I was raised in a church.
Whitewashed, massive, and square,
A sawdust church on every corner.
Built to hold thousands—
Herded like sheep.
Lured with modern fancies—
Gigantic screens,
Bookstores,
Cafes.
Designed for mass conversion, not communion.
Where worship was a concert,
The sermon—
a show.
Every month, the beginning of the same message.
Every so often, a more vile one.
Held not on Easter,
Not on Christmas,
Not in the New Year.
For the regulars.
For the devoted.
I was shaped in a church.
Dressed in Sunday best—
A reflection of your soul.
The way I prayed,
The way I feared.
The way I silenced my own questions.
A ritual.
My sister’s room—
Strip searched.
Her music, her drawings,
Judged unholy—
Burned.
They searched our shelves,
Tore pages from spines,
Burned questions and stories
Alongside comics and plays.
The hiss of burning ink.
The crackle of innocence on a Sunday morning.
The fire didn’t just burn our books—
It incinerated even our quietist wonderings.
I was shaped in its image.
And I became its likeness—
Smiling, obedient, afraid to breathe too loud.
I was shaped in fear.
Of how I dressed.
Of what I said.
Of what I drew.
Of what I thought.
Of the end times.
Of everlasting fire.
Of god leaving you.
Of the silence.
Of the judgement.
“Do you have demons?”
They’d ask.
And I did.
Their names were shame and silence.
I was shaped in a church.
Where the forges of hell were eager.
Where sameness was exalted.
The simple,
The limited,
The rule-followers—
That was divine.
Only the elected were loved, they said.
Marked before breath,
Saved before sin.
I remember asking—
“But what about my friend?”
My teacher smiled,
And said “she was kind,
But not chosen.
Everyone else—
Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists—
Sinners.
Condemned.
No chance to change.
No grace for the damned.”
I looked down at my shoes
And felt special.
And guilty.
And afraid.
I tried not to cry.
We were told:
You were chosen.
You were special.
You were—
A true believer.
A tenth of your life,
First fruits, before rent, before rest.
More, if you’re faithful.
With glint in the eye,
The pastor grinned.
A sure guarantee—
Promised returns in heaven and on earth.
Where oh where,
Does it go?
Guilt, shame, the promises of more.
Security, it whispers.
A check signed,
Sweat beads on the forehead.
A reassuring hand touches yours—
Have faith.
The pastor steps offstage—
Drives a modest car.
He parks blocks away—
Walks into a marble foyer.
Six-car garage.
Groomed lawn,
Columns.
Untouched, a polished grand piano.
God has blessed this man—
Or so we’re told.
Hypocrisy.
Over step. Over reach.
The rampant abuse.
Not just in communities.
Political lobbying and funding.
Tax write-offs.
Do not store treasures on earth—
As they built mansions and megachurches from your guilt.
Focusing on collecting followers and offerings,
Held in shame,
Rather than benefiting the community.
I was betrayed in a church.
A young devoted soul,
Yearning for meaning,
Reaches out to give their hearts.
Yet how many had their bodies taken?
Bia— force incarnate,
Not always by men.
Sometimes, the hand that held you down
Wore perfume and pearls.
Sometimes, it was your own mother.
Sometimes, she asked with a smile,
“Have you prayed away your demons?”
Hushed.
Threatened.
Turn the other cheek—
As their hands covered my mouth.
I was told
“This is love.”
“This is forgiveness.”
“This is God’s will.”
We all know and yet fail to speak.
You must forgive they say.
The power these men have!
Men of God!
I was betrayed in a church.
Half the lectures,
Half the bookstore,
Sold end times.
Revelation.
And ye shall see
the hurricanes and earthquakes
And ye shall know the end times is upon us!
Shouts the pastor
Echos the missionaries.
He is at our doorstep!
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12 and 4—
Holy numbers!
I was raised in a church.
The god hung himself
An offering to himself,
On the World Tree,
Pierced by a spear,
To gain the knowledge of the runes.
