by B S Steele
My first youth conference was an experience that brought me deeper into the Southern Baptist faith. It was held at First Baptist Church in Hammond, Indiana. My youth group sat in the 10,000-seat auditorium while our leaders preached hellfire and damnation, raising their fists to the heavens and calling each of us to crusade for the moral salvation of America. I felt like I was a part of something larger than myself, like God was really speaking to my heart and urging me to surrender myself daily to a new standard of living.
The wives of the Pastor’s spoke with genuine hearts to the young ladies, testifying to a life of service to their husbands. I’ll never forget the only sermon I would ever hear from the great Dr. Hyles, the co-founder of Hyles-Anderson College. It was a call to service, as well as his personal testimony. He claimed his life had been spent devoted to defeating Satan and serving the one true God. He sweat from his pulpit, mopping his brow and holding the Word of God in his hand with a vehemence and hypnotism that captured the entire audience. Like an orchestra, we were awed to silence, tears, and finally, applause. The fanfare of it all left me breathless as the services kicked off with live animals adorned in tassels and embroidered costumes paraded down the aisle, while the pianist played loudly, cymbals and tambourines clashing and tinkling. There was an assortment of creatures from camels, wolf-like huskies, snakes, parrots and even a donkey idyllically ridden by Dr. Hyles himself, archaically like the way Jesus was said to have rode through Jerusalem, palms paving his way.
A Deacon carried in a 6-foot-long Boa Constrictor, stepping onto the stage and showing its serpentine beauty to us all. Pastor Jack Schapp, married to the daughter of the revered Dr. Hyles, announced in his booming voice that we would have a competition to win the snake as a pet. We looked anxiously at our Pastor, who looked a little green at the idea of sitting next to a snake for five hours on a bus with a group of rowdy teenagers. The competition began, excerpts of music flooded the speakers as each group guessed the titles of old-time hymnals that only the cream of the Baptist crop would know. We shouted and cheered each time we guessed correctly, while hundreds of other teenagers roared beside us. Not long after, our Pastor was called up to the pulpit to claim our prize. Our new school mascot for the next month to come would be a fully-grown female Boa Constrictor, with a taste for live flesh.
For the next six hours we sat listening to each speaker give their sermons to the mass of young men and women, preaching against our sinful ways. Pastor Schapp called out a young woman who sat in the very front, who was wearing a short skirt.
“Young lady, we don’t dress like that here. I’m going to have to ask you leave, and come back when you can dress modestly,” he chastised.
Shocked, I felt my cheeks flame in embarrassment for the poor girl, called out in front of thousands of other teenagers. I wondered if Mr. Schaap knew her, or if she’d ever return to church after being publicly humiliated. I thought it was our duty as Christians to draw the flock to the love of Christ; not ridicule them. I was also taught not to question the man of God, so I hushed my thoughts and looked the other way as the girl exited the church with her head down. A woman followed the girl to the exit as Pastor Schapp instructed over the microphone that she should help the young lady find a more appropriate skirt and return to church when she had changed her Jezebel clothing.
After she was gone, he addressed the young women, praising the ones who chose to follow God’s teachings and who chose to abandon the ways of the worldly harlot, the Jezebel of old.
Later, a young man from Columbine High School was asked to stand. His hair was dyed green and he had piercings in his nose and ears. This was confirmation for the Preachers that this young man needed the Lord. His face was a mask of grief, much too young to have known the pain he had witnessed as his peers were gunned down in a place where he was supposed to feel safe. While he stood, the Preacher’s voice shook as he mourned for the despicable state of America’s public schools. My heart broke for this troubled and lost young man, and I vowed in my heart to make a difference.
Next, we watched a short clip from MTV, which we were told was Satan’s tool against our generation. The clip was a music video from the popular boy band N’Sync.
A sexualized verse blared over the P.A. system, looking ridiculous and vile next to the clean-cut Pastor, who was holding a Bible under his arm with a grim look on his face.
