How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races – the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses. Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are only princesses waiting for us to act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

When I graduated from high school in 1970 I swore I would never attend a reunion. I was never part of the in crowd and was often cruelly treated. I hoped never to see my classmates again. I threw my invitations to my fifth and tenth reunions in the trash. When the invitation to my twentieth reunion arrived I was standing in my kitchen with my teenage daughter. “Mom, you should go,” she said.

“They were never my friends,” I replied.

“Show them how well you did. You’re Dr. Jones now,” she said.

“Success is the sweetest revenge,” I said. “But it is a poor reason to go. I have better things to do with my time.” I chucked the invitation into the trash and moved on.

Eighteen years later I joined Facebook for the sole purpose of marketing my book, Not of My Making: Bullying, Scapegoating and Misconduct. First, I added my family and current contacts to my circle. That was easy but when Facebook suggested I add classmates from my high school I recoiled. Why would people who had refused to be my friend 38 years ago accept my invitation to be friends now? I moved the cursor to the close button. I paused. What did I have to lose, I thought. Maybe I could sell some books. I clicked ‘send invitations’ and went to bed. The next morning my inbox was filled with replies. They didn’t remember me. That was okay. I didn’t remember them either. Why would we? Although we shared a hometown and school, we hadn’t seen each other since graduation.

My high school experience was radically different from my classmates who were now corresponding with me on Facebook. They good memories of teachers, classmates and events. All I could remember was the daily torment. I walked to and from school by myself. At home I spent my afternoons and evenings alone in my bedroom. I didn’t attend school dances, proms, or sports events. Unable to stop the bullying I retreated to my bedroom and focused on my studies.

It took several decades and a series of traumatic experiences with local churches before I understood the bullying wasn’t my fault. I was an easy target. Short, introspective and shy, I didn’t know how to defend myself. No one, not my parents nor my teachers, offered any useful advice or help. Some of that was ignorance on their part. Some of it was neglect. My father often told me how stupid and selfish I was. There would be no help from him. My mom wanted me to be popular and had no understanding why I wasn’t.

Unsure how to participate in the discussion on Facebook I wrote, “I was not part of the in crowd so I don’t have a lot of fond memories of social events. But I did get a good education.”

Maryann Hughes, who lives an hour from my current home replied, “I know what you mean. I can remember dreading going to school knowing what would happen.” Maryann and I met at a Newport restaurant not far from her home. She shared with me how she was bullied in high school. I didn’t remember that. I had been so caught up in my own misery I hadn’t noticed hers. Sitting at the restaurant we browsed through our yearbook. My classmate identified who she thought had bullied her. I was surprised I couldn’t name my tormenters. Although I have some specific memories of being bullied I have no memory of who the culprits were. I remember vividly the people who showed me a kindness here and there. I figure the rest were either guilty of bullying or were passive bystanders. I was certain most of the bullies would not remember us nor would they realize how much damage they did. My classmate agreed.

When I arrived home in the late afternoon I found Richard Marks had written a public apology to Maryann on Facebook. I was elated. Bullies rarely apologize to their victims. Richard not only did it but he did it publicly. Good for him. I looked at my yearbook. I remembered his face and knew he hadn’t been kind to me either. Even though he addressed the apology to Maryann I understood he was sorry for bullying others. He had become a man with honor. His apology was a blessing and took some of the sting out of my old wounds.

Soon Alan, another classmate, suggested we have a 40^th reunion. We contacted Reunions of America. “Who are your class officers?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why?”

“You have to do this right,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

“Look we are just a group that got together and want to have a reunion. I’m not into this to recreate the old class hierarchy. That would leave me on the outs. Besides the class president died in a car crash before the prom.”

I hung up and began looking for other ways to plan the reunion. I had help from four other classmates. At first we tried to do the traditional reunion in a hotel ballroom or a dinner cruise. But that required risking a large sum of money. Carol Ostrom suggested we hold it at a restaurant. While I thought the idea made financial sense I was still hoping for a more formal occasion. Then Carol suggested Savino’s Sit-Down Deli, owned by our classmate. I didn’t remember Jimmy Savino but recognized his face in the yearbook as one of the guys that was never kind to me. Carol assured me that Jimmy was a great guy, had excellent food and knew how to organize things.

The week before the reunion high levels of anxiety kept me awake. Why was I doing this? Despite receiving a few written apologies, I worried that I would still be rejected by my classmates. I considered staying home.  These are the people I forsook forty years ago. But as the day approached the excitement grew. Saturday, August 7, 2010 was a clear summer night. Jimmy set up a tent in front of his place and arranged for a DJ to play our music. He also got our late high school president’s younger brother to sing for us. Later that night a group of older graduates stopped by and sang Doo-wop just as they use to at the candy store on the corner of Lake and Deer Park.

