Chapter 6: Finding Harmony

Continued from Chapter 5: Cognitive Dissonance

In the summer, I went away to a real university to study linguistics with Wycliffe Bible Translators. (See a picture of me here!) Finally in a predominately Christian environment without the influence of IBLP, I was able to evaluate my own values for the first time as an adult.

I enjoyed the chapel services with slow, rich, harmonic, sacred choral songs equally with the mornings when Dan Everett jammed on his electric guitar. I attended "normal" church services and instead of fleeing, I let the songs fill and move me. I even danced if I felt like it! I still had a lot of hangups and anxieties, but I was breaking free! I tried my wings in other ways--buying my first jeans, swimming without sleeves, going to a movie theater, taking communion with real wine, chatting with a male friend unchaperoned. Every step was tentative, I was always figuratively looking over my shoulder, watching for evidence that God had removed his protecting hand.

Returning to my parents' home in August was. . . stressful. As soon as I could afford it, I flew to the Philippines to spend a few months with a team of Wycliffe linguists. I had just settled in when I had a little shock. I was working on a slow computer project when my missionary friend . "Put on some music if you want to," she offered, gesturing to her CD collection. "Who do you like?"

I reached back quickly across the years, aware that my musical tastes didn't match my age. "I kind of like Twila Paris," I said, scarcely believing my own voice.

"We have this one," she said, pulling out The Warrior Is A Child. At the sight of the album cover, my head began to whirl. I was thirteen again, rewinding the borrowed tape again and again. I loved that song! But I wasn't prepared to face those emotions--not here, not now. I turned back to the computer and mumbled something noncommittal.

Over the following weeks, however, I did plunge into those emotions. Deep down I was still afraid--afraid the music would expose me in some invisible way to dangers or temptations I couldn't handle. But I had no desire to be controlled by fear, much less fear of a mere fantasy.

The couple next door spent most of their time living in the mountains with their language group. Becky left me with a key to their house and invited me to use her piano or borrow from their music collection. Entering the dark, silent bungalow was like going through a wormhole. Becky had been a young adult when I was just a kid, and her cassette cabinet was a treasure trove, my own little Narnia. Inside its doors I encountered all my old favorites: Twila Paris, Michael Card, Sandy Patti, Michael W. Smith, John Michael Talbot, and even made some new acquaintances, like Rich Mullins.

And so I recovered my childhood faith, starting not exactly from scratch but from where I left it when I turned fourteen.

Talbot sang me to sleep with songs about love, Card affirmed the value of wisdom and truth, Mullins expressed my deep conflicted hopes, and I sang Twila's songs about trust and mercy nearly every day. When she sang "Daughter of Grace", I saw myself as in a mirror.

She spent half her life working hard to be someone you had to admire
Met the expectations and added something of her own
So proud of all that she had done...
So proud at all she had not done...   

Broken and discovering that she could fail
Heard her own voice crying for help and she was

Carried in the arms of love and mercy
Breathing in a second wind Shining with the light of each new morning Looking into hope again 

Finally ready to begin
Born for a second time in a brand new place

I now recognized legalism as a poison, and like Luther, I saw grace as the antidote. The picture of God that I constructed that year on a tropical island in Southeast Asia was a beautiful one. I had lots of guidance from friends who had seen more of life than I had, but the finished product was my own. And that God sufficed for quite a few more years during which I moved back to the States, started a family, and found a church that worshiped the same God I did.

My husband and I collected numerous contemporary Christian albums from the 80's and 90's that we would have enjoyed if we hadn't been giving heed to Gothard:  Michael W. Smith, Twila Paris, Rich Mullins, David Meece. We went to to hear Michael Card sing in person; we attended a Phil Keaggy concert. I even performed in church with an accompaniment track.

The years of internal trauma left permanent scars, though. My parents went back to the church we used to walk out of. The baby brother I used to carry out to lobby started a praise band there. I was happy for him, but when we visited, sitting through a service in that sanctuary filled to the rafters with memories was emotionally exhausting. Dancing at weddings also attended by my parents would leave me agitated to the point of physical symptoms.

