"...and a cross from a faith that died before Jesus came."

-Sarah McLachlan, Building A Mystery

I grew up in a stifled house. My father, full of self hate and loathing,
drank to excess. When he had drank enough, he'd turn all that anger, disgust
and rage onto my mother and I. My mother, the dutiful peacekeeper,
suppressed all of her feelings, trying to hold it together, just to get
by. By the time I was a teenager, it was painfully obvious to me the my
little family was a disaster. I knew there was no saving my father, so I'd
try to work on my mother. Surely she must be unhappy, I'd guess.
We should just
pack up and leave one night. I dreamt about leaving him, sneaking off in the night
air, our taillights shining in the dark as we drove away on I-40. I'd
watch the town lights get smaller and fainter as I watched through the back
window.

I tried to talk to her a few times about how I felt and questions I had like why are
we still here? and do you even love him? My mother, surprised
by my directness would tell me that was none of my business and I shouldn't be
asking her questions like that.

At home, my job was to keep quiet and stay out of my father's way. I'd
be in my room for hours day dreaming, but very careful not to upset my
father. Out of sight, out of mind.

Never getting to express my emotions at home meant I was a very angry, volatile
kid at school. I would stuff all those feelings inside but they were
always bubbling just under the thin surface
waiting to boil over. The smallest transgression, a small joke at my expense,
a misguided attempt to make light of something; would cause me to blow up and
have a huge hissy fit.

My face would burn and I'd lash out using the most
powerful weapon at my disposal -- my tongue. I'd curse and tear down my
friends. Rip them to shreds with my cutting remarks and blunt
observations. I wanted them to feel as small and pained as I did. I
was vicious and cruel. I'm surprised I had any friends at all, but
somehow, I did.

My friends knew my dad was a drunk and how unhappy I was. I don't know if they knew the severity of his drinking or his
violent tendencies. My father only beat me twice when I was very
young. This was when abuse was called whippin's, a form of
punishment, usually administered with a leather belt. As I got older, my father turned to verbal abuse. He'd keep me up late at night and
badger me about anything I that was wrong with me: my grades, my chores, my demeanor,
anything. The reason I was so skilled with verbally beating down others is because I learned it from the best.

I confided fully in few people, but the ones I did were those I
thought could help or save me. One was J.

J was an all around golden boy. He a was tall and
athletic. He was by far the smartest guy in school. He excelled at
all subjects, but particularly loved science. His name constantly appeared
on the honor roll. He was confident, yet also humble. He loved music and worked very hard to advance in
band. He could easily fit in any clique yet seemed to transcend them
all. He came from a strict yet loving home with two married professional
and was one of 2.5 kids.

Despite all of this, J and I became friends our
junior year in high school. I was the antithesis of him. The yin to his yang. I hated
sports. I hated school. I slept through most of my classes. I was barely managing to hold a C
average. The only thing I exceeded at was band and music. I'd spend
hours practicing after school, until the band director would kick me out and
send me home. However one A+ doesn't mean a
lot amidst all the C's and D's and occasional B. Other students
thought I was odd and weird and the teachers though I was a lost
cause.

I don't remember how it happened, if there was a particular event that put the two of us
together or if it developed organically, but eventually I was spending a lot of
time with J. We'd sit near each other in class, eat lunch together, talk on the
phone at night.

I trusted J and envied him. His life seemed ideal compared to mine.
Everyone's life seemed ideal to me. I'm sure I wasn't the only one dealing
with abuse, but it felt like I was and I hated it. I had a desperate desire to be
rescued.

One night I called him. It was late. I asked him to meet me at the park by the tennis
courts. He said he didn't think his parents would let him leave. I
begged. Please, I really need to talk to you. He was quiet
for a moment. "I'll meet you there."

I walked to the tennis courts from my house and waited for him. It was a
chilly night and I had a thin jacket on. I was trembling. I could see my breath. He
drove up in his Mustang and I got in.

