The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 6 - Suicide or College...or...Murder?

We witnessed some of the most disgusting spiritualized sexual abuse in Installment 5 by Liz's own pastor, his wife, and an elder, no less.  It was horrid to read. Something that no child - at any age - should go through.  But that was not the end of Liz's story.  Not by a long shot.  She would continue trying to become the unattainable perfect being that she thought this church's god wanted her to be.

*****

Why by now my being hadn't just said enough! and imploded, I don't know.  I wanted to die, but that was another sin.  By my senior year, I was in full-on rebellion.  Or reacting normally to the circumstances in which I was raised, to put it another way.  I was going to hell.  I firmly believed this.  So I just didn't see the need to try any more.  I was still miserable, but at least now, I wasn't heaping abuse on my own self.

My twin brother and I were the graduating class of 1987.  I was the valedictorian, and as such, was awarded a scholarship to the church Bible college. Allegheny Wesleyan College in Salem, OH.  I guess I decided to give myself another shot.  Surely, being surrounded by holy people 24/7 would produce results.  Maybe when I got out of dad's house, I could do it. Away from the abuse. Away from mom, whom I didn't like very much any way. Besides the fact that I didn't like her, she'd been diagnosed 10 years prior with cancer.  Her fainting became the norm.  I couldn't sleep at night, waiting for the bang! that meant she had fainted again.  Then feeling the guilt for not praying with/for her.  So, I decided to go to AWC, and even got excited at the prospect.

That fall, I began my journey away from the insanity that had been my life up til this point.  I didn't know it yet, and indeed it would get a bit more insane before it got better. My first year was probably the worst.  I don't have a lot of specific recollections.  I barely recall myself during that year.  I do know that I did not acquire holiness through osmosis.  I still went to the altar every time there was an opportunity.  It still did not work.  I had other things on my heart, too.  It seemed that no one liked me.  I didn't have one good friend to talk to at all.  Oh, they were my friends when they needed things. I had a car, so people could be very friendly if they needed to go to town.

One thing about me is my sense of humor.  I have a wicked one.  I love to laugh, love seeing people laugh; there's just too little laughter in the world.  Somehow, my sense of humor lived through the stuff I barely survived, and it breaks my heart, but I turned the humor against myself.  People started counting on me for laughs, and did I deliver.  So many people told me of how I had made them laugh when that was just what they needed.  I cheered people up, and I got good at it. I was dying inside, but hiding it behind the humor.  I also gave good back rubs, so at one time or another, the entire girl's dorm had beat a path to my door.

When I needed to be cheered up, no one was there to make me laugh.  When my back ached, no one was there to rub it.  The things that I had been taught about myself were true: I was unlovable.  Spiritually, I'd given up.  I still desperately wanted to be good enough for god, but I had resigned myself to reality.  It just wasn't gonna happen.  Daily, I gave of myself to my fellow students, and nothing happened to fill myself back up.  I became depressed; that seems like too tame a word for what I was feeling.  A living death, that's what I was living.  I began thinking of suicide.  I just didn't have what it took to live through one more day.  These thoughts scared me back to the altar, because suicide was an unforgivable sin; the express train to hell.  I didn't talk to anyone about this.  Just told them I was having spiritual problems, and since I'd obviously been having them all semester, they weren't alarmed in the least. 

Finally, one night I delivered the comedic performance of a life time. This was on a Sunday after evening church service.  The dining hall was in the basement of the girl's dorm. People had gathered there for a late supper. I had them rolling.  And I was funny!  I was ON!!  And with every joke, with every burst of laughter, I died a little more inside.  Finally, everyone left, the lights were turned off, and we girls headed upstairs.  On the way, I grabbed a knife.

*****

Aaaand...you'll have to wait for Installment 7 to see what Liz does.

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 5 - Spiritual Abuse Turns Sexual

Hearken back to Installment 4.  There, you'll read about Liz's attempts to become the most holy little girl on the face of the earth.  The only problem with that ideal was that everyone around her kept convincing her that she was worthless and sinful beyond all reason.  This led her to work harder toward perfection, wrapping herself in a prison of rules.  There was no joy left.