And when my husband and I found ourselves looking for a different church, I would frequently have panic attacks in the pew. Sitting in a beautiful auditorium, surrounded by symbols of hope and peace, listening to sweet songs of grace based on the Beatitudes, the tingling would start in my feet and creep up my legs while I silently reminded myself that I was safe, that there was nothing to fear, no invisible enemies, no one to throw me out or send me home.

As I moved out of fundamentalism back through evangelicalism and kept on going through liberal American Christianity, I inevitably outgrew the concept of God with which I had begun. I found I actually had more in common with Michael Jackson and Katy Perry than with Rich Mullins or Michael Card, though I remain grateful to them for helping me along the way.

Because, in the end, music is (or should be) art, an expression of the heart, a tangible sharing of intangible perception. It may be lovely, it may be angry; sometimes it is hilarious, other times it may not even make sense. What speaks to me will not be the same as what speaks to my husband, or to my kids. It won't be the same every week, or every year. Art is not algebra; it is not static, its meaning is not intrinsic. Like life itself, we imbue art with meaning according to what we bring to it. 

Music can be a powerful means of uniting people, or of separating them; a means of broadening our understanding of each other, or of isolating ourselves. There will always be artistic expressions we don't understand. If we approach them with fear, we will inevitably view them as hostile. But if our hearts are open and our minds curious, each composition becomes a way to enter another's experience.

Music is not a force to be feared, but a gift to be shared. 

Chapter 5: Cognitive Dissonance

Continued from Chapter 4: The Lord's Song in a Strange Land

I kept playing the piano for the itty-bitty Baptist church until the pastor (another ATI dad, who was abusive to his family though I didn't realize it then) kicked us out. Our doctrine allowed us some flexibility regarding denominations, but we weren't Mennonite and already knew no other local churches would meet our exacting musical standards.

We visited farther afield for months, finally settling on a small fellowship of families that met in a school library in a neighboring county. The pastor was also an ATI dad, but he was gentle and kind and helped heal our wounds of rejection. So many years before, I had roller skated to Michael W. Smith tracks with his daughter, and I had taken my birthday Walkman to their house.

Indianapolis Training Center

I often played the piano for Sunday morning services. I taught myself to sing harmony. Now in my twenties but still living under my father's authority, I traveled to IBLP's Indianapolis campus to take several courses in music. I even composed a few sacred songs of my own.

One Sunday a nice older man in our church group led the "worship". During "communion", he started quietly singing in the back of of the room with an accompaniment track he'd brought along. It was mellow by contemporary standards and should have created a peaceful mood, but I was highly sensitized. I started shaking and weeping. I went up to him and asked him to please turn off the tape. Seeing the state I was in, he was quick to oblige. A click of the tape player and the room went silent. Poor man wasn't even a Gothard follower; he just got broadsided. He must have been so confused.

* * * * * * * *

I went away to work for Gothard's organization: first in Oklahoma City, then in Indianapolis, and finally at the IBLP headquarters offices in Oak Brook, Illinois. Spunky, casual, curious, and tenacious, I wasn't Gothard's type. The aging stature-challenged bachelor with a penchant for bluegrass, who dyed what was left of his pompadour, had a decided preference for quiet willowy brunettes or blondes who looked good in blazers. Being neither, I only saw him at staff meals and staff meetings I couldn't avoid. (Oh, and I rode with his entourage on one road trip, during which I assured him I would never grow a beard.)

I thrived on the camaraderie at IBLP, especially at the more relaxed Oklahoma campus. I sang all the time, added to my personal hymnal collection, and joined the staff handbell choir. My new friends introduced me to all kinds of fun music--Broadway show tunes, Celtic folk melodies, Hollywood soundtracks, and even gentle jazz--but we dutifully skipped the tracks that were at all questionable, particularly when certain people might overhear.

I played the piano for fun, for staff meetings, and sometimes for a retirement home. Gothard's brother-in-law even took a group of us to Pacific Garden Mission, where I sang 19th-century Gospel hymns to the "lonely, empty, sin-twisted, neurotic" men on Chicago's Skid Row, just like the Unshackled broadcasts, or a scene lifted from In His Steps.

