Ripe for Indoctrination and Thirsty for a Glass of Ice Cold Kool Aid
It happened my Junior year in high school at a stadium concert in Western Samoa.
The conversion had been a long time coming. I was a bit of an intentional outcast among the more popular kids in my Where-the-Fuck-Are-We? Kansas high school and, being a typical teenager despite my ingrained belief that I was fully non-conforming and different than this cast of Heartland Rednecks, finding inroads to the cool crowd was definitely on my mind.
Krystal Good (name changed because I’m not a complete dick). She was the captain of the cheerleading squad and president of the school’s chapter of the FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes). Turned out one did not need to be an athlete but you had to be a Christian or at least be open to the relentless witnessing and Bible studies. The thing is I wanted to fuck Krystal. She was untouchable but hung out with that FCA crowd.
At one point, I randomly asked her how to join. Her reaction was effusive.
“Oh, Don. I’m so happy you’re asking. You would be such a powerful witness for Christ.” And she held my hand for a moment that, in my head, was instantly underscored by some awful Christopher Cross song. I was hooked.
Remarkably, as I started attending, I mostly listened and kept my built-in skepticism at bey. I wasn’t there to antagonize the Believers — I was there to get a finger into Krystal’s cheerleading panties. Once I understand the language and the right things to say, I went in for the facade.
I was a True Believer in Getting Laid Through Profession of Non-Existent Faith.
Meetings were almost always the same. Krystal would lead an opening prayer that was designed to remind us all of our supplication to the Lord followed by what could only be called vapid confessionals: each of us had to relate a couple of sins we committed during the week and how we repented for them.
“I cheated on my algebra test. I felt really guilty so I went out of my way to be nice to [INSERT ONE OF THE THREE BLACK KIDS IN SCHOOL].”
“I lied to my mom about being at practice because I was playing Dig Dug at the Circle K. I promised God that I would be honest next time.”
“I felt really angry at Mr. Telfer and wanted to kill him. I guess I didn’t kill him so that’s OK, right?”
At which point, once we had all told our stone-skipping sins (we rarely got into drug-taking, drinking, or sex because, hey, that’s personal and between me and Jesus...) it all devolved into a standard high school gossip session complete with Mountain Dew, Taco-flavored Doritos, and fudge brownies that one of the girls made in Home Ec.
Despite my efforts to cozy up to Krystal, it was never to be. She really was untouchable. On the other hand, my newfound faith became an entry point to many lesser desired vaginas so it wasn’t a total waste.
Close to the end of my Junior year, I was encouraged to audition for a touring mission group called The Continental Singers. Effectively a proselytizing show choir with a six-piece band, the bonus was summer travel. That summer the group was going to Fiji, Tonga, New Zealand, and the Samoan Islands. Plus, we got paid a stipend and had free housing and food.
I put on my best On Fire for the Lord attitude, answered all the questions right, played a few bars on my trumpet and I was in.
What I didn’t realize was that I was now going to spend my every waking hour for three months with True Believers. A few of them spectacularly hot young women. This was going to be a challenge to keep up the pretense and not expose myself for the poser I had become.
Early into the summer, my rooming partner, Steve, started to catch on. When my guard was down, I didn’t seem that Christian in his opinion. Sure, I had all the right answers but got quickly bored with too much dogma and talk of the Bible. Word sort of spread and the indoctrination became a bit heavy-handed.
The show we performed went like this:
Band played an overture
The ‘show’ was an originally written version of Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat but with different music and some really terrible dialogue. Turned out a lot of it was verbatim from the Word of God so I’m assuming God can write a bestseller but not a musical.
Following the show (about 45 minutes in length) our director would come up and do a “Come to Jesus, Won’t You?” sermon followed by an opportunity for anyone in the audience to receive the call, embrace the love of Christ, and publicly commit themselves to God.
The last part was always eloquent and a bit relentless.
“You know in your heart that you are a sinner in need of redemption.”
“Man is born in sin and must accept the saving grace of our lord.”
“Jesus died to fulfill the Law of the Old Testament. Confess your sin and it will be washed clean.”
