defconnexion

One of my earliest memories is of selling my soul. Some people will tell you that they remember seeing their mother's face that first time or the first word that they uttered but my memory starts in church. King James Bible Baptist church in Des Plaines, to be specific. I vaguely recall the train ride from my birthplace of Pensacola, Florida to Chicago, where I would spend the majority of my life since, but I distinctly recall the day that my father brought me before the congregation of his church in order to have me swear my heart to Jesus Christ the Son of God. I remember it as it happened, which is to say that as a small child I could not possibly fathom the gravity of the decision that I was happily making, to offer up my immortal soul in service to The One True God and, as such, smiling, beaming at the congregation as I stood up on the pew and turned around to look at those gathered through my coke bottle bottom glasses (I've been horribly myopic from birth, which probably explains why I don't remember as much about my childhood, it was likely, quite literally, a blur) I loudly proclaimed that I accepted Jesus Christ the Son of God into my heart and that I would obey Him forever and ever, amen. In retrospect this was clearly the beginning of my intense seething hatred of religion, having been forced to attend these ridiculous sermons shouted at me and my brother as we sat in the front row of this decrepit church that was always too hot or too cold, since there was neither heat nor air conditioning. About the only fond memory that I have of that place was the monthly communion (yes, communion at a Baptist church) which was a Godsend since we never ate before church (we wouldn't break our fast until after the sermon let out, usually between noon and one). I won't even go into the calibur of the average individual that attended the biweekly gathering (oh yes, we went to church every Sunday morning and Wednesday night) except to say that I wonder if Lyle and Lutz are in jail, out and proud or dying from some horrible malady in Africa as thanks for their missionary work. I suppose that I wouldn't have such negative feelings towards God and the church if my father actually practiced what he preached, but then I've found the strictly religious rife with hypocrisy. I suppose he just did his best to show me par and set the groundwork for my own eventual secession from all things religious. Let's not even approach the levels of sexual deviance that this all would set me up for. And now you know or, at least, it's a start.