And then, on a warm night in June, Gothard called my parents to collect me and my things and take me home. I was gone by noon, with little explanation and few goodbyes.

After a few months of aimlessness, I finally applied for part-time office job in town. At the interview, I explained to the owner that the radio kept on low volume in the office area would be a problem. If they wanted to hire me, the radio would have to be kept off on the days I worked. A pious Catholic himself, he agreed.

* * * * * * * *

I drove my parents' truck to work. It was a 20-minute drive through familiar territory. With ten siblings at home, I wasn't used to being alone, especially in a vehicle. To keep myself company, or to drown out my thoughts, I sometimes listened to cassettes. Stopping at the Christian book store on an errand one day, I picked up an instrumental praise album that offered to connect the dots between the church songs I sang as child and the musical style I embraced as a teen. The sound was as shimmeringly beautiful as an Impressionist painting, but my antennae stood up when I detected, even through the background noise of the V-8 engine, the slightest backbeat. Oh, no!

That tape caused me so much consternation over the following weeks. I loved it, I was ashamed of it. It soothed me, I needed to be rid of it. I thought about throwing it away, but I didn't want my parents to know about it (thanks to my little brothers, there were no secrets in our garbage!). By now I was a 24-year-old woman and this was a decision I would make for myself.

I stuffed the tape in my purse and took it with me to work. Then I would stand indecisively in front of the trash can in the ladies' room, holding the cassette over the opening. To drop, or not to drop? The tape always made its way back into my purse, as if protected by otherworldly forces, its fate postponed until my next scheduled work day when I would repeat this bizarre bathroom behavior.

One morning I turned the radio on instead. I hadn't turned on a radio in ages, not since Mom coerced me into signing a paper that said I wouldn't. I was only familiar with two or three stations. Would it be secular public radio, or Christian WLJN? I was already breaking a promise, or disobeying an authority, or stepping out from under my umbrella of protection, no matter how you looked at it. I flipped on WLJN.

And caught my breath.

The song was familiar. It was the beautiful new one we'd recently learned at church. But it sounded so different with the rich orchestration, the drums keeping time, the soloist belting the lyrics out effortlessly. I shut it off. I would have to think about this. It was the horrible music that Gothard and David Noebel and Inge Cannon and Peter Peters all said was "music from hell", a weapon of Satan. He wanted nothing but to steal, kill, and destroy. If I allowed myself to "vibrate in sympathy" with this sound, I would be vulnerable to his attacks, no longer protected by my spiritual "umbrella". I might even have a car accident this morning!

I switched the song back on, to be sure, and then back off to ponder some more. Yes, it was the same song I had sung many times with a simple piano accompaniment, and yes, the original version had an unmistakable rock beat. Listening to it would violate all kinds of rules and commitments. On the other hand, the lyrics were praise to God. The artist could be described as a modern-day David. Could a fountain yield both salt water and fresh?

Determined to tease out the truth, I commenced an experiment. I would listen to WLJN, or even the adulterated praise album on my way to work. Only for a few minutes at first, as my anxieties would get the better of me. Then for longer periods, and nothing bad happened. I arrived just as safe and sound as when I conscientiously stayed under the umbrella of protection. I began to suspect that things were not quite as I had believed.


Read Chapter 6: Finding Harmony

Of Isolation and Community

I took the bus to Willow Hill Elementary for kindergarten and first grade. At recess my friends and I would play hopscotch, jump rope, explore, or make-believe together. Occasionally, they would invite me to their homes to play or for a birthday party. I was active in Sunday School, too. Though I was too shy to say much to them, I knew many adults at church and in my neighborhood. My parents were part of a small fellowship group and the families did lots of things together: picnics, fireworks, a hayride, swimming at the lake.

When my parents became homeschoolers, our social circle tightened. Mom was afraid the state might “take us away” if anyone reported us. One sunny morning she hauled all of us to the grocery store at what seemed like the crack of dawn to get her shopping done before “school hours”. I still played with the kids next door, but only on designated “play days”. We had the same church friends for a while, and I looked up to my Sunday School teachers, but we left our church because some people there were displeasing God. Yes, it was confusing. I rarely attended Sunday School (or youth group) after that, even when we were in churches with other kids my age. Most of my socialization now was with other homeschoolers: sledding parties, picnics, occasional field trips and converging on fields and orchards to glean free produce.

