot see any evidence for God, but says it is logically impossible to prove a negative, that something doesn’t exist. He admits the possibility that he may be wrong.

  For five hours, I asked him questions. And for five hours he was willing and able to answer them. A strong believer in science, he countered everything I queried with what he called ‘knowledge-gathering techniques’, the ones he said that we relied on.

  Why, I asked, why? And patiently he sat, and he never said, why are you doubting, or why can’t you just catch on?

  The next day I accosted various acquaintances and neighbours. Are you atheists? I asked them. You haven’t believed in all this stuff for a long time, have you? They smiled. It was like finally being let in on the big secret. And the truth will set you free.

  Then I read about agnostics and how being an atheist involves too much fundamentalist faith in science. For agnostics, it was explained, can’t say they don’t know because we’ll never know, how could we know? Who the hell do we think we are to know? I liked that. Atheism, while intellectually perfect to me, denies me the opportunity to play with two-dollar emotion-based decisions that have no rationale but make my life beautiful. For if religion is nothing but people’s futile fears, insecurities, hatreds, hopes and dreams put together, then I better find a place for all of those in my own life if there’s no God or Satan to throw it off on to. Albert Einstein said: ‘I believe in mystery and, frankly, I sometimes face this mystery with great fear. In other words, I think that there are many things in the universe that we cannot perceive or penetrate and that also we experience some of the most beautiful things in life in only a very primitive form. Only in relation to these mysteries do I consider myself to be a religious man.’

  The freedom to say ‘I don’t know’ is magnificent, since there no longer needs to be an answer. Why are there still starving nations? I don’t know, but the answers no longer lie with an inconsistent God. Why is the world the way it is? Not because God has allowed it to be, because his special plan must prevail. That lets too many villains off the hook. Armageddon’s only coming if we make it a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  As for people, they still fascinate me. Some of the kindest, most peaceful, non-judgemental heroes in my life are ardent atheists. Some are Christians. Some are Jews. A few Buddhists, and some passionate tree-huggers. Go figure.

  And thus, it seemed the book was closed. After all these years of tossing and turning and playing attention-seeker to God, I had the answers I’d been looking for. Liberating and depressing. And awfully sophisticated. It has taken me years to untangle fundamentalism from my life. And it’s still not gone. Michael also said that he kept trying to get away from the topic. Every time he tried to get the Penetecostal debate out of his life, something would drag him back in. He found it fascinating but distressing each and every time.

  I had decided that as neither of the actual addressees had answered, George Aghajanian’s email was null and void. I had plenty of work to do. I had neither the time nor the resources to pursue my sudden excommunication.

  I attended another three or four times over the next couple of months. Now thoroughly bored by Praise and Worship, I would sneak in at halftime and sit in the back row at the edge, in case my phone rang. I didn’t want to be noticed. I had been banned, but no one was doing anything about it. If I wanted to stay, I knew there was no more fun to be had with the volunteers.

  By July, my best friend Ilona had become curious enough to take a trip out from the city. We chose to see the American preacher Joyce Meyer, since the men can all sound the same. Ilona called Hillsong and was told that Meyer would be there that Saturday at 5.30 pm. We each brought a friend and figured we’d all be out by dinner. I was usually by myself on previous visits and was pleased to have company that night.

  We arrived at the beginning of the service, and Ilona and her friend chose the upper seating of the auditorium while my girlfriend and I sat in the back row of the floor section. We sat through the fast songs and read through the brochures. At the start of the slow songs, I noticed Grant Thomson sitting in the same row as us, alone. Strange. Grant is a golden boy who looks like a Grant. Blond, sporty type, big sweet smile. Sincere. Quiet. Hard-working. From the old days, younger than me, though. He married the little sister of a friend from Youth and they had three kids. She was all of the above too. I ran into her a few times at the supermarket near my mother’s.

  Before the next song started, he moved over to me and said, in a polite, low voice, ‘Hi, I’m Grant. I’m one of the pastors here at Hillsong.’

  ‘Grant, it’s me,’ I said to him.

  He smiled. ‘Hey, how are you, Tanya?’

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, can you come outside and have a chat with me, please?’ he asked.

  I knew this routine from working with the homeless. Come outside, have a chat with me while my offsider calls the cops. Sure. I left my bag on my seat and followed him.

  Just outside, Grant was waiting with a friend, a big bearded fellow, who also wanted to talk. I made the fatal mistake of stepping outside the building onto the path. I looked at Grant.

  ‘Tanya, you know you’re not allowed to come here,’ he started.

  ‘Can you tell me why?’ I said. ‘No one can tell me why.’

  ‘That’s not up to us,’ he said. ‘That’s something you’ll have to take up with the church.’

