Children of Fundamentalism: Why I Hate Caring Communities!

My friend Sofia comes from a caring, religious community up in the mountains. From the time she was a child, Sofia was surrounded by love, treated like a princess.

Granted, her village was a little conservative in its practices. They didn't have electricity or running water. The women dressed very modestly. The men had all the power. But the upside of this was that people really cared about each other.

Sofia's village had roots in the land and traditions that were not to be questioned. One of those traditions was the arranged marriage. Thus, when she was 16, Sofia saw her best friend Maria forced to marry a man who was twice her age.

The night before the wedding, Sofia huddled over a map with her 17-year-old friend, trying to figure a way out of her nightmare. Both girls cried together. They considered running away. But it wasn't a viable option - they couldn't be sure that the law could overcome their traditions and culture.

The next day, the ceremony was beautiful - held outside. The sunset bathed the surrounding mountains in vivid purple and gold. Dressed in traditional bridal garb, Maria walked toward a man she had never met before - the man who would be her husband. The tears Maria shed seemed appropriate - tears of happiness at acquiring a husband.

Only Sofia knew their real meaning. Only Sofia wept as Maria's wealthy husband carried her across the mantel of their new house to possess Maria's virginity. And as Sofia watched, she swore that she would never marry a man unless she had chosen him herself.

Sofia reflected on that day during the following weeks. She thought about the wrenching sobs her friend had shed. As she brooded, Sofia considered her mother and father. She loved their romance - in her words, their "love story." Although there was a 15-year-age difference between them, Sofia knew that her mother had married her father willingly.

Sofia knew that her own time was coming, and that she would soon be expected to marry, as well. She knew her own beauty. She felt the looks given her by the mature, single men in her village. And she decided to do something about it - while she could.

Unlike many of the girls in her culture, Sofia was able to talk honestly with her father. She trusted him, and he paid attention to her. So when she received her first proposal of marriage, she told her father the truth about her feelings.

Now Sofia knew that her father, like every other father in the village, had the power to beat his children severely if they rebelled. She also knew her father to be an inherently kind man. So Sofia told him that she could never love a man forced on her - she'd run away first. That she wanted a love story like the one he shared with her mother.

I've tried to imagine that scene - this determined young woman in her father's house facing him down, trusting him to let her speak her mind. Surrounding her are the emblematic objects of her childhood and ancient culture. I've tried to imagine the silence of her brothers and sisters. They would not have dared confront their father in this way.

Sofia's father just looked at her. And she looked back fearlessly. She believed in him. She loved him. Finally, he turned and left the house.

He walked through the village. He considered Sofia's future there. He thought, and then he returned to his home. That night, Sofia's father listened to his wife, the only woman he had ever loved. He thought some more. And then he made his decision.

To gain some perspective on Sofia's culture, I considered the life story of my good friend John Fohner. He and his wife and family are conservative Mennonite. They recently moved from my home town of Hartville, Ohio, to Asheville, North Carolina.

I met John in my teens. I was in his wedding party. We share the same love for arguing ideas. I wrote recommendations for his family when they adopted two Korean children. John was the first to tell me I should seriously pursue writing. I informed him long ago that he has the personality of Winnie the Pooh's friend Eeyore. Friendships like ours last a lifetime.

John grew up United Methodist. As a teen he rejected religion - he was a complete rebel. Then he found Christ. In college, he met his wife Mary Jo. After she invited him home, he decided that he wanted to become part of her warm Mennonite community.

Like my own father, John joined the conservative Mennonite church as part of his decision to wed. Since then, over 25 years ago, John has been the very image of stability. He has taught Sunday school, led worship, directed church choirs. He is one of the most articulate Mennonites I know.

I, on the other hand, have been anything but stable. Easily bored, I've been a religious gypsy, bumping my way through numerous Christian denominations ranging from the Catholics to the Methodists and back to a mainstream Mennonite church in Pasadena.

Yet consider the power of pedigree within an alternative, religious culture.

When John calls a Mennonite church to schedule a church choir concert, the first barrier he must get past is his non-Mennonite name. Few ministers recognize the name Fohner. It's just not a Mennonite name. And as such, he is suspect.

On the other hand, when I tell another ethnic Mennonite my name, no matter where I am in the world, I am welcomed. There is an instant bond. They know me. Of course, my friend John understood this paradox when he converted. But he wanted his children to have a Mennonite heritage. He realized he was joining a culture.

My friend John values what I question.

My friend Sofia also comes from an alternative, religious culture, albeit a slightly different one.
Sofia told me this was the first time she had challenged the traditions of her culture - her demand that she get to choose who she would or wouldn't marry was "revolutionary," considering that girls in her village hardly dared to speak to their fathers. Sofia also believes that this moment changed the way she saw her life - from then on it became a series of decisions for which she alone was responsible, not the men of her culture.

Confronted with the power of her will, Sofia's father acted decisively. He packed up his family and moved them all to France. Then he sent Sofia to college.

