Nov 07 | Tear it down, Part 1 (Letters from the Coast)

This is a three part entry about my experiences with Christian fundamentalism, and the irreparable harm it can and will cause in people’s lives.

 

PART I: A “CHRISTIAN HOUSE”

My last full year of university I arranged with a close friend to move in together. Since she was home in Alaska for the summer, I was put in charge of looking for places to live.

One place I explored wasn’t the cheapest or most convenient location, but it was newly renovated, and at first glance everything in the agreement seemed reasonable if a bit odd. Of particular interest was the bottom line: “This is a Christian house with Christian morals; please respect these principles.”

Oh God, I was so naïve.

I went to meet with the owners, a dour looking man and his wife. The man met me in a study in his home, with a ceiling-high bookshelf that was, I swear, nothing but Bibles. His wife never entered the room or spoke to me. She just hovered near the doorway.

First red flag.

We talked for some time. I had been careful to wear a cross and talk about my church back home on the mainland. I was vague about anything more than that.

I don’t remember him ever smiling. Second red flag.

I gave him a deposit and a move-in date of September 1^st. Don’t ask me why. I was twenty and knew nothing.

My boyfriend was horrified. “This says you can’t have any overnight guests unless they’re approved by him. And what the hell does that last line mean?”

My dad grimaced. “The place has a separate entrance. It’s not legal for them to police who you have over. You need to ask what he means by Christian principles and how he would choose appropriate company.”

My roommate were both to carry a more-than-full course load that year. We imagined our erstwhile home as a burrow to hunker down and work. It didn’t seem to matter much at the time.

But I decided to ask anyway. I phoned the guy.

He first claimed that the “Christian house” thing meant that he didn’t want us doing drugs or drinking.

I said, “Well…you could have just said that.”

“I suppose,” he said, sounding a bit taken aback. “And we don’t want any…well, witchcraft or anything like that.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Uh…okay, I don’t…wow. No Wiccans, huh? What if a Muslim decided to move in? Would that be okay?”

Silence. Occasional stammering. He was at a complete loss.

Finally, I said, “I don’t think this is going to work. Could you please send me back the deposit?”

“Sure,” he said. Then, after a long pause, “You know…the wages of sin is death.”

I put my forehead into my palm.

 

Dodged a bullet, didn’t we?

 

This was one of my most vivid encounters with Christian fundamentalism. I had experienced low-level evangelical pushiness before, but this was way beyond. I have been so lucky in my life to avoid the worst of what my faith has to offer.

When I look back on it now, I’m even more unnerved. Something about his piercing gaze feels almost predatory.

All those identical Bibles were for distribution. He was probably from a door-to-door kind of church, desperate to save souls and win the prize for most wretched sinners claimed at the end of the race.

And the way he studied me, the way he looked wary, the way I felt on edge the whole time I was in that house (which in my memory is grey and cheerless and dimly lit): that is the image of fundamentalism that has been seared into my soul, over and over.