The good will filled the tent and deli. Classmates kept coming up to thank me for organizing the reunion. I was at the center of the class and not on the outskirts looking in. I finally belonged to the group I was always a rightful member of. By discarding the old class hierarchy, by people admitting and apologizing for ridiculing me and others we as a class were able to meet each other in the here and now and enjoy the company of those who shared a common heritage. Memories of those painful, lonely school years were replaced with acceptance, love and friendship.

Since the reunion classmates continue to talk to each other on Facebook and there have been several mini-reunions. I have visited a classmate at his home, ate his food and then spent the evening at Water Fire and Federal Hill in Providence, RI with four other classmates. There are plans to keep meeting at Jimmy’s and to set up a class webpage.

Facebook has given us all a chance to redeem ourselves and build a caring, inclusive community. As one classmate wrote, it is like finding long lost family members. We not only went to high school together but many of us knew each other in grade school. Some of us had a blast in high school, others were miserable.

I was not completely blameless. All of us could have behaved better. There were times I witnessed bullying and did nothing to stop it. I just watched. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid the bullies would turn on me if I said anything. One of the strange blessings of the Columbine shootings is it spurred research into the problem. We understand more about where, when and why people are bullied. Schools have implemented programs to stop bullying. The better ones assist the bullied to build friendships with other children like themselves, teach bullies how to be compassionate leaders and encourages bystanders to stand up for the victims.

Who did what to whom forty years later is not important to me. What matters is how we behave today. We are all saints and sinners. “How many times should I forgive?” Peter asked Jesus. “Seventy times seven.” Jesus replied. Richard Mark’s apology made it easy to forgive. The reunion was my gift to my class. Not because they earned it, but because after 40 years I discovered I was and will always be connected to them and the town in which we grew up.

Not of My Making, is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble Online, Barrington Books or directly from www.pluckpress.com

Below is a speech delivered at the Women’s Tea, All Saints Anglican, Attleboro, MA  on May 15, 2010 The speech was based on exerpts from Not of My Making: Bullying, Scapegoating and Misconduct

Choosing Joy in Times of Trial. I had to think about that one. My book, Not of My Making, reveals the challenges I faced and overcame at school and in church. Did I choose joy during the dark times of my life? Is it possible to choose joy? My psychological training tells me joy is an emotion and while what we say, do and think can influence how we feel we cannot directly choose to feel anything. When I think of the years of depression and anxiety, I see myself in my mind’s eye hanging on to a piece of drift wood in turbulent seas while resisting the urge to let go and drown. Letting go would have been so much easier but while it may have ended my pain it would have spread it to others. So I hung on.

My standing here before you today is evidence that I overcame the forces that sought to destroy me. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to share with you my struggle and how with the help of God I finally found the peace, contentment and joy that often eluded me.

I was raised Roman Catholic and lived in Italian Catholic neighborhoods. When discussing the back story to my book, my editor referred to those neighborhoods as “oppressive”. I protested. The priest walking through the neighborhood in his black cassock blessing our homes while we followed him as if he was the Pied Piper are among some of the treasured memories of my childhood. When I communicate with my high school classmates on Facebook, we share this common experience. Even though my classmates rejected me when we were young, as adults our memories of catechism, First Communion and Confirmation at St. Cyril and St. Methodius connect us to each other. Rather than being oppressive, the Church was a safe haven. A place I went to during times of distress. Even when I insisted there was no God, when distressed I sometimes slipped in and sat in a back pew and felt comforted.

So why, at age sixteen, did I stop going to church? After years of neglect and abuse my father’s heart attack triggered my decision to leave. I can’t say why exactly. We weren’t close. My father was an angry, bitter man who told me frequently that no one would ever want or love me. On a Sunday morning in February 1968, my mother woke my sister and me to tell us that our father was in the intensive care unit at Good Samaritan Hospital. My mother, who only went to church on Christmas and Easter, insisted we attend mass before going to visit him. She drove us through a blizzard to St. Cyril and Methodius in time for the service being held in the church basement. We sat crowded together on folding chairs with our hats and coats on. Although I remember the priest delivering a good sermon, it had absolutely nothing to do with my life. I felt numb and had a deep sense that I no longer belonged there.

While my father recovered, I began wondering why God required Sunday worship in a building built by human hands. If God was omnipresent and omniscient, couldn’t He hear and respond to my prayers no matter where I uttered them? At that point in time I didn’t understand it wasn’t about where God could hear me but rather about Christians joining together to help each other remain faithful and obedient to God.

I stopped going to church. I stopped praying. It seemed that asking God for something was one sure way not to get it. All the praying, pleading and begging didn’t end my isolation. Yet, if I didn’t pray to God and ask for His help, whom could I turn to? Who else besides God would listen to me? Not my mother. Not my father. Not my classmates. I was alone. No one reached out. Maybe God wasn’t there at all.

I threw myself into my schoolwork believing that knowledge was the one thing that couldn’t be taken from me. I was alone but gained comfort and strength from my books and my journal. It didn’t occur to me that on the day I discovered the joy of reading it was God showing me a way out.