As homeschooling gained popularity, we became less concerned about being put in foster care. But then my parents joined a new group: ATIA. The Advanced Training Institute (of America) was an elite level of membership for followers of Bill Gothard and his Institute in Basic Life Principles (formerly Institute in Basic Youth Conflicts). My parents had attended his seminars for years. Now his homeschooling program offered a way to get the loyal, loving, godly family you always wanted. Financial freedom, stronger character, better health, and fulfilling family relationships included! Plus, all the educational materials, from math to language arts, were based directly on the Bible!

  

We moved across town that summer, to a farmhouse in the country. My dad started his own business: it was different to have him working from home all day. And we embarked on the new ATI adventure. Our social circled narrowed even more from that point, consisting of church acquaintances (we changed churches every few years) and conservative homeschooling friends. We saw my grandparents twice a year at most; while skeptical of many of our religious quirks, they tried not to rock the boat or criticize my parents to us kids. There were no trusted adults in my life that didn’t defend my parents’ beliefs and lifestyle choices.

We joined a larger evangelical church and my parents were admired for their dedication. With six children now, we could really fill up a pew.  Now in my mid-teens, I longed to make friends but had little in common with my peers there. Many of their activities (movies, concerts, parties, sports, even jobs) were forbidden in my family. There were hardly any other homeschoolers.  I looked forward to ATI conferences where I could meet others my age that dressed, behaved, and thought like I did. A few became penpals and are still friends today.

Later, we moved to even more conservative churches where homeschooling was the norm.  At home, there were babies to change, toddlers to feed, and children to educate; my help was sorely needed, and often appreciated. I had a friend at church, and meeting for lunch together was a rare and special treat.  There were no boyfriends, no dates. St. Paul said we should be content with food and clothing. I had a bed and three meals a day and could earn a little spending money from my dad besides. Now in my 20’s, I tried to use my loneliness to push me closer to God. I tried to mentally prepare for a life of singleness if necessary, while yearning for a soulmate of my own.

I was 22 when I moved out of state to work (unpaid) for one of Gothard’s “ministries”. My social network was limited to other cult members (we attended only churches that had been “approved” by the leadership and shopping outings were on an as-needed basis). Chores at the center were mandatory, as was scripture memory and attendance of daily morning Bible studies. Still, I made new friends from all over the country and savored the chance to live and work with peers.

After six months of volunteering for room and board, the law dictated that the Institute put me on the payroll. With only $13 left in my checking account, I was relieved to hear this! I was a minimum-wage employee for one year, moving from the Oklahoma center to the Indianapolis compound to the “Headquarters” campus in Illinois, working in three different departments before I was summarily fired because Gothard felt my 20-year-old brother threatened his authority. My parents called me late one night to tell me that Bill Gothard wanted them to pick me up the next morning and take me home to Michigan. He didn’t tell me himself, nor did my boss. Being ignorant of life “on the outside”, I had no idea how abnormal this was, but it hurt like hell. I started packing my belongings. My dad arrived at noon, I shook hands with the man I would marry two years later, and we headed “home”.

After a year and a half of full-blown work for the cult, this trip was surreal—like going back in time. I sipped my Arby’s Jamocha shake and tried to sort out what was happening.  I felt discarded, displaced, separated from friends without a chance to say goodbye. For weeks, I cried myself to sleep. I was in a place I did not want to be, and I’d had no say in the decision. In my grief, I found comfort in stroking one of the new barn kittens; it died. My mom miscarried what would have been a 12th baby. We heard that another young man who had also been exiled from the cult had drowned on the Fourth of July. The ATI director left his wife for his secretary. The whole world was going crazy and it was taking me with it.