He didn’t have to say a word in that moment. The purity of Christ and the Church around us spoke volumes next to the flashing gyrations of the young men on the screen. I left that trip a different person, feeling as if I was called to join the crusade of First Baptist Church and help reclaim America. On the bus ride home, we all sang a newly learned song sung most popularly by the Gaither Vocal Band, which was one of our approved musical selections. The lyrics moved us as we sang:
What this dying world could use is a willing Man of God
Who dares to go against the grain and works without applause;
A man who'll raise the shield of Faith, protecting what is pure;
Whose love is tough and gentle; a man whose word is sure. (1.1-5)
God doesn't need an Orator who knows just what to say;
He doesn't need authorities to reason Him away;
He doesn't need an army to guarantee a win;
He just needs a Few Good Men....
(2.1-4) (Jennings, Barry, and Suzanne Gaither Jennings. Few Good Men 2018. Universal Publishing Group)
There was a calling in those words, a movement so much bigger than the petty worries of the world. Words like honor, justice, compassion, love and sacrifice were words I’d never really contemplated. Something felt off to me, and maybe the teachings were harsh at times, but so much more felt right.
I was safe, loved and was taught that God had promised to take care of me. All I had to do was answer the door and commit to following Jesus. R.J. and I both made a commitment to attend Hyles-Anderson college when the time came, and we were renewed in our Faith. We would go home and show our parents and teachers the respect they deserved and devote our life to the service of Christ.
It wasn’t until my second youth conference that I really started to feel a small voice in my heart, a warning that something was not right. As I sat among the throng, older and a little wiser, I felt a twinge in my stomach as the lights dimmed. Large screens lit up, placed for viewing in every direction. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was excited to see what the Pastors had in store for us. I looked down the aisle at my own Pastor, who was sweating from the temperature that seemed to rise every minute.
Our whole youth group was crammed in so tightly, not one of us could move without the whole aisle getting up to let someone past. The screen flickered on, and I watched intently as emotional music began to play along with the resonating voice of the speaker, who began talking about abortion and the loss of so many innocent lives.
In complete shock, I saw images of babies unfold before my eyes. Their bodies were bloodied, burned, and broken. Some were dismembered and half formed, floating in sharp steel containers, only recently pulled from their Mother’s wombs.
My guts lurched. I had the sudden urge to vomit, squirming in my seat and gripping the Bible in my lap, every cell screaming to get up and out of my chair. My Pastor shot me a withering look. No one was to move and risk the scrutiny of the booming pulpit voice. If I moved, I’d risk shaming my entire youth group.
My parents would never agree to this. . . I thought, panicking to think of anything else but the images that were forever seared into my grey matter.
On that note, I DON’T AGREE WITH THIS! My mind screamed helplessly.
I squeezed my eyes tightly, waiting for the horror show to end. I wasn’t sure how I felt about abortion, but I certainly did not want to be subjected to this torture.
“It is reality,” the speaker said sadly as the lights came back on. “Mother’s in America are so hardened they allow their children to be murdered for their own selfish purpose.”
; But what about rape? Or children who were deformed, sentenced to a life as a vegetable? Not everything is so black and white, I thought.
Suddenly, the trip was no longer fun. The hour I’d spent earlier listening to the Pastor’s wives tell me that submission to my future husband would please the Lord, seemed defiled. Happily cleaning, ironing and sewing in servitude to a man compelled to display the torn bodies of infants to a throng of pubescent children was not a future I wanted any part of.
I felt in danger of Hell fire, as doubt rose in my core, raising questions I shouldn’t dare to ask. For the first time in my life, my Southern Baptist Faith began to waiver.
Chapter 15: Baptist Pie
When my family moved North again, my parents found us an old farmhouse in the country. Our current Pastor from Waterfront Baptist suggested a new church that carried similar doctrine and had a Christian school we could attend. Even though we were moving quite close to where we had grown up, we would not return to the Little Church in the Wildwoods. Although it was a wonderful congregation, according to our new beliefs, it did not uphold the standards of the Southern Baptist teachings.
