True Story: The first time I got my hands on a Bible, it was stashed away with my dad’s Playboy collection in a secret room in our basement. “Secret.” Ha. Us kids figured out how to get inside in a nanosecond: You just pushed on a certain panel and it popped right open. And there it was… a treasure trove of naked ladies. And also the Bible. Apparently, my dad equated religion with porn — inappropriate for children. Can’t say I disagree.

It was a huge, white leatherette St. James Bible, thick and fancy, with gold-edged pages and colorful artwork, and clearly in pristine condition. I may have been the first one to actually crack it open. All those sultry centerfolds were one thing, but that Bible! Holy moly, there’s some crazy shit in there! Talking snakes and men about to stab their children to death and bleeding men nailed to posts! It was my first exposure to the horror genre.

I’m certain my parents received that Bible as a gift, because there’s no way either would have purchased it. Neither had a religious bone in their bodies, both recalling the sour taste from their respective religious backgrounds. Either my dad was given a Bible as a prompt to get back to his Catholic roots or it was given to my mom to get away from her Jehovah’s Witness ones. Either way… into the secret room it went.

My parents became confirmed agnostics, and didn’t speak of religion to us, let alone pressure us with dogma. We grew up completely religion-free. No indoctrination. No church on Sunday, no dinnertime prayers, no angry, vicious old man in the sky hovering to spot one false step and BAM! Straight to hell to burn forever! I consider myself exceedingly lucky.

Religion wasn’t the only thing absent in our house. Supervision was #2 on that list. My parents were perpetually swept up in the drama of their own alcoholic/co-dependent maelstrom. I ran wild most of the time. We had a huge back yard, and I preferred to be with the trees and plants, animals, birds and bees, and lots and lots of dirt. From the time I was tiny, I talked to nature, and nature talked back — a natural-born little dirt witch, even though I didn’t have a label for what I was until decades later. I was just simply me being me.

I was happily agnostic and then ruined it all when I married entirely too young, and moved from a big city to a tiny, rural town. So tiny, it only had one stoplight. And it didn’t even have three colors—just a red one that flashed on and off to keep the trucks and tractors from colliding at the main intersection to town. There were more people in my high school than there were in the entire town, and it felt like I’d slipped into an alternate, socially-inbred universe. These people grew up together, and went to school together, from kindergarten through high school graduation. Most of them married other people that also grew up there, and sooner or later everybody’s aunt was also their second cousin, and future daughter-in-law. Anyone who didn’t grow up in that town was viewed as “other.”

I had lots of friends growing up, but I was invisible and isolated in this town, as were all “others.” I was incredibly, achingly lonely, and aside from family gatherings, there was no visible social or recreational activity, other than church or bars. Pick your poison.

My fledgling marriage began decaying quickly. Just like most children of alcoholics, I’d chosen a spouse who mirrored my own childhood trauma. It’s what our brains do to try and make sense of why someone who allegedly loves us would abuse us. We find similar relationships, and struggle to untangle that knot, and usually fail. My new husband immediately pinched off all of my prior relationships (friends and family) to ensure that he would be the sole focus of my existence. If I associated with anyone not on his approved list (read: his relatives or friends) he made my life hell. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind if I went to church, as long as he didn’t have to go too. Desperate for friendship and a social group, I walked into church for the first time in my life. It seemed like a respite from the pumpkin shell. Ultimately, it was much worse.

Agnostic as I was, I had no idea which church to choose, so I picked the prettiest one. I discovered the hard way that attractive architecture does not spiritual enrichment make. I further discovered that Christians aren’t all nice people, no matter how neat and clean they dress, or how faithfully they attend Sunday services and Bible studies. Some of them are complete assholes, and every relationship was decidedly shallow. Conversations were restricted to very narrow lanes, lest we talk about something “sinful,” like higher education or women’s rights. However, I overlooked all that because I finally had something that loosely resembled “friends.” But deep down inside, I knew they weren’t true friends. They were friends only as long as I contorted myself into a shape that fit their specifications. Dress a certain way, talk a certain way, and do certain things in order to be accepted… you know, that good unconditional Christian love they love to tout. Jesus might love me, but these people only did as long as I behaved and spoke like them. Which I did. But I didn’t think like them. My inner wild child was frantically miserable. I knew I didn’t belong there, but kept going to church because I’d learned some basic Christian principles: guilt and shame. If I didn’t show up for church or Bible study, the cold shoulder shaming would follow.