Two years after my father’s heart attack I argued with my boyfriend about God.

“Everyone is alone,” I told him. “The only thing you have is yourself. You make who you are. If you get knocked down, it is your own courage that gets you to stand up again, not God.”

My boyfriend, a devout Christian Scientist, had enough confidence in his own faith to listen to my rants. He challenged my agnosticism and accused me of running away from God. I denied it, but I worried he was right.

When my boyfriend ended our relationship without explanation, I was devastated. Heartbroken, I sat in Evans Chapel in the center of the garden below the library. I found some comfort in its simple interior of pale pink walls, arched stained-glass windows and polished-wood pews. I prayed, but God didn’t send anyone to hold me and love me. My father’s prediction that no one would ever want me appeared to be true. I dropped out of college and sank into a severe depression. I put all religious questions aside. Whether God existed or not was irrelevant to my life.

I sought answers in therapy and psychology. With the help of mental health professionals I returned to college, prospered and earned my degrees. I married and had children. When my son was about five years old and my daughter seven, I became aware of an emptiness in my life. I missed church.

Listening to public radio I learned about Unitarian Universalism. Soon I joined the local UU fellowship where I found a large numbers of Catholics who, like me, wrongly concluded religion and Christianity in particular was the cause of the world’s and our own problems. Not wanting to be told when and with whom we should or shouldn’t be sexual or whether we should or shouldn’t use birth control or have an abortion, we struggled to establish a new religious identity for ourselves and our families. While we rejected God-talk and modified the old hymns, we still celebrated Christmas and Easter while adding Passover and Kwanza. Longing for a world free of hate and violence, we embraced tolerance and strove to be inclusive. A decade later when I questioned the selection of a lesbian minister I discovered that Unitarian Universalists had their own hidden dogma. Thinking this was just an anomaly of one congregation I joined another UU church.

While I’m grateful for the freedom Unitarian Universalism gave me to explore and think about religion it began to feel incomplete. I didn’t know it then but what I really missed was not the trappings of church, but God, Himself. I asked myself why did so many people that I admired believe in God? People like my grandmother, Martin Luther King Jr. and Albert Schweitzer. What did they know or understand that I didn’t? I began reading books about Christianity and to use Marcus Borg’s phrase, I met Jesus again for the first time.

In August 1998 while vacationing in New Mexico my husband and I drove north through the high desert and past the mesas. Unlike Long Island where I grew up, the sea didn’t limit the landscape. Instead, it literally went on as far as the eye could see. I was unsettled by the land’s hugeness and immensity. Standing at the base of the white cliffs painted by Georgia O’Keefe, I knew I was in God’s country.

That August night, sitting in our room at a bed-and-breakfast, I read a discussion of the Ten Commandments. I knew them, of course, but hadn’t really reflected on them since leaving the Catholic Church. As I read the first commandment, “I am the Lord, your God, thou shalt have no other gods before me,” I remembered a conversation with a fellow Unitarian Universalist.

“I think it is just as likely for there to be more than one God as there is to be only one,” she asserted.

“That’s fine,” I said. “UUs have no creed. You can believe whatever you want.”

“Including paganism?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

I blinked and dropped my book in my lap. Was it really okay? Polytheism was a violation of the first commandment. In my desire to be tolerant and open, I had supported her idolatry.

My return to Christianity contributed to a conflict at the Unitarian Universalist church I belonged to and I was forced to leave. Memories of my childhood victimization were triggered and I was overwhelmed by anxiety. I returned to therapy.

Devastated and numb, I went to the healing service at the local Lutheran church. I allowed the minister to anoint my forehead with oil and lay her hands on my head. Her touch was gentle and loving. I was comforted.

Almost every week after Bible study, she and I would talk privately in her office. She would sit across from me in her rocking chair while I sat on the black couch. She told me she liked me and I was always welcomed even though I didn’t believe in Jesus as Savior. I shared my childhood history of neglect and sexual abuse. We discussed why God had allowed me to be abused.

I read holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel’s The Night Trilogy. While I went about my daily routine, I was haunted by Wiesel’s image of the hanged child as God. I was uncertain what Wiesel meant when he saw God in murdered children. Were they Christ-like figures, or did evil kill God, or is God with the oppressed? It was disquieting. The Nazis turned their captives into godless, wild, hungry animals. Did clinging to God and love help a prisoner maintain some dignity, some humanity?

I didn’t have any answer for where God was when children were being raped or abused. If evil was the work of the devil, why didn’t God, who was more powerful, stop him? But how could God stop it? With a lightning bolt? By yelling at pedophiles to stop? How? How could God intervene without us losing our sense of self? Is evil the price we pay for free will?