We left off with a small view of a camp meeting.  Let's look into that a bit deeper.

*****

There were three camp meeting sessions during the summer months: business meetings, in which rules were set, in June, youth camp in July, and family camp in August.  Those were times of great and intense spiritual battles for everyone, which is to say being told how scummy we were, and how hot hell is for those "not willing".  Spiritual battles became 1000 times more intense in the company of thousands of saints than in the quiet church at home where the attendance was about 20.  I looked forward to these every year.  I don't know why I never caught on that it wasn't working for me.  No matter how scared I got, I just couldn't be willing.  Even in the midst of thousands of saints, and hundreds of sinners, I became known. Being the only one at that infernal altar all the time will do that for a person.  It was here that I became enslaved to another rule (looking back, this embarrasses me so much). 

One thing the church wanted was testimonies.  You had to get up and share what god had done for you.  That was relatively easy at home in front of 20 people.  But here, people got up and testified. Shoot, people ran screaming around the tabernacle.  And god began to require it of me.  Or someone began to require it of me.  Do you have any idea how scary it was to stand up in front of thousands of people and talk about how unworthy I was, but how grateful I was that god hadn't struck me dead?  And then!, I thought, if testifying was good, walking (never could run) around the tabernacle had to be better.  I thought if I did the stuff that was hard for me, god would see that I was indeed willing for my will to be broken. 

Just like that, testifying became something I had to do if I wanted victory.  I testified EVERYWHERE.  At first, I let other people open the floor to testimonies; then I began to think I needed to be willing to do the opening.  So I did. Every where.  Every service, even when it wasn't appropriate.  I completely humiliated myself in front of I don't even know how many people to show god that I was willing to die to myself.  I only succeeded in making myself the object of scorn and pity.  Even that wasn't enough to balance the scales in my favor.

By now, I was an older teenager.  My life had been hell, but apparently not hell enough.  After having gone to the altar without success more often than I changed socks, the pastor and his wife decided it was time to get serious.  'Cuz up til now, I'd been having a ball.  So we talked one night at church, and it was decided I had demons. 

Now, demons were just not talked about in that church.  Ever.  So this was a serious charge they were leveling.  And, understand, outwardly, as far as they could tell, I was toeing the party line.  I wasn't any different outwardly than anyone in the church. The only reason they knew there was a problem was my frequent trips to the altar.  By this time, though, I'd given up.  I'd made myself miserable, demanded the impossible, denied every single thing that made me me, made myself sick, even trying to break my will enough to be worthy of god.  It was when I quit going to the altar that they decided I had demons.  So, plans were made to pray with me at home.  At first, it was the pastor and his wife.  We spent time reading about hell, and the need to repent, and be willing.  If I wasn't willing, god would have to break me.  By this time, I didn't think there was much left to break, but that didn't matter much. 

Prayer was not the only thing happening during these meetings.  Somehow, someone figured that raping me would drive them out.  When the meetings were with the pastor and his wife, she'd observe, clapping her hands and rhythmically chant "Drive them out!  Drive them out!"

When another board member was introduced into the meetings, he also took part in this new "ministry". The tone ranged from angry and painful to jovial and painful.  During the angry part, they listed my sins, in time to what they were doing.  I was sinful.  I had the spirit of rebellion.  I was scum.  I deserved this because I was making them do this to me.  I was responsible for them sinning.  I was in direct cahoots with the devil.  Maybe I WAS the devil.

After they wore themselves out being angry, they'd take a break, and when they came back, that was when it turned jovial.  Now, in time with what they were doing, they chanted, "Bang the devil OUT, bang the devil OUT", the whole time laughing at me, at their ability to have their way with a child who could not, would not, complain to any one or fight back.