I was very quiet at first. I warmed my hands under the heater rubbing them
together. He asked what was wrong. I tried to speak but
couldn't. My eyes welled with tears. I started to
tell him about my life at home. All of it. The ugliness, fear
and shame. My tears fell slowly at first, but with every word I spoke, I
cried harder and harder until I was finally bawling. I was gasping between
sobs. He leaned over and took me in his arms as
I wept.

I eventually stopped crying and started to collect myself. We talked a little and then he drove me
home. Both of us were quiet until we reached my corner. I told him
thanks and I'd see him tomorrow.

About a week later, between classes, J asked me, "What are you doing this
afternoon?"

"Practicing. Nothing. Why?"

"I want you to go somewhere with me." He told me he wanted me to
meet his youth pastor, a man named Dave. I asked why. I had always
been suspicious of his church. It was huge and pristine and seemed
unwelcoming. I imagined a sign by the door that said INVITATION ONLY. He said to
trust him and that Dave wanted to meet me. I agreed and after school I met
him by his car and we drove to the his church.

We entered a side door. His church looked and felt different from the one
my mother and I attended. Everything was off-white and pastel and impossibly
vast. The hallway we walked down seemed to stretch on forever.

We ended up in Dave's office. He shook my hand and J and I sat in two
chairs in front of his desk. Dave explained that J had told him about my situation.
I turned to look at J, confused and disappointed. You told him?,
my eyes said. Dave said it was okay and he was here to help me.

Yet, he didn't ask me a lot of questions about my father or mother or my life at
home. He asked me about me. I answered his questions cautiously,
knowing what was coming.

"Brian, have you given over your life to Jesus Christ?"

Oh shit!, I thought. Here we go. This wasn't the first
time I had been through this routine. I had attended many revivals and
bible studies at other friends' churches. After a while I realized it
didn't matter who went, just if there was a warm body in the pew ripe for
conversion.

I said that I thought I had and explained that we don't call it that where I
went to church. We didn't use words like "Lamb's Book of Life"
and such. No mention of hell fires in my sanctuary on Sunday. We
were pretty much a "live and let live" kind of congregation.

I knew better than to argue with them. I had watched many of my friends,
all members of this faith, argue until there voices gave out extolling the virtues
of their religion and how it was the absolute truth and the only way. At
that moment, I surrendered so I could get the hell out of there sooner.

"Yes Dave. I'd like to give my life over to the Lord," I said
sheepishly.

Dave smiled. I bagged another one, I figured he thought. We
sat together in a circle and they prayed for me, my poor troubled soul and
sinner's heart. I didn't lower my head or close my eyes. I just
watched them. They really think this is going to help me, I
thought in disbelief. I rolled my eyes and grinned, trying not to laugh
out loud.

After they finished, I hugged them both. Dave told me this was a
"great" day. I shook his hand and faked a thank you and walked
out.

My relationship with J was forever changed at that point. Not only did I
feel betrayed because he told his youth pastor, (later I would discover his
parents knew as well, another unforgivable offense) but also that he would bring
me to his church and he thought that would be the solution to my
problems. Years later I learned to forgive J. He was simply a young boy confronted
with a horrible ugliness and didn't know how to deal with it. I placed a
heavy burden on him and he did the
only thing he thought would help. As misguided as it was, it was very an
honest attempt and I appreciate his effort.

Dave on the other hand was someone I grew to distrust like most of the adults in
my life. It angered me that adults knew about my father and his alcoholism
and did nothing to protect me. I wasn't shy about telling my friends about
my father. I soon discovered that like J, most of my other friends had
told their parents, some of whom were teachers in our school. I didn't
easily share the worst of it, but most people knew the overall picture.
Maybe it was in my imagination, but there was this real small town feel to the
whole thing. People knew and were talking about it among themselves, but
no one would step in. My
friends' parents knew and did nothing. Teachers knew and did
nothing. People at my church knew and did nothing. Dave knew and
insisted if I let Jesus in my heart, that somehow the harsh reality of an
abusive parent would be made better through prayer.

A couple years ago, a friend asked me if I believed in God. I thought
about it for a moment and said, "I don't know." I still don't.
There were a lot of events that shaped my disillusionment about God, faith and
religion, and my realization that they are not always connected. This was
the first and most significant.