I needed to believe God valued me and didn’t want any harm to come to me. But where was God? Was I, as Elie Wiesel asked, a mere toy for God to play with? Surely God didn’t want to harm us, any more than a parent wants to hurt their child. There are things that happen, painful experiences we cannot protect ourselves or our children from. Maybe God, like a good parent, knew that you often have to allow your children to work things out by themselves.

Where was God? I remembered St. Augustine’s words: God is always with me even though I have not always been with God. God hadn’t abandoned me. It was I who abandoned God.

During my struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder I read the Psalms and prayed to the God I said I didn’t believe in. One Sunday morning I lingered in bed, I recalled my visits with my grandmother. In my mind’s eye, I saw us sitting at the table on her sun porch. She fed me roasted peppers and apologized for not having more food to give me. She told me stories of how and why our family left Italy for America.

“Everything works out for the best,” she often reassured me. “Margherita, keep your faith,” she urged.

“I will,” I promised her.

Suddenly I knew with certainty there was a God. My entire being radiated with joy. God had always been there for me. In the midst of my worst times, I prayed to God and He eventually helped me.

I had been teetering on the edge of a cliff about to fall to my death. There were people offering their hands, but I didn’t know which ones, if any, could be trusted not let go. Then I thought, God is there, too. God will catch me if I am betrayed. I felt calm.

I was the prodigal child returning home and finding there was still a place for her there. Just as Hosea kept taking back his faithless wife, God had taken me back. God had always been with me, even if I had not always been with God. When you believe in God, you accept life as it is without despair and know it will work out in the end.

A few years later I again found myself in the center of a church conflict and pastor’s promise that I would always be welcomed in her church was not kept. Desperate to belong to a spiritual community I attended a service at an Episcopal church in Providence, where there was little chance anyone would know me. As if I had a scarlet letter sewn to my dress, I furtively took a seat away from the other worshipers. Speaking to no one, I sought God’s protective embrace.

During the service, a woman who had been raised in the church and who raised all her children in the same church spoke about the love and care she had received from her religious community. Like a starving child looking through a window while people feasted and who would never
be invited to stay, I envied her. Tears filled my eyes. Where and when would I find a spiritual home? Exiled, I had become a spiritual nomad, taking up residence for a season and moving on when I was no longer welcomed.

Feeling the sorrow and fear rise within me, I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I purposely breathed slow and deeply. I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees while resting my head in my hands. If anyone noticed they would think I was praying and would not see my tears. In my mind’s eye I saw Jesus walking close to me. I touched his robe and God blessed me. I belonged to Him.

Last Wednesday, August 12, Wayne Kent, a radio talk show host from Decatur, Illinois, interviewed me. His show, Direct Line, is designed as a live call-in event where current events are discussed through a lens of spirituality. Rev. Kent asked thoughtful questions about the impact of abuse on my life and what it was like to be cast out of my church family. I especially appreciated his own honesty when he admitted to bullying a classmate. To his credit as an adult he attempted to find her and apologize.

Time, of course, is at a premium on radio. The interview was like trying to talk to someone riding a bicycle faster than I could run. I could keep up only so long before they pulled away from me. With only a few minutes to make my point I found myself striving for a good sound bite when I prefer a longer conversation.

After discussing the impact of the abuse and what motivated my attackers, Rev. Kent asked if I forgave my adversaries. Whenever this question is asked I feel sick to my stomach. It churns acid. My arms are pinned to my side and I have trouble breathing. “I don’t know,” I told Rev. Kent.

I wish I had said, why do you ask me that question? If you read Not of My Making you would know I never sought revenge. I wanted reconciliation but my efforts only increased their abusive behavior towards me. I was powerless and terrified. During the church conflict my adversaries berated me for attending church before forgiving them while they insisted they had done nothing wrong. Fr. Lance at my present church has said they were seeking absolution which wasn’t mine to give.

While I remain confused about the difference between forgiveness and absolution, it appears to me forgiveness to my adversaries meant never talking about what happened. They expected me to come to church and act as if everything was still the same between us. I was, however, never good at pretending. I wanted to resolve our differences. The only way I knew how to do that was to discuss the issues that divided us.

Christians often rush to forgiveness believing that will heal everyone’s wounds. They crave stories of redemption. Since perpetrators rarely admit their sin and repent, Christians focus on getting victims to forgive.

Have you forgiven? The question leaves me flustered and unable to make a clear reply. Forgiven who and for what? What do you mean by forgiveness? Writers define it differently. No wonder I don’t know if I have forgiven them or not.

What I can tell you is I never sought revenge. I had a few fantasies of the church blowing up or burning down but I never planned to get even. Instead I tried to get my adversaries to discuss what happened. I was desperate for them to understand me. They were my friends. I wanted them to listen. I wanted to fix things. I wanted them to remain my friends. I would have done almost anything to regain my place in the church except lie. I wasn’t going to be untrue to myself. It was my former friends who sought revenge by driving me out of the church.