Looking back, I know the whole demon thing was a sham.  They simply used what was available to them to excuse what they wanted to do.  At the time, I thought this was something I had to endure as a punishment for being so bad in god's eyes.  I was just that bad.  I deserved this.  god had made me good and pure and whole, and look what I had done with that.  I was hopeless.

*****

Yes.  I know.  Horrible.  I wept when I read it.  How could authority figures be so cruel to a child, using religion to further their sick desires?  But this wasn't the end of Liz's existence.  She kept pressing on, trying to find an answer to life.  Maybe Christian college?  We'll look at that chapter in Installment 6.

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 4 - Unreachable Sanctification

In Installment 3, we left off finding Liz trying as hard as she could to be perfect. Perfection was very necessary.  Without it, there was no chance of sanctification.  Without sanctification, you went to hell.  Let's continue this train wreck.

*****

Before I could be sanctified, I had to Remain Saved.  So I had to examine myself for sins, known and unknown.  Sometimes I want to reach back through time and snatch my younger self out of there.  Sometimes I want to slap my younger self up side the head for being so....mindless.  Unknown sins?  Um, okay.  Sure I got 'em, so I'll go before the lord to see what they are.  And that I did.  In spades.  And wouldn't ya know it?  I had SINS!!  Yes, mine were capitalized.  One known sin that I really focused on was lying.  I'd heard a sermon about it.  The Bible was pretty specific.  Liars shall have their place in the lake of fire, where the worm (me) dieth not, and the fire was not quenched.  So, above all, Do Not Lie.  It had become less about going to heaven than not going to hell.

There were two kind of sins, I was taught.  The sins of commission and the sins of omission.  So, the sinning could be the actual lie, or it could happen if I just let people assume things that weren't true.  That people were responsible for their own assumptions wasn't a concept that was embraced by the church, or me.  So for at least a year, I got tied up trying to not lie.  I could not hold conversations without doubling back to make sure the person I was talking to totally understood what I was saying. 

The ride to school was a long one.  We had a station wagon, so we became the school bus for the people near us who also went.  Those rides became excruciating for me.  I wanted to talk.  I was a social butterfly.  I loved talking!  But I couldn't.  I might inadvertently lie.  As far as that went, if I looked out the window for an extended period of time, I might be leading people to believe I was watching something when I was just gazing.  Another lie!  In fact, one time at home, I was hanging laundry outside, and was just gazing into the distance.  when I came back in, I made sure to tell everyone, whether they had seen me or not, that I was looking at nothing.  At the worst of this, and shortly before I just gave up, I became cruel in my truth telling.  We had gone to McDonald's, and I had fries. Mom hadn't ordered fries, and wanted some of mine.  I grudgingly gave them, and I was afraid that if I didn't say something, she'd think I was happy to give them to her.  That would be leading her to believe a lie, wouldn't it?  So I told her the truth; I don't want to give you these, but here you go.  I really wasn't trying to be mean.  I was trying to tell the truth! 

I talked to church people about this, too.  About my inability to not lie.  I even went into specifics.  I was told to pray harder, to deny myself.  It just didn't work for me.  Eventually, I did talk to someone who kindly lead me through the definition of lying.  Nothing I was doing was a lie!  But by then it was too late.  I was convinced I was a liar of the worst kind.

This was just one of the sins I couldn't quit committing long enough to get sanctified, but it wasn't the only one.  There were a lot of vague, general sins of the soul that were addressed in the church.  These were the Unknown Sins.  If I was having trouble staying saved, or couldn't get sanctified, it was because I wasn't willing.  The only concrete thing that was ever said to me about being willing happened when I was around 10.  I'd made yet another trip to that (god-forsaken ) altar (it should be burned!).  The mean pastor was praying with me.  I could not get saved, or as they put it, pray clear through.  He kept asking me if I was willing.  I said "to do what?"  He then gave me the test: was I willing to become a missionary, have my husband and kids eaten by the natives, and contract leprosy?  I'm not making this up!  Eventually, specifics were moved away from, and Being Willing became the vague whip they hit me with.  I think in the back of my mind, I was always afraid that if I said I was willing, I'd suffer that fate.  At any rate, my sin, declared the church people was that I Was Not Willing.