Eventually, even the lure of empty friendships wasn’t enough to keep me there, and I wrenched myself free of this church by hopping to another one. It worked out well for awhile until a new pastor stepped in. He was a “fire and brimstone” type, and his sermons revolved around “what those people over there are doing wrong! Sinners!” I may have abandoned my agnostic, feral inner child, but I didn’t abandon my brain. I recognized this for what it was: toxic tribalism.

Before long, I bounced along again, to a new little church with a kind, gentle newbie pastor, who was getting on-the-job experience with managing his first flock. And manage it, he did. If I wasn’t there on Sunday, he’d call me on the phone and say, “I missed you in church.” Followed by silence, which I understood to mean that an explanation was expected. I knew he didn’t miss me one bit! He was objecting to my “disobedience.” I began to push back at this fakery, and eventually started responding, “Thank you, that’s very sweet,” instead of justifying myself.

Over time, this pastor’s ego began swelling. An obedient flock will do that to you. He started dictating how we would behave in the community to prove how Christ-centered we were. Set a spiritual example and whatnot. One day, his voice dripping in disgust, he announced that the local high school was assigning Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings in its English classes. He was outraged that such tender young minds would be exposed to a “book about sex.”

Seriously? That’s what you got from that book? It’s about “sex”? And also… hate to break it to you, Pops, but teenagers already know more about sex than you could ever imagine. They also know the difference between rape and sex, a concept you seem to struggle with.

But wait. It gets better.

He decreed that we would gather at the four corners of town and pray loudly — tongues a-flyin’ and hands a-wavin’ — over the community until the high school agreed to pull the book from its curriculum. And, if we had to burn books to make our point, we would.

And there it was. My tipping point.

Sorry, I just can’t. Because, I’m, umm… sane.

The following Sunday morning, I was driving along with all this boiling in my mind, and as I approached the church… I just kept on driving. I’d had an epiphany while driving: Church wasn’t about Jesus, or God. It was about control and coercion. It existed to perpetuate its own existence — not foster a spiritual relationship with the Divine. My final glimpse of Church was in the rearview mirror. Having extracted myself from that abusive situation, a few years later, I extracted myself from the one I’d married into. I was finally free. Again. My inner wild child was jubilant.

I’d never felt farther from God than I did in church. But nature was saturated with divine spiritual presence. Rather than allowing others to dictate my spirituality, I simply followed my own intuition— right outside into nature. That’s where God(dess) was… not in church. She spoke to me through animals and plants, and rocks, streams, and breezes — not through some self-appointed spiritual leader standing between me and the spiritual source I sought. The various pastors I encountered didn’t facilitate my relationship with God — they actively obstructed it. I didn’t need a spiritual cock-blocker. Whatever Spirit’s message was for me, I’d get it directly from the source from now on. This is how I stumbled upon the Pagan path. A nature-centric spirituality immediately resonated with me. The rolling oceans, shady woods, and whispering ripples of wild grasses in the fields were saturated with Divine Spirit. God wasn’t there on a hard bench inside a stuffy building listening rapt to the ramblings of a mere, mortal human, intoxicated with the sound of his own voice. God is outside, people! Outside!

Ironically, my 10-year excursion into fundamentalist religion is what ultimately led me to Paganism, where I could finally exhale.  I’m not saying that Christianity is bad. But it’s bad for me. I know many people find it deeply meaningful, but I am not amongst them. If Christianity makes you a better person, then you are in the right place. It didn’t make me a better person. It made me a fraction of myself. A distortion. My Adventures in Christianity was one big, long, highly unpleasant masquerade party. I don’t want to live my life pretending to be something I’m not in exchange for acceptance. I’m not interested in a pretend life. I’m interested in one that is genuine, personally meaningful, and deeply spiritual.

Religion, church, and spirituality are not interchangeable terms. The first two are a hard pass for me, but I’m all about the third. I’m firmly an “imagine no religion” kinda gal, but spirituality is another thing. Spirituality isn’t something you do. It’s not a place you show up to. It’s an experience — a thriving, organic relationship with Divine Spirit.

Extracting myself from the religious tangle I’d created for myself wasn’t easy. It’s not like I simply moved on, and they all waved goodbye and wished me well. They kept after me. Nagged me with guilt and shame. Lots of “missed you in church” phone calls. I just kept thanking them for their concern, and kept my eyes focused forward until they finally got tired of “saving me.”

So, if you’re also struggling with a tight, itchy case of Religious Imposter Syndrome, and feel like you need something else, but don’t know what it is, only that where you are is not the place, stick with me, kid. There’s hope. If you don’t know where to search, I offer my book, “Pagan Curious — A Beginner’s Guide to Nature, Magic & Spirituality” as a hand to hold while taking that first step onto the Pagan path, where you too may lose your religion… and find your true spiritual center.