So have I forgiven them for that? Geoffrey Robinson, a Catholic bishop, wrote in Confronting Power and Sex in the Catholic Church, that he has found survivors who say they haven’t forgiven yet who by his definition have. Perhaps I am one of those. I don’t know. When I consciously chose not to excuse what my former friends did to me and stopped seeking reconciliation I healed and moved on. I will leave it to God to judge whether I have forgiven or not.

The second round of my virtual book tour occurred during the first weekend in May. It was a challenging weekend. I found myself debating with atheists while responding to comments about spiritual abuse at five different blog stops. It all started when I began promoting my blog stops by posting on Tweeter:

Problems with church started when I said I was uncomfortable with having a gay minister. Unitarian Universalists weren’t tolerant.

The problems followed me as clergy talked about me and allowed others to gossip. In the end the Lutherans didn’t want me either.

I have finally found a safe place among traditional Christians who walk the talk. Learn more at …

It is then that Taigitsune, a systems administrator for the Unitarian Universalist Association, asked, “In what way did you question it?”

I hesitated. What did he mean “in what way”? Was he asking if I was polite and respectful or was he asking what my specific doubts were about having a gay minister? Why did it matter? I replied by directing him to the day’s blog stop.

He replied he didn’t see any mention of Unitarian Universalists there and Unitarian Universalists weren’t mainline Christian. Some UUs are Christian others are not, I replied. In New England they are certainly mainstream. I was a UU for ten years. Taigitsune then wrote, that one of Unitarian Universalist’s seven principles is the inherent worth and dignity of each person including gay ministers. So who, he asked, was really intolerant?

The Unitarian Universalists I answered without hesitation. Tolerance is the practice of allowing or respecting the beliefs of others. In 1993 when I expressed discomfort but indicated I was willing to discuss the issue, my fellow congregants responded by refusing to talk directly to me. Instead they gossiped.

Taigitsune expressed the common UU conceit that they are more tolerant than other churches insisting they don’t place doctrinal demands on their members. But they do. There is an expectation members are political and social liberals with an interest in other religions except Christianity. Tagitsune also wrote that the scapegoating was merely my perception of things. Not so I thought. I was expelled. Told never to return. “No,” I replied, “Scapegoating is a set of behaviors. It is how people avoid taking responsibility for their cruel behavior.”

On the second day of the blog tour Shtole, one of Taigitsune’s followers, joined the conversation by retweeting Taigitsune’s, “If you think you’re right, you’re probably not.” I replied to both of them, “Then you must be wrong since you are so sure I am wrong and you are right.” Taigitsune withdrew and soon it was five against one. I am proud to say I held my own. I didn’t flinch. While not all of my arguments were strong and articulate I did not let them bully me. I demonstrated to other survivors how to stand up for oneself. During this exchange the number of my followers jumped confirming the more I am myself, the more people follow.

During this hot debate I was simultaneously discussing on We Survived Abuse recovery from spiritual abuse. On John’s Grace Walk we talked about why I didn’t leave the abusive churches sooner. On Sunday I stopped by T Michael Cart’s Truth in Ministry where people responded to my Letter to Spiritual Abuse Survivors. We talked about making church a refuge or safe place for all. On Monday at Under Much Grace we talked about patriarchal structures and patriocentricity where the family patriarch is central to family life and family members. We also discussed restriction of emotional display and speaking up for oneself.

Thank you to all the lovely people who have supported me by hosting a blog stop. Together we will plant the seeds needed to reform our churches making them better places for everyone.

The first week of my blog tour is over. Sitting in front of a hotel window overlooking Lake George in the Adirondacks I have some time to reflect on how it went. At the end of Day 1 Deena of A Survivor’s Thoughts on Life emailed me asking me if it turned out okay and expressing the hope that my other stops would turn out better. I replied:

I think the blog stop worked out fine. It gained some exposure for both of us. I know several people read the post even if they didn’t write comments. Some people emailed me privately. One has asked me to write a book with him on friendship. You cannot tell right away how successful a marketing campaign is or isn’t. Some books sold.

Book marketing is hard work. I had to take time to read my hosts’ blogs and write a post for them to use on their blog. My hosts read my book, wrote a review and helped moderate the comments. During the blog stop I monitored comments and responded to readers as close to real time as possible. I also twittered about it motivating people to read the posts and comment. I offered the incentive of a drawing for a free book. Mary Morgan won the drawing for re-tweeting the announcement and Cat M won for writing a comment.

Day One of the tour I stopped at Aida Calder’s Forgetting the Former Things and at Deena’s A Survivor’s Thoughts on Life. Both women posted reviews of my book on their blogs. I then posted my reaction. Several women followed me at Forgetting the Former Things, commented and retweeted my messages about the virtual book tour. Deena asked me questions throughout the day and I responded.