So life went on, one soul-murdering day at a time.  I'd go to school, hear messages there about how fallen I was, so I'd go to the altar.  On the way home, or to church that night, I'd inevitably sin again, and have to go back. In addition to all that praying at the altar, I began spending all my free time praying, imploring god to make me willing.  I quit eating, I quit sleeping.  I quit laughing.  I thought if I were miserable enough, god would surely break my will in answer to my prayer.  I thought I could stay saved for maybe 5 minutes, then get sanctified.  Then I would be completely empty of myself, and full of the holy spirit, and he would make my being a non-person easy and natural.

I became, in a way, the church sweet heart. Like I said, there were 4 of us young people there.  The future of the church!  and I was the only one who was So Serious About God.  My older brother tried as hard as I did for awhile, but I was the only one who hung in for a long time.  They quit asking me how I was doing.  They instead inquired as to the state of my soul.  How's your soul, Liz?  If I didn't go to the altar every Sunday, they became concerned that I was in rebellion.  More than once, if I hadn't gone to the altar within 5 minutes of the "altar call" the pastor's wife came to me, in front of the whole church, bawling, and asking me to go to the altar.  "You're not saying no to me, you're saying no to Jesus", she'd bawl.  Every summer, the whole church conference would hold camp meeting in PA.  Thousands of people came.  I'd go there, thinking that in the midst of all these people fervently seeking the lord, and being willing, I couldn't help but be, myself.  I usually went to that altar at every opportunity, and in fact, would go there to pray between services.  If, however, a service went by that I didn't go by myself, she'd seek me out there, too.  How she found me in the crowd is a question I still have.  I'm sure she'd say god had led her to me.

*****

Stay tuned for Installment 5, where we watch a camp meeting in more detail.

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 3 - Beware of All Sins, Even Imaginary Ones

In Installment 2, Liz told us how she moved from public school to church school and how the rules were rigidly applied with severe consequences if broken.  She spoke of how she was "ripe for the picking" at her young and impressionable age.  Let's listen in as she tells about how life continued to head downhill.

*****

While at school, I had the rules in my face, now, at church things were heating up, too.  The new pastor was old and cranky and loved the rules.  Until this time, we'd been having Sunday School picnics regularly.  It was a fun time, and was intended to strengthen relationships in the church, as well as reach out to the unsaved that came to church for Sunday School, then left before the preaching.  This group had more young people than the church did.  In fact, we three kids and another girl my age were the young people of the church.The picnics were in part to try to convince the Sunday School crowd that normalcy (fun even), was achievable in the church.  The new pastor stopped these short.  Young people didn't need fun, they needed Jesus.  This was indicative of the way he was to rule the church.

As a young child, I'd prayed for salvation twice that I can remember.  Once as a very young girl (shortly after Luju's friend "bought the farm" (Installment 2), as a matter of fact), and then when I was in the 3rd grade.  The first time, I remember only praying with mom and dad, but don't remember my life changing much.  The 2nd time, I do remember how free and joyful I felt after, but happiness was too transitory in my life too last long.

The church held several revival services during the year, and evangelists would come to school to preach during the day.  I'm sure there were sermons on god's love, and things more positive, but what I, and my sibs, remember most were the hellfire and brimstone sermons.The preacher would sometimes stand up there and yell at us, and spit and froth at the mouth.  

One of the traditions of revival and camp services was The Story told on the last service.  This was a story about, well, Liz.  (it was intended to scare the hell -literally!- out of people, so it was very personal to me).  Liz, the story always went, was raised in The Church.  She had been given The Truth since her childhood.  She resisted god's calling on her life all her life.  Someday, she'd say. Someday, I'll get saved. (I hate that term!  It makes my skin crawl).  Right now, though, I want to live my life.  I don't like the restrictions I have to live under if I give myself to Christ.  So, some day, Just not today.  Then one day, Liz was in a revival (camp, church... whichever the current setting was). meeting, and god moved on Liz's heart. She was miserable under conviction, but she fought against the holy spirit.  "I'm not ready to live under all the rules.  I'm having too much fun living my life.  Later, I'll get saved."  So Liz left church that night, and on the way home, she was in an accident, and died and went to hell.  I laugh at this now, but at the time, it scared me every single time I heard it.  In black and white, it is kind of humorous, but there was more theater and emotion involved when the story was told on the last day of services.