  ‘You know they won’t take my calls,’ I told him.

  His friend tried to help. ‘We need you to leave,’ he said.

  ‘I have to go back and get my bag,’ I announced. Clever me.

  ‘You’re not allowed back in the building,’ the bearded one said.

  ‘We’ll go back and get your bag.’

  ‘Not allowed back in the building?’ I felt like Guy Fawkes.

  ‘What happens if I do?’

  ‘Then we call the cops.’ I don’t like the bearded one.

>   ‘Grant,’ I stall. I have to check if he’s still alive. I smile at him and his face lights up. He’s a nice guy. ‘You’re a Christian, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’s happy. Can’t get that one wrong.

  ‘I’ve known you forever. You married Heidi, you’ve got little children, can you honestly tell me that you can go home tonight before God’—always a good one to throw in—‘and sleep next to Heidi and the children, and think you’ve done the right thing?’

  ‘We’re just doing what we have to do,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re just following orders.’ I was sad.

  They were getting antsy. Well, I told them, I’m getting my bag. If you throw me out, you throw me out in front of everyone, I said. They yelled to someone, ‘Close the doors,’ and indeed the doors were closed, but a little too late. I managed to shoulder my way back into the building and went towards the entrance to the auditorium. More human bodies blocked my entrance.

  Two security guards appeared and came towards me. They picked me up by my elbows and carried me out of the building, with about thirty people in the lobby still craning to see the preaching on big TVs. They plonked me down and moved away. They hurt my back and broke my heart. For the last time—had I said that before?—for the last time, Hillsong broke my heart.

  Strange things hit you sometimes from out of the blue. I wasn’t surprised by Hillsong’s removal of me, or even their short-sightedness given the publicity it could ultimately give me. The kick in the guts was that they did this to my father’s daughter, and nobody disrespects my father. He had at that time been a faithful attendee for nearly twenty years. Among the good guys, my dad’s the best. I’m one of the lucky ones. And his integrity throughout my life is how come the bad guys’ stench is so strong to me. Nobody treats my dad like that. He pays these zombies’ salaries, for crying out loud.

  My eyes squealed up with tears. I put my jacket on and started walking. ‘Fuck,’ I called out to the dark winter sky.

  ‘Oh,’ said the rodent behind me. ‘Nice language. Obviously not a child of God.’

  ‘Because he tells you, doesn’t he?’ I turned and glared at him.

  Security guard for a mega-church. I didn’t want him at my dinner party either.

  Almost all of the not-very-bad-looking-at-all guards who work for Hillsong’s private security company happen to be Hillsong members. Nobody better even think about touching their Boss.

  Then suddenly, there was Dion, a very tall, handsome Maori man of about twenty-four. He was dressed in black suit pants and a long black jacket. He oozed Secret Service, which made security look like car-park attendants. He had been told there was someone upset, and had come down to check it out. The security boys scurried away back down their drainpipes.

  Through the whole walk across the car park, Dion denied knowing anything about me or what had happened that night. I cried at Dion. I told him about my dad, and faithfulness and loyalty. I asked him if he played football. As a matter of fact, he said, he did. Brian likes football players, I told him. The insanity of the night made me want to grab Dion as the last survivor and run him right out of the stadium. Whatever kind of Hollywood Angel he was dressed as that night, there would come a time when he would outlive his usefulness to the Firm. And then he would lose that simple genuine look he stared at me with. I told him to go home and read his bible, and go and ask the preachers why it doesn’t match what they say. He listened like one does to the ravings of a lunatic, and I made him listen because that’s his job.

  He made sure I got in my car and left. Apart from a quick trip to the resource shop, and a photo shoot with the Australian a month later, I have never been back to Hillsong.

  Three weeks later I got an email from Donna.

  From: Donna Crouch

  Sent: Tuesday, 26 July 2005 7:42 pm

  To: Tanya Levin

  Subject: Hi Tanya

  Hi Tanya

  Thought I would send you an email—just to say this— I know you from Powerhouse [youth group at Hills] days—a long time ago now—and have not been in your world for many years—I know there has been a bit going on from what I’ve seen in the paper—to be honest I am not really interested in that—but I think it could be good if we got in contact.

  What do you think?

  Donna Crouch

  From: Tanya Levin

  Sent: Tuesday, 26 July 2005 7:45 pm

  To: Donna Crouch

  Subject: RE: Hi Tanya

  Donna36

  I thought you were the one who gave the directive for me to be thrown out that night. Nothing would make me happier right now than to get together with you.

  Lovely. Call me on … when you’re free.

  Cheers,

  Tanya

  In August it was my birthday. Hillsong sent me a card that said ‘Happy birthday princess’. It was one of only two cards I got in the mail.