My third blog stop was at The Apostle Wive’s Club. A few women who had commented at Forgetting the Former Things followed me there. Before “meeting” the owner of the blog I had never given any thought of how the Catholic Church responded to priests who broke their celibacy vow and married. Their reaction appears hypocritical. Over the past decades the Catholic Church has covered up sexual abuse and reassigned offending priests. Why are they so forgiving of pedophiles but not of priests who fall in love and marry?

The fourth tour was at Book Hookup where Donna Sundblad asked me to write about what inspired Not of My Making. Read The Healing Journey

The blog tour has gotten me out of my comfort zone and I have “met” several interesting people. That has been one of the unplanned benefits of book marketing. Immediately following my de-churchings I became mildly agoraphobic and withdrew into myself. Book marketing forced me to be assertive and outgoing. I wasn’t going to sell many books if I withdrew into the safety of my home.

If you missed the blog stops you can still read the posts about Not of My Making, spiritual abuse, friendship and book writing. They are located at:

Forgetting the Former Things

Haunted by the Ghosts of Spiritual Abuse

Aida Calder’s Review of Not of My Making

A Survivor’s Thoughts on Life:

Interview with Margaret W Jones, Ph.D.

Is Shunning a Form of Emotional Abuse

Deena’s Review of Not of My Making

Not of My Makng, Part 2

Not of My Making, Part 1

Not of My Making, Initial Reaction to Book

I Met Someone Today – Divine Appointment?

The Apostles Wives Club:

Margaret Answers Your Questions

Book Hookup:

What Inspired Not of My Making?

Week Two of the Tour will start May 2^nd. Please join me. The schedule is:

]]> http://notofmymaking.com/blog/2009/04/21/blog-tour-not-of-my-making-bullying-scapegoating-and-misconduct/feed/ 7 http://notofmymaking.com/blog/2009/03/07/what-do-book-reviews-reveal-about-the-reviewer/ http://notofmymaking.com/blog/2009/03/07/what-do-book-reviews-reveal-about-the-reviewer/#comments Sat, 07 Mar 2009 23:01:59 +0000 Margaret http://notofmymaking.com/blog/?p=79 Part of the journey of writing and publishing a book is putting yourself out there and asking for reviews. This can be a little nerve racking and a rollercoaster ride for ones ego. When Not of My Making received excellent reviews from Midwest Book Review, Joanne Carnavale (A Reader and a Writer Reviews) and others [...]]]>

Part of the journey of writing and publishing a book is putting yourself out there and asking for reviews. This can be a little nerve racking and a rollercoaster ride for ones ego. When Not of My Making received excellent reviews from Midwest Book Review, Joanne Carnavale (A Reader and a Writer Reviews) and others I was ecstatic with pride, joy and relief. There was no difficulty deciding what to do with them. I just basked in the warm praise happy I succeeded in writing a compelling story well.

Reviewers brought something of themselves when they read my book and when they wrote their review. Those reviewers who wrote the book was outstanding understood its central theme and identified with having been bullied and mistreated. Those reviewers who were less positive either could not identify with my experience or were expecting something that I did not promise. One reviewer, for instance, wanted to read more about my childhood and the impact of the church conflict on my marriage. I don’t think I promised to do that in my advertising blurbs and in my view, was not central to the story I wanted to tell.

This reviewer also wrote that I espoused a belief in a distant but noble God. That is not something I actually said and that he inferred. It is not how I would characterize my faith. He also appeared to treat my faith as something that was static and unchanging rather than a journey of moving away from and then back to Christianity. During the experiences I wrote about I was confused by the failure of my former friends to walk their talk. The paradox is that while I do not speak the traditional Christian talk, my tenacity and perseverance in the face of rejection and abuse demonstrated significant faith in God and Jesus. I didn’t give up on church. I am finally a member of a church where there is a sincere emphasis on leading an authentic Christian life. It is not just a Sunday feel good hour.

Another review appears to be more about the reviewer’s misperceptions about me and anger rather than about the quality of the book. She accuses me of holding onto anger and failing to move on. As a psychologist I can’t help but wonder if she is projecting her own fears, hurts and repressed anger onto me. She fails to recognize the long-term impact of neglect, verbal and physical abuse when she describes my parents as merely “very critical”. When survivors such as myself tell their stories, it is their fervent hope that by doing so they are helping to prevent others from being abused and are providing comfort to those who are still struggling with their own victimization.

Writing Not of My Making was a painful journey of discovering why my parents, classmates and former friends were so cruel. I am grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read my book. I pray that their knowledge and understanding of survivors has increased and they are less likely to blame the victim. I also pray they will support groups who are trying to end abuse and care for survivors.

I don’t believe praying for people changes anything. I agree with Harry Emerson Fosdic, God is not a cosmic bellboy who gets you whatever you want. If praying could change outcomes, then why are some prayers answered and others not? I am sure all mothers pray for the safe return of their sons from war but some men die while others survive. Are not all their prayers worthy of attention from God?