Watered down Christianity was not going to cut it, no matter how kind the church members were. My new school was smaller than Waterfront, but immediately I knew I would like it. Right after our first service, the Pastor’s son approached me on the swing set outside. I was now 15 years old and developing an interest in dating.
I thought he was handsome with his brown eyes, blonde hair, pressed shirt and tie. He was the type of boy that I would eventually be allowed to marry.
“Hi, I’m Elijah.” He said, shaking my hand cautiously.
We had a six-inch rule between boys and girls. While it was allowable to shake hands, it was avoided.
“Hello, I’m Anne.” I said, smiling gracefully, then straightening my spine and smoothing my skirt.
I’d recently decided to drop the “a” in my name, and go by Anne, which seemed less childish, just like the young woman I was quickly becoming.
“So, you are from downstate?” He questioned.
“Yes, I previously attended Waterfront Baptist School,” I replied, noting the flicker of hope in his eyes.
This made it okay for us to be friends.
He cleared his throat, and asked shyly, “So do you ever wear pants?”
I looked at him, my eyes fierce with conviction.
“No, Not ever. I don’t believe in it.”
He nodded, seeming relieved.
“Well, my sisters do sometimes. At least they did when they were little.”
“Yes, I did as well.” I said, pushing off the ground, swinging ever so slightly. “You said ‘sisters,’ meaning how many?”
He smiled, “Four. The twins are older than me, and then the younger two, Esther and Grace.”
I stopped the swing, laughing. “Oh, that explains why I thought that girl ‘changed,’ her dress!”
“Pardon me?” He questioned.
I shook my curls, smiling my best smile. “I saw them, one in red, one in blue. I thought it was the same girl and that she’d just changed or something, since I saw one at the beginning of the sermon and the other at the end.”
He laughed, “Oh yes, that was them. Karrie and Becky. Karrie probably was helping in the nursery.”
We looked around, noticing that a few people were looking at us through the glass doors, which was our cue that it was time to wrap it up. It was inappropriate for us to be alone, even though there were small children running around, we needed an age appropriate chaperone. I stood up, smiling at him, my body language expressing that I was going inside. He looked at me a moment longer and then jumped to his feet. It wasn’t appropriate for a gentleman to be seated while a lady stood, and it was expected for him to get the door for me.
School proved to be very similar to Waterfront Baptist. I was old enough to be placed on the Volleyball team and to join our Bible quizzing team as well. Elijah and I made every effort to sit near each other and we became close. His Mother taught my Sunday school class and I did my best to make her like me. Soon I became good friends with his twin sisters. Karrie was the sweet one, while Becky was sharp as a tack.
Shiloh, a tall blonde with intense green eyes, was the leader of our small group. She didn’t seem to like me at first, but being the true Christian I was, I overlooked it the best I could and instead made friends with her younger sister Danielle. She and I became the best of friends. She was raw, mischievous and didn’t care about what Pastor Swanson or his wife thought. She didn’t seem to mind if the boys liked her or not. In fact, she didn’t seem to care if anyone liked her.
When our Mothers met, it was like kismet. Her Mother Roslyn was laid back with an easy laugh and the soul of a gypsy. She had glittering brown eyes and long flowing hippie blouses she paired with dark lipstick and even darker nail polish. I loved spending time at Roslyn’s house. Danielle and I could let loose, finding a world away from the legalism of our school and church. We could be fifteen-year old’s, stuck somewhere between children and women. We’d giggle and fight, going on silly adventures to the local graveyard, or to our favorite spot, fondly known to us as “Devil’s Punchbowl.”
Devil’s Punchbowl was a ravine behind their country home, usually filled with water. It had dangerously steep sides, but beautiful rock formations and fossils could be found there. Sand was piled high, the diggers shut down for the weekend and parked all willy-nilly among the dunes.