  In September I wrote to Pat Mesiti. He had been moved to Phil Pringle’s church, and I found him one Sunday night. He said, ‘Hi, Tanya, how’s your dad?’ I showed him the letter that banned me from Hillsong. I asked him if we could have coffee. He told me he couldn’t help me. ‘Brian and Bobbie are not the people that you think they are,’ he said, and made his way back into church.

  From: Tanya Levin

  To: Pat Mesiti

  Sent: Tuesday, 27 September 2005 11:10 am

  Hi Pat,

  As we spoke about earlier this year, I am writing about my life growing up Pentecostal. One of the things I am looking at was the original pastors at Hillsong. All I have to go on when I get to the part on Pat Mesiti is my own adolescent memory and the Sydney Morning Herald articles, as well as various rumours that paint a varied picture of the way you’ve been treated over the past few years.

  I am not looking to drag you into any controversy or quote you unless you wish to be quoted. I simply wish to offer you a genuine opportunity to help me with the accuracy of my story as I was only young when most of my attendance at Hills took place. I say genuine because I do have personal heartfelt memories of the place and it is my aim to present the story as accurately as possible.

  Please let me know if we can have a cup of coffee and a chat, as off the record as you like.

  Thanks Pat,

  Tanya Levin

  Pat responded promptly by email. He told me in a few short sentences that he would not like to meet with me, and that his ‘life at Hillsong was nothing but a pleasurable experience’. Pat then went on to say that if his name appeared in the book at all that the ‘next communication will be from his solicitors’, and that this wasn’t a threat, but ‘it will be definitely followed through’. He concluded by writing that ‘Hillsong is the most integrous church in the country, and its leadership is above reproach’.

  One less Christmas card that year.

  Meeting with Donna was wonderful but strange. I can’t help but feel attached to her in a big sister sort of way. She has a kind and open freckled face and an ability to maintain sincerity beyond the call of duty. We talked for two hours over coffee. She denied being thrust out by the Boys to do their dirty work by checking up on me. She insisted that she wanted to get to know me again, coincidence as it was.

  We talked about the old times. We talked about children. She told me some things that had happened to people. Every now and then I would throw her a question. Donna, you know I’ve been banned. Can you find out what’s going on? The first time she grew serious and said, ‘We don’t sit in the office and gossip. I don’t know about all that.’

  She remembered my teenage years. She told me her memories of my mother and me clashing. Yes, I agreed. We had. I suspect she was hoping I would realise that my parents had tainted my views of God. That I was trapped in my adolescent rebellion still. ‘Tanya,’ she told me, as she had always done whenever I had questioned the status quo, ‘you have a great brain. Why don’t you use it for something constructive, something good, something positive?’

  I was determined. ‘Donna,
’ I threw in, when I got brave. ‘Donna, on the night I got carried out of Hillsong –’ I started. ‘Tanya,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t want to talk about all that. I want to talk about you.’

  She talked about her work as the co-ordinator of the S.A.F.E. program, which advertises pathways in, out and through sexual abuse. She told me how humbled she was by the experience, how much she’d learned, how far people had come in their journeys. She was the Donna I remembered, passionate and serious about causes. She told me they were in the early stages of the course for male survivors of sexual assault. And she was just wondering if they should work with perpetrators in the future. Nobody wants to work with perpetrators and, well, with Jesus all things are possible. Oh, dear God, Donna. I didn’t know what to say.

  Right as her nanny was calling, I tried one last time. ‘Donna, you were one of only three leaders that night. Who decided to have me removed?’ She shooshed me sweetly and took the phone call. I don’t know what she gained from me, or why she was there. And vice versa, I suppose.

  A week after we met I sent her an email to ask her the same old question. I never heard anything back.

  In December I got an invitation to Colour Your World 2006. Actually, ‘the Levin Family’ got it, which is curious since it doesn’t exist. Levin is a name I made up years after my divorce, after my maternal grandmother who was a Levy.

  The third and final week was already sold out.

  Feeling all concluded, and having read an avalanche of scandal in mass-evangelism around the world, I knew I had achieved what the Americans love to call closure. I understood the workings of the machine and having dismantled it, I found it strangely repetitive, almost textbook. Same same. I knew I was not to be the rescuer of the spiritually abused en masse or individually. Therapy has never been my strong point—giving or receiving. It had worked out best that I transcribe my personal experiences and investigations and leave it at that, my own message in a bottle. I was emerging enlightened, confident that while I don’t know what is, I sure as hell knew what isn’t, which is a much better place all in all. As for the treachery of the men of God, I was certain there wasn’t a hair left to stand up on my neck.