Alchemy of extraction,
Of possession.
They burned the wild women,
Her knowledge of the earth.
The questioner,
The one who bled without shame.
They taught us to fear the flames,
The sizzling of blistering flesh,
Divine punishment,
Sentenced by mortal men.
Where bloodshed is worshipped.
Civilizations fell at its hand,
Wearing the mask of a savior.
It forced and burned,
Raiding the desired.
So there is truth in some of it
And truth in none of it.
The mask they wear,
An image of a martyr,
One who walked the wilds,
A spirit they do not recognize.
They forgot the one who flipped tables
And only kept the cross—
Not the whip
Cracking against greed.
The souls leave unfulfilled,
Confused.
But feeling the frisson,
They wonder, ‘did I not feel god?’
Chills upon their skin.
Yet, this god is silent.
But faith?
Hypocrisy!
You extractors of dominion!
Of souls.
Of wealth.
Of obedience.
Even now they strike matches,
Banning what speaks of truth.
Afraid written words might teach a child
To question.
They roar their tanks,
Gathering around a blaze of books, chanting:
If it sings of sorrow,
If it dances in color,
If it names what cannot be controlled—
Throw it to the fire!
There is no beauty in this church.
Praises of the soul
cannot be expressed in a box,
one built cheaply in a rush.
It must be feminine.
It must be divine.
In my heart I know a church,
Forgotten.
We, who were burned,
Still speak through ash.
Our names, forbidden,
Etched on bark and bone.
They tried to silence the wild—
But the Earth remembers.
I remember a different church.
It resides in open air.
Trees as old as titans.
The winds the organs.
The crickets the strings.
Carpets of moss.
Drapes of vines.
Jeweled with flowers.
Art, poems, music—
Offerings.
Barefoot and unashamed,
I walk among the fae,
Of bark and breath and blooming moss.
I come—
As I am.
I remember a different church.
Dancing, crying, here I am at awe.
Here the martyr walks,
On hillsides, feeding the hungry.
On boats, speaking in parables.
On roads, walking with outcasts.
In homes, breaking bread with the sick and the shamed.
In gardens, weeping alone.
Here is the church.
In this church,
No one asked what I was,
Only, “Will you dance?”
They offered us hellfire
For asking “why?”
But I have seen fire
That heals, that warms,
That lights the path home.
No longer a fire to fear—
But a fire to gather around.
The fire they promised was damnation,
And I ache for those still inside,
Calling the chains devotion.
But I found a hearth—
Of song and sap,
Of stars and breath,
And here—
the bush burns.
The breath stirs.
Gentle flames,
Warm,
Not consuming.
Here I taste waters of the womb.
Here I feel richness of the soil.
Here I smell incense of the pines.
Here I hear the whisper of the gods.
Here the divine feminine and masculine are One.
Here I know truth.
I have been to this church.
I have drunk from its magic leaf—
Not of blood,
Of raindrops and dew.
I have been baptized
In the rushing waters of Godafoss.
Here I pray, I dance, I worship.
For I know this church.
I am a child of this church—
Of Earth and Air.
I remember a different church.
And I returned.
Barefoot.
Unashamed.
With open arms.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I was about eight, I asked my dad "What about my friends? What about the people who
never learn about Jesus?"
At the time, he told me anyone who rejects Jesus would go to hell.
That true Christians weren’t Catholics—with all their idols—
And definitely not Mormons.
He mentioned a sect that allowed women to preach and gays to be pastors,
But said that wasn’t real Christianity either.
Still, he was sure God had a plan for those who had never heard of Jesus.
He believed they wouldn't go to hell.
But he emphasized the gospel had to reach everyone—
and that the second coming wouldn’t happen until it had reached
all four corners of the Earth.
So I decided not to have friends.
I sat alone on the swings at recess
trying to hold out for as long as I could.
I think this was too convoluted for the poem.
But it stayed with me.