“Hey Anne, let’s go visit Mr. Rumpler,” Danielle would insist.
Off we’d go, down the wooded path to old man Rumpler’s shed, where he was always spray-painting pinecones, making little pieces of folk art. Aged and bent, he kept a jar full of caramels for the local kids who came to visit him.
Not long after, we discovered a special place just past Devil’s Punch Bowl. In a clearing nearby, a sign was tacked to a tree that read: Hillbilly Heaven in red, white and blue paint. A few old cars sat rusting in the overgrown grass, the place looking untouched for many years.
The door to Hillbilly Heaven gave in after only a few tries. It was like stepping into another time. Someone had left a receipt on the counter dated 1998. The walls had faded photographs of strangers smiling into cameras that had probably been left long ago, collecting dust in obscure pawn shops. Some of the subjects appeared to be from the late sixties or early seventies with their horn-rimmed glasses and tweed coats.
The ancient refrigerator had unopened cans of beer and soda in it, the pop tabs triangular and foreign to us. There was no electricity, but the air felt static and watchful, like we were disturbing a long slumber. Boxes from grocery stores I’d never heard of lined the pantry, and in the bedrooms sheets and quilts still covered the beds, inches of dust collecting on the top.
“Danielle, this place is spooky.” I said, jiggling open a closet door.
She poked her head in, grabbing from a stack of magazines on a shelf.
“I know, it’s like someone just up and left. I wonder who owns it?” she replied.
I furrowed my brow and said, “Um, maybe we shouldn’t be in here. What if someone comes? What if they get mad we broke the lock?”
She laughed, ignoring my questions, pointing to the magazine.
“Hey look! It’s a porno!”
I looked, shaking my head. “Ew! Put it back. We shouldn’t look at that.”
“Oh, shut up! It’s old, so they aren’t even naked. Look at this one, I think that’s Marilyn Monroe.”
I looked confused.
“Who is Marilyn Monroe?”
She rolled her eyes. “Really? You don’t know? Have you been under a rock your whole life?”
I laughed, “Well, kinda, I guess. . .”
I grabbed another magazine. A woman with long tan legs and fluffy hair was on the cover.
“Hm, ‘Farrah Faucet. . .’ I read. “Who is that?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and sighed, grabbing it from me and putting it back on the she
lf.
“Who cares? Let’s go upstairs.”
The stairs were rickety and dark. The room above them was even darker. A solitary mattress, torn from mice and age, sat in the center of the room. My stomach turned and an eerie feeling crept over me. Images of a screaming boy washed through my mind. Pale and deformed, the figure was being strapped to the bed, hidden out of sight from those who lived below.
“L-let’s go, Danielle.” I said, stuttering.
For once she didn’t argue with me, and thankfully we never went back there together after that day.
Danielle and I also went to our church camps together. We’d gotten a few new students at our school. Two boys, one of which we both had a crush on, and a foreign exchange student from Russia, an older girl named Natalya. Natalya was a talented pianist, and in love with my older brother R.J. He’d become quite handsome in his Senior year and had always been a favorite among the girls.
He’d started slicking back his brown hair and had conned me into ironing his clothes every night before school. R.J. and I were close, with both of us being a confident sort of shy. However, I was still his little sister and I vehemently hated the girls who looked at him like he was a piece of meat cut fresh for the taking.
Our annual snow camp came around, and Natalya followed him around like a lost puppy. Even though the boys and girls remained segregated, we had chapel and meals together and a chaperoned game time. The winter had been bitter cold, and the hot water heater in girl’s cabins had broken, so we were all forced to take freezing showers and layer socks on to avoid the cold floors of our bunks.
The girls had to wear culottes over their snow pants, which were a ridiculous skirt-like pair of loose shorts intended to keep our modesty standard intact. We shared the sledding and snowboarding hill with the boys, and we’d go down two or three at a time on inflated inner tubes, our culottes freezing into geometric shapes as we slid down.
“You want to sled with me?” a soft, accented voice asked.