Even though I don’t believe God will give me the things I pray for, I still pray. It keeps me centered and helps me figure out what God expects of me. A few years ago while sitting in my living room chanting a mantra and listening to hymns, God spoke to me and I knew that He wanted me to trust my therapist and accept his help. God wanted me to face my fears, reach out to others and recover from Post Traumatic Stress.

This wasn’t the first time I encountered God. Once when I was in my late teens I stood on a ledge overlooking a canyon in Colorado. I watched an eagle soar. Then I felt it. God was standing there with me even though I didn’t believe in Him. Awe. Eight months later as I sunk into despair and contemplated suicide the knowledge that God was there motivated me to hang on and not give up.

A decade later I encountered God while driving home. I had just dropped my daughter off at dance class. It was a week after a drunk totaled my car and fled the scene of the accident abandoning my children and me. As I drove I was thinking how my children and I could have died and my husband would have been left alone. Who would have cared for him? What if I died and my children survived? Who would mother them? My heart rate and breathing increased. Then in front of me, beyond the line of cars, I saw the sun setting and the sky streaked with pink clouds. In an instant I felt God’s arms embracing the earth and knew after death I would be part of that embrace. I would shelter my family forever. There was nothing to fear.

Fr. Lance of All Saints Anglican Church commented on my earlier blog post, “Am I Bashing Churches.” He is concerned about Christians being targeted in the public schools and asked me to comment on it. My first reaction was that was beyond my experience. When I was in school I was a Catholic living in a town that was 75% Catholic. The remaining 25% were either Jewish or Protestant. No one I associated with identified themselves as an atheist or an agnostic. Everyone went to church or temple. Atheists and agnostics were considered evil people that one should avoid.

When I was 16 I left the church and sometime during my first year in college I cease to consider myself Catholic and became one of those “evil people”. That is also the first time I encountered negative attitudes toward Catholics. While standing on the dinner line in my dorm a fellow student called me a papist. I never heard the term before and thought he was ignorant. I was pleased when I heard his roommate smashed his stereo speakers over his head.

I, however, wasn’t free from my own prejudices. It was the early 1970’s and I was heavily involved with the anti-war movement and women’s rights. I called the evangelical Christians Jesus Freaks and avoided them. They were part of the far right that opposed my political agenda. I viewed them as narrow, rigid and intolerant. Later when my children were small I started attending Sunday services at the local Unitarian Universalist fellowship believing them to be a model of tolerance and openness. My children never complained of being bullied by their classmates due to our religious beliefs except once when a neighbor told them our family would be going to hell because we did not attend Catholic mass.

Unitarian Universalism encouraged and supported my religious seeking. Tragically, ten years later when I rediscovered Christianity my fellow congregants had no place for me. My expulsion in 1999 from a Unitarian Universalist congregation was motivated by hostility towards my growing faith in God and Jesus. The Unitarian Universalists were not as tolerant and open minded as they claimed to be.

Apparently the hostility towards Christianity is not confined to the Unitarians Universalists. With the growing tolerance of homosexuality and premarital sex in the schools Christianity is viewed with suspicion and anger. The Biblical injunctions against such behavior are either denied or viewed as ignorant stances from a historical era that is best forgotten. Morality is regarded as relative so individuals should be allowed to do whatever they think is right. People no longer attend church or synagogue regularly. Those that do are the odd balls. If you believe in God and Jesus you can expect to be bullied and ridiculed by your classmates. Teachers who often hold anti-Christian beliefs minimize the harassment Christian students suffer and take no action to stop it.

Teachers, school administrators and parents must take a strong stance against bullying regardless of who the victim is. Bullies need to learn to be more just leaders. Victims need to learn to assert their rights. Bystanders need to bear witness and help the vulnerable.

If you want to learn more about my story please read, Not of My Making: Bullying, Scapegoating and Misconduct in Churches.

]]> http://notofmymaking.com/blog/2009/01/16/christian-bashing/feed/ 0 http://notofmymaking.com/blog/2008/12/01/how-the-ipod-saved-christmas/ http://notofmymaking.com/blog/2008/12/01/how-the-ipod-saved-christmas/#comments Mon, 01 Dec 2008 15:33:50 +0000 Margaret http://notofmymaking.com/blog/?p=42 Thanksgiving has come and gone. The stores and radios are now completely geared up for Christmas. I resist the messages that spending will bring my loved ones and me happiness. It won’t. I stopped listening to my favorite radio station when they began playing holiday songs almost exclusively the day after Halloween. I have switched [...]]]>

Thanksgiving has come and gone. The stores and radios are now completely geared up for Christmas. I resist the messages that spending will bring my loved ones and me happiness. It won’t.

I stopped listening to my favorite radio station when they began playing holiday songs almost exclusively the day after Halloween. I have switched to listening to my iPod where I get to choose the music. Since I don’t have an iPod dock in my bedroom I listen to a Boston radio station that had the decency to wait until Thanksgiving to begin playing Christmas songs interspersed with light rock.