So, shortly after starting church school, I got serious (favorite church phrase) about my salvation and sanctification.   Because I felt so dirty and unlovable due to my home life, I knew I'd have to try extra hard to get god to love me.  This is why I loved the rules, and invented some of my own. The preachers reinforced this by saying we were worms, no good, etc, etc, etc.  In fact, we weren't allowed to exclaim "My goodness!" because we had no goodness.

So I sat through services at both church and school in which I was told I was a terrible sinner. 

My descent into spiritual madness was gradual.  I was stuck for awhile on obeying my parents.   During the summer months, my grandparents lived with us, and they were to be obeyed, also.  I remember my grandma telling me to be sure to rinse my hair thoroughly to get all the soap out.  I had long thick, curly hair, and it tangled frequently.  Dad didn't spring for conditioner, and at the time we didn't have a shower.  I wasn't allowed to wash it in the sink, so rinsing became a problem.  I asked my grandma several times to check to see if it was rinsed right, and it never was.  I ended up in the tub for half an hour trying to get it right.

We lived in the country, and had apple trees.  One Sunday, I was out walking in the orchard praying, and picked an apple.  Dad saw me, and yelled at me for working on the sabbath.  Then he consulted with the pastor, and the pastor agreed that that was work, which broke the "Remember the Sabbath Day" commandment.  The sabbath became a prison for me.  The rules regarding it were so restrictive!  There was a busy intersection near my home.  We'd cut through the shopping center there to avoid the light.  Except on Sunday, because what if someone saw us coming out and thought we had been shopping on The Lord's Day?  Eventually, I wasn't allowed to walk around our yard.  We went to church, ate, then took naps till evening service.  Came home, ate again, then went to bed.

Focusing so stringently on the outward was hard for me, but I could have dealt with that.  It was when thoughts and feeling, and temptations became sins that my personal hell began.  Anger was the big "feeling" sin.  I don't remember being very angry yet, but the pastor and his wife were convinced I was. I would become in time!  One of the pastor's wives favorite sayings was "Only dogs and donkeys get mad."  That makes no sense at all.  Even at the time, it didn't make sense to me, but I bought it.  I got mad, that was a sin, I was a dog.  So the race was on for me to obtain the second work of grace, sanctification.  Then, all would be well.  I'd be perfect, holy, and happy to be miserable.  What more could a girl who only wanted god to love her want?

*****

Installment 4 will find Liz trying her hardest to "remain saved".

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 1 - The Only True Church

Hi!  My name is Liz, and I found this blog while researching the Duggars.  Before watching the show, I'd never heard of “Quiverfull”, “patriarchy”, Bill Gothard...any of it.  I was raised in a legalistic church that strangled any freedom, grace, and love even, so these blogs stirred up a lot of stuff for me.  I reached out and was asked to share my story, so here goes.

I was raised in the Allegheny Wesleyan Methodist (Original Allegheny Conference) Church.  (Gotta get the name right; the church sued for the right to use it after a VERY IMPORTANT split with a part of the church that began disagreeing about some of the rules.)  It's wrong to sue people generally - says so right there in the Bible - but over the name of the church, well, that's different!  Especially when it's the One True Church.  Only the members of the Allegheny Wesleyan Methodist Church (AWMC) will get to go to heaven.  Everyone else is lost.