“How about a couple of bucks once you’ve joined?”
OK. That last line was more implied than stated but the last section of the night was a prayer and offering plates passed around by the cast while the band played inspiring tunes adagio. People came up in droves to publicly admit they were permanently stained with sin and receive the acceptance of the rest of the herd.
We were mostly free during the day and we would go out in teams to recruit audience members for that night. The teams shifted around and almost every day I was gently nudged toward the idea that, while I was a Christian (wink wink) it was a beautiful experience to re-affirm my faith publicly.
Every day for 45 days or so this message was pounded into my soft adolescent brain and often by these stellar looking women of Christ. The Kool Aid was looking mighty tasty and I began to question whether my resistance to the whole thing was merely my sinful ways fighting back. It was as if they’d heard my objections a thousand times and didn’t need me to say them out loud to pitch their liturgical woo.
Mind you, this was long before smartphones and I was thousands of miles from home. I felt isolated but only because I simply couldn’t intellectually buy into the party line. I missed American food, my car, my friends, television, movies, and books written by living authors without the agenda to convert me to religion. I missed masturbating and saying ‘fuck’. I missed being myself.
One night at a show in Western Samoa in August, as the director was making his emotional pitch, when he asked if there was anyone who wanted to commit themselves to Christ, he looked directly at me. Three or four of the cast members followed his gaze and looked at me with smiles that said “We understand. Take the leap. We approve.”
And I drank the Kool Aid. All of it. In one weepy gulp.
I was dubbed “Born Again.” And I believed it as firmly as I had previously disbelieved.
From that point, I was in the freaking club. Knowing that soon we’d all be back in various states around the country, the talk was that our friends wouldn’t understand but it was our responsibility to show them. I was told that anyone we couldn’t get to see the power of Christ was a poison that we should cut out of our lives. Friends, family, anyone. Either with us or against us with no wiggle room on it.
When I came home I had heard the pitch so many goddamned times it was like a script filled with buzzwords and catchphrases that I could recite with gusto.
Some five years later, the magic wore off. While my mom is the kind of Christian who truly tries to judge no one and feed the poor, too many I encountered were not. She and the people I’ve met through her are the kind of True Believers you read about and by whom you should be inspired (that’s not me being partial to my mom - she started a Food Bank in a closet of a church that has now grown to serve four counties in rural Kansas). Most were either wearing their Jesus Bowling Shirts each week or worse — the kind of Christians who teargas a group of peaceful protesters so they can walk across the street to pose with a Bible and then make a campaign video about it. You know, the pussy-grabbing kind of Christians.
What happened during those five years are stories for a different time but the result of this conversion and the later coming to my senses is this: I know cult-think when I hear it. When it rears its head, I’ve been there.
Faith is a very personal thing. Like watching a Marvel movie or reading the 1619 project, it requires a certain suspension of disbelief. It can be a salve in the human experience as we are creatures born to existential crisis. Turns out, we need something to hang onto beyond our own survival to thrive as a species. It can also be used as a bludgeon for power and cultural control and has often in history been exactly that.
I understand how easy it is, seeking the approval of others, to agree to a guilt that isn’t yours to bear out of a sense of belonging (or to get laid). Of confessing sins you don’t feel at all responsible for but do anyway because that Kool Aid is delicious, ain’t it? The reward of feeling like you’re accepted by the crowd, that you are, indeed, a voice for the word of...whomever is selling the most potent elixir, is comforting.
One of the hallmarks of a cult is that it tries to cut you off personally from anyone who sees the world differently than they do. When you see people urging others to completely cut off their friends and families over an issue, it's a cult. Anyone selling you the idea that you are “born in sin” based entirely upon inclusion in your race, gender, sexual preference is pitching a cult mindset. Any concept that creates a circular maze of proof (If you admit you’re a sinner, you’re a sinner. If you deny you’re a sinner, you’re a fragile sinner) is offering you an ice cold glass of Kool Aid.
Remember that there are, like, fifty different flavors of Kool Aid but they’re all just sugary water with food coloring.