Over the next year, I started taking more responsibility for my own life. I had my first job interview, worked part-time, visited other church groups, began to consider college courses, and applied for short-term placement with an overseas missions organization (Wycliffe Bible Translators). I spent a summer studying linguistics at the University of North Dakota and meeting all kinds of cool people from around the world. I loved college, even the exams! Away from my parents and the cult for the first time in my life, I bought my first pair of jeans, my first pair of shorts. I went to the movie theater with friends! I had my first sip of wine, my first taste of beer. I explored different churches, and enjoyed music that had once been forbidden. I spent time with guys who intrigued me, and turned down a guy who didn’t. I played my heart out on the piano. When my parents tried to exert control over my [male] friendships from hundreds of miles away, I was conflicted. I cried, but I complied.

In the fall, I flew to the Philippines where I spent ten difficult yet glorious months learning from the best mentors I could have asked for. The Wycliffe base at Nasuli was a humming multi-cultural haven set in a natural paradise. Though I assisted the missionary-linguists in their work, mostly I was being healed. From the security of friends and coworkers who loved and accepted me, I began dissecting my past and daring to think for myself. Tentatively, then with greater confidence, I let myself question the cult. I let go of deeply-embedded fears. I allowed myself to grieve over my experience with the Institute. I saw what a respectful, caring community looked like.

Nasuli was so unlike the churches and training centers I’d been part of. Here, individuality was valued; the group drew strength from diversity of opinion and expression. Instead of pasting a smile on the surface, these men and women spoke honestly of their emotional experience, both positive and negative. Rather than demanding perfection and informing on those who failed to measure up, these people tolerated each other, quirks and all, often making excuses for a neighbor’s idiosyncrasies. And nobody ever minded having fun.

Deconversion

This Tuesday, allow me to introduce Kenneth Daniels, a former missionary with Wycliffe Bible Translators.

Ken was born in Africa to missionary parents. I could so relate to his story of praying to receive Jesus into his young heart during a frightening thunderstorm. (I prayed through every thunderstorm I experienced between the ages of about 5 and 12.) When Ken was a teenager, the movie Peace Child inspired him to prepare for missionary work himself and after years of preparation, he ended up in Niger as a linguist and Bible translator.

But Ken had lots of questions. And kept looking for the answers. He documents his struggles with the Bible's reliability in this chapter and with the whole issue of Biblical prophecy here. The account(s) of David and Goliath gave him particular difficulty. Needless to say, his wavering belief in the Bible did not make him a model member of WBT. In his marvelously honest and detailed book Why I Believed, Ken records some of his poignant prayers from that period when he still believed in God but had serious doubts about the accuracy of the Bible. 

Ken and his family returned to the U.S. so he could spend time in counseling. His faith was temporarily restored, but he ended up resigning from Wycliffe and later embracing his atheism. 

"It's so sad." This is the most common response I have heard from family, friends, and other interested believers upon learning of my loss of faith on the mission field.

I have been told that if I had embraced a slightly different brand of Christianity, I could have avoided coming down this path....

Ken's experience feels so familiar to me. I, too, wanted to believe for many years. Like Ken, I was able to sustain it for a long time. I hear "It's so sad", as well. 

But while losing faith in God is associated with some painful adjustments, the freedom to think honestly and to make choices fearlessly is an earth-shaking relief. I imagine slaves traveling north on the Underground Railroad. When they arrived on free ground, who would say to them, "It's so sad"? Indeed, they may have left loved ones behind and suffered on the journey, but the destination--a new life to be lived in freedom--was worth the price. 

Don't Sleep, There Are Snakes

And it’s Testimony Tuesday again! 

I met Dan Everett and his wife Keren in 2000 at  the Summer Institute of Linguistics (University of North Dakota), when his atheism was apparently still in the closet. All the missionaries on the faculty were impressive in their own right, but Dan stands out in my memory. Besides being a serious linguist, he played a mean electric guitar for our chapel services and his stories from the Amazon betrayed a mischievous streak, plus more than a hint of admiration for the Piraha people. 

A decade later, I was surprised to encounter his name in another context. You can read about Dan’s work with the Piraha here and here. And if you are interested in linguistics theory, definitely check out his book.

In Dan’s words: 

“[Bible translation] did not work out very well from the missionary perspective. In fact, the effect was that I abandoned my own faith in the face of the Pirahas’ happiness, demand for evidence that I did not have, and their respect and warmth for me. I talk about all of this in detail in Don’t Sleep, There are Snakes.”