AWMC was built on the teachings of that great and good (*snort) John Wesley.  I'm 43 years old, and it has never dawned on me until just now that the very name of the church is basically Wesley's methods.  Methods to bring salvation, keep it, keep the people submitted and bound up.  Maybe you'd think The One True Church should be built on Jesus' teachings, but you'd be wrong. The one I was born into was built on John Wesley's.  Just an accident of birth, I guess.

I'm going to share the beliefs of the church, then get into my story:

AWMC believes in two works of grace: First, salvation. When you confess that you suck, and always will suck...I mean…when you confess your sins.  This is best done at the altar at church, where you get to parade your “suckiness” in front of everybody.  Salvation can be lost with a sneeze, by the way. 

The second work of grace is sanctification.  This is where the roots of sin (the very thing that makes you sin) are removed.  After this you'll be a holy robot…er…person.  The roots of sin are evidenced by anger (the big one), jealousy, pride...all the negative emotions we exemplify as humans.  To be sanctified, you have to "be willing."  While sometimes you are given specific things you have to be willing to do, for the most part, it means denying all of your natural feelings, denying your person-hood, and denying any rights you have to that person-hood. Since this isn't easy to do, you'll be encouraged to "pray clear through", which was never really explained.  Basically, you have to make yourself miserable in prayer any way you can.  Self-punishment, if that is what it takes, is encouraged, also.

While the church was vaguely patriarchal, women did have rights – as long as we stayed in our place. The husband is the head of the home, and women really have no thoughts worthy of being expressed, but it wasn't the blanket oppression I've found while reading other stories of ultra-conservative Christianity and patriarchy.  It was expected that young women get married, keep house, and have kids, but we could choose to do something else without endangering our souls.  The church also didn't care how many kids we had.

The big oppression was the outer standards, and the denial of the right to be a well-rounded, feeling person.  According to the church's standards, the Duggars are LIBERAL.  The church I was raised in took the Duggars' standards and ran with them.  Yes, we had to wear dresses or skirts.  We had to have long hair, but it had to be up in a bun.  Sleeves had to come past our elbows.  Just the women's.  Men were exempt.  Back in the day, somebody, John Wesley maybe, declared that our elbows looked like breasts.  There must be something wrong with my breasts!!  Or maybe it's my elbows, I don't know.  At any rate, they look nothing alike!!  We weren't allowed open-toed shoes.  We had to wear panty hose.  We weren't allowed to wear any kind of stretchy material for shirts without a blouse underneath.  Those pesky elbows…er… breasts, had to be bound at all costs. 

These standards became our "fruits", and it was the way we knew whether or not others were going to heaven.  This wasn't considered judgment because doesn't the Bible say "by your fruits you will know them"? 

Speaking of Bibles, God Himself wrote the King James Version, and other versions were of the devil.  The fact that maybe the KJV was harder to understand added to its appeal.  If it was harder to understand what god wants of his children, we'd have to work harder, and works are where it's at, after all.

So now you know a little of the mindset of the church I was born into.  In the next installment, I will begin to tell you how it started to affect me – from the age of three.
 

Pending Series: The Story of Elizabeth (Liz) Franklin

Out of the blue, a wonderfully dynamic woman contacted me.  She relayed a short version of her "life story" in the Allegheny Wesleyan Connection.  She told of how she endured physical, sexual, and spiritual abuse and came out on the other side.  The short version was simply spellbinding and I requested that she share the long version with me.

While growing up, she fostered some excellent personal qualities and later, when she was dramatically pulled out of the spiritual mess, used them to catapult her into a new joyful life.  I feel I hold a sort of kinship with her, being that one of the ways I would cope in my growing up years, was through the use of humor - lots of it.

I will be posting her riveting story in parts and we will see a dark side to accepting a fundamentalist view of Christianity and even learn a thing or two of how to cope.

One truism to watch for is the one or two people in Liz's life that were "there" for her and carried her on in her journey, allowing her to keep pressing on and not ending it all.  I send out a note of gratitude to you who did that.  You, my readers, and I will be better for it  - I guarantee it.  And I dare say, Liz is grateful too.

I hope you enjoy the series.