Sofia's father took a tremendous chance. By giving her an education, he took the risk that she might leave the faith, reject her family's culture. Worse, he must have thought, Sofia might become immoral. She might choose a boy from another culture to marry, or worse, live with him: anathema. But Sofia's father also believed that his faith's traditions and customs were powerful, and would keep his family. And so he took his family from that village - and gave his children the chance to be educated, to get ahead.

Sofia is still surprised by her father's reaction during that critical moment. It was "contrary to that of any other father," she said, who would have been more "aggressive." Other young women emigrated with their families from that village. But no other young woman had had her opportunities. None has been empowered to make her choices. No other woman has ever gotten a job in which she is working on an equal level with men, let alone working with them.

When I consider Sofia personally, I find her to be fairly irreligious. She doesn't seem deeply spiritual. But the love she has for her family and her culture constrains her powerfully. She knows how to create exquisite dishes and garments. And according to Sofia, when she visits her extended family back in the village, she "provokes inspiration and desire."

This is the paradox for those of us who abandon our deeply conservative childhood cultures. We love our families - we may even be powerfully connected to their cultural traditions.

But we also hate the basic principles that our childhood religion propagates: the utter lack of thought freedom, the superstition that determines religious rituals, the way women are treated as secondary citizens, and most important, the community's refusal to seriously question itself.

We are expatriates - unable to leave, unable to stay. We spend our lives rewriting our stories of God and the world, trying to rewire our neurological and emotional software.

The wonderful thing about a tight community is that people care about you. They want to know everything about you. They tell you how much they love you.

The horrific thing about a tight community is that people care about you. They want to know everything about you. They tell you how much they love you.

Leaving this community forces you to choose.

If you value privacy rather than community, you can leave completely, erecting a wall of isolation about you. This gives you tremendous freedom to do what you want. On the other hand, when things get difficult, you find that your emotional connections have withered.

If you wish to stay connected to your family, you are confronted with the minefields of gossip. Tough to avoid, but it does indicate that people care about you. And you get emotional support when the going gets tough.

Take your choice: wall or minefield.

Today, my friend Sofia works for a major corporation located in France, far from her little village. Articulate, confident, and professional - she is a valuable resource for her company, which flies her all over Europe.

My friend's name is not Sofia. I've changed the names and some of the details of this story in order to protect those involved. But she is from a Berber village in Southern Morocco - a tribal culture that's akin to the Amish in America. Oh, and she's also Muslim, and she really is a princess.

Sofia doesn't believe life is determined by others. If so, she would be married and living in the same village. She would have a family, her oldest daughter would be approaching her teens, and Sofia would be confronted with watching her undergo the same pain her best friend faced in her own adolescence.

Although she cannot live within the strictures of that culture, she is still attached emotionally to her village, its people, and its traditions. This is why she keeps returning to visit them. This is why she does everything within her power - especially when she visits home - to avoid conflicts with her ancient culture. And thus far, she has avoided the judgment of her people and her family.

Sofia is only one of the children of Fundamentalism. She struggles each day to know how much she should compromise in order to maintain her family relationships. Her struggle is that of any person who has grown up Hasidic Jew, conservative Mennonite, or strict Muslim.

So perhaps I don't need to explain why I "hate" these caring communities? Perhaps I've made it obvious.

I believe the mind needs freedom to question -- which is impossible if constrained by the black and white mindset of fundamentalism. It doesn't matter which religion you chose - excessive, rigid control clamps down the pipeline of creativity that feeds the soul.

Like Sofia, those who leave find themselves caught in a trap. They are tied by the need to be emotionally connected, yet the questions they ask drive them away from the core belief of the community: simple faith and acceptance.

So these children find that they cannot live within community, and they cannot live without. The intellect is caught between two worlds, but the heart remains connected.

Comments

[jrsygrl824]

My Unitarian Universalist congregation includes many who have left what they experienced as controlling religious communities: Mormon, Catholic, Southern Baptist, Jehovah's Witness, and on, and on.

At a recent gathering we viewed the film OSAMA, about a young Afghani girl who disguises herself as a boy, and the consequences that follow.

I read Mr. Denlinger's essay to the group after the viewing. It led to the most spirited discussion we've ever had of the ties that bind those of us who are trying to live authentic lives but remain haunted by the feelings associated with the religions of our pasts. Sofia's story gave balance to the devastatingly sad message in the film.

Thank you to Mr. Denlinger for an emotionally and intellectually challenging piece. His message touched many hearts.

[Merlin7]

This is just a small example of the untold misery caused by religion worldwide every day.

Yet it continues to be tolerated, often encouraged, even in supposedly progressive nations. Americans and other Westerners who should know better take their children to church and then brag about it, as if encouraging irrational belief is something to be proud of.

This love of mumbo-jumbo is hard-wired in the human brain, but humanity must overcome it or perish. In this age of nuclear weapons, we just can't afford the luxury of appealing to invisible old men in the sky to solve our problems. We must move beyond religion or it surely will be the end for humankind.