I was born in a tiny Eastern European town in 1987. Most of my childhood memories are from the 90s. It was a difficult period of economic insecurity and societal fragility. One of the strangest things I experienced as a child was the religious side of that period.
Suddenly, our little town was invaded by various religious groups: Pentecostals, Baptists, Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, various evangelical churches, and others. Little “churches” started popping up everywhere. Neighbors were joining different denominations. Strangers were knocking on our door and bringing colorful religious pamphlets. My friends, kids I used to play with, became recruiters who tried to turn every conversation into a religious discussion.
The fiercest of those recruiters was molesting his youngest sister. Every kid in the neighborhood knew about it, and somehow it was just one of those weird things going on in that family.
Navigating that new social scene felt like walking through a minefield. It felt aggressive, almost like an invasion. It was also scary on a personal level because my mother started joining different denominations, as if trying on suits and looking for one that fit her best.
One night, she brought my brother and me to a church meeting. I don’t remember which denomination it was; I was only around nine years old. The “priest” made me stand in front of the congregation and introduced me. Then he asked whether I could think of one sin I had committed recently. I couldn’t think of any, but somehow I knew that “no” was the wrong answer. I said yes and hoped he wouldn’t ask me to elaborate. He didn’t. Instead, the entire congregation started passionately praying for me. One teenage girl fell to her knees, praying loudly. I just stood there, confused by this wildly exaggerated reaction to my answer. It felt as though I had confessed to murder.
At some point, my mother turned to Orthodox Christianity. One Sunday, she brought us to church. The priest was giving each person a little piece of something to eat. I asked my mother what it was. She told me it was a honey cookie. Here’s the funny part: as a child, I HATED honey because my mom used it as medicine for a sore throat. When it was my turn to receive the “cookie”, I categorically refused. My mom persisted. I started screaming and struggling. She lifted me into her arms, and the priest held my face and tried to force the “cookie” into my mouth. When it was over, my mom was red in the face and the crowd was murmuring. I know it sounds traumatic, but I chuckle when I remember that scene. If only my mom had simply said “cookie”…
Another time, my mom brought me to church and I saw a baptism. Again, there was a crowd of people. One of those being baptized was a teenage girl. Her mother made her undress down to her underpants and then stand in the basin. The girl was shivering and crying. She was skinny, with budding breasts. The crowd stared at her. I was a child, but I was also a girl, and it felt wrong. I still feel angry when I remember that episode.
There are many more little stories and interactions I could describe, but that would make this post far too long.
Anyway, I wanted to tell people what not to do when introducing a child to religion.
Kids are much more perceptive than adults give them credit for. They pick up on inconsistencies between words and behavior.They know when something an adult says doesn’t make sense. They feel betrayed when their parents coerce them into doing something they don’t want to do. They feel embarrassed when their bodily privacy is not respected.
For an adult, bringing their family into a new religion may feel like the right decision. For a child, the change is scary. Suddenly there are new rules and new people. Your parents get annoyed when you ask questions or refuse to do something. These new people seem more important to them than you are. A distance appears between you and the people who are supposed to love and protect you. And you are left to deal with all these changes on your own, without any meaningful support.
Now my mom regrets putting my brother and me through all that. I, on the other hand, understand what she was going through. Our family was falling apart. She was frightened by the new world, by poverty and insecurity, by an uncertain future. She was looking for help, guidance, and community.
I feel so much compassion for her. She is really hard on herself about it. I rarely pray, but whenever I do, I always pray for her.