Two years ago before I owned an iPod I turned on the radio to my favorite station before hopping into the shower. As I enjoyed the warm water raining down on my skin Christmas songs intruded into my consciousness. I groaned. I can’t shut off the radio from the shower. Why do they push Christmas when so many people complain that the season is too commercialized and is starting too early? It must make their advertisers happy. They must believe it boosts sales.

As I dried myself off the disc jockeys talked about a group in Vienna that wants to ban Santa Claus because of the American commercialism associated with him. The disc jockeys dismissed the Vienna group without discussing the merits of their argument. One announcer, a New York Jew married to a Catholic, said she enjoys the family part of Christmas. We agree about that.

“It is better than Hanukah,” she said. “You get the whole family over at once instead of being spread out over eight days.”

The other announcer replies, “It is a religious holiday for some.”

Well, yea, I think. It is the commemoration of Jesus’ birth. Why don’t the disc jockeys do more than pay lip service to that? How did Christmas become a secular, commercial holiday?

I take a slow, deep breath and remind myself that this is Advent, not Christmas. With my daughter’s help I set a table of blue, silver and white with an Advent wreath in the center. Each Sunday during Advent we will light the candles and read from the Bible praising and thanking God before we eat. During my morning prayers I will focus on making myself worthy of the Christ whose coming saved my soul.

During Advent and Christmas, I strive to slow down the pace of my life. This keeps me connected to God. I avoid the malls and limit my spending. I look for ways to be kind and generous to others. While listening to Advent music on my iPod I praise God for this blessed day. The sun shines on a cold earth but I am warm and safe in my home. I praise God for blessing me with two healthy children and a grandson who brings joy to my heart every day. I praise God for pen and ink and the heart and mind to use them. I praise God for all that I am and all that I have. I am blessed a hundred times over. Thanks be to God.

The back of the pew was hard. I wished I had my seat cushion but I left it in my husband’s car. The retreat leader in front of me clicked on the slide. I squinted to see it but the sunlight made it hard to see. But wait, here it was, in my workbook. I turned my back to the window and looked over the diagram of the Trinity. I had never seen it before. Okay, that’s interesting but what does that have to do with overcoming past hurts?

Weeks ago one of the deacons at my church asked me if I would attend a retreat about healing your life. She had attended the same program while she was in Africa and found it spiritually powerful. She wanted a professional therapist there who she could refer participants to if they needed it.

“Sure,” I replied always eager to be helpful.

This was the first retreat I attended since my dechurching. I rearranged my Friday afternoon schedule so I could be there. Sitting in one of the front pews I tried to understand where the speaker was going. The first four hours focused on praying over others a kind of positive affirmation based on the Bible. There was some demonstration and some opportunity to do it ourselves but it was mostly lecture. I was bored. I thirsted to talk about the religious ideas and issues raised but the program didn’t allow for it.

We stopped for dinner in the undercroft. I  took a seat with the leaders of the retreat and the intercessors. I was curious about how their church fared following the schism in the Episcopal Church. Toward the end of dinner one of the intercessors got up, walked around the table to sit next to me. She placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “We need to pray for those who remain in the Episcopal Church.”

“That may be but as a psychologist I am interested in how and why this happened,” I replied. “That way we can prevent it in the future.”

“There will always be a faithful remnant who will renew the church. That’s God’s will.”

“Yes, but –“ The call came for us to return to the sanctuary. “We will have to continue this conversation later,” I told her. It’s fine to pray, I thought, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take steps to prevent schism. God has given me an inquiring mind and I will use it to understand why these things happen in churches seeking ways to prevent it.

After dinner the retreat leader talked about cults and the occult. Her definition for cult was so broad that it included all religions other than orthodox Christianity. This is ignorant and meaningless, I thought. I want to live a good life and obey God’s commandments but the retreat leaders are taking things to extremes.

The leader began reading off a list of sins that ranged from watching movies like “Poltergeist” to pedophilia.  She made little distinction between those sins for which we already repented from sins that have not yet been confessed. She even talked of confessing our parents and ancestors sins. No way, I thought, I am responsible only for my own behavior and not my families.

I looked at my watched. It was only 7 pm. We had another hour to go. I took out my journal and tried to write my way through it. The retreat leader began leading us in prayers seeking forgiveness for our sins and those of our ancestors. I’m not a Klingon, I thought. I’m not responsible for my ancestors. My throat tightened. I remained silent. I felt walls closing in. These people aren’t the kind of people who will understand and value me, I thought. The longer I sat there the less safe I felt.

Eight o’clock and the retreat leader was still talking. I gathered up my belongings and left as quietly as I could. On the drive home I thought, If they want to talk about evil, I can tell them a few things. Sure people who play with tarot cards are foolish but in my work I have born witness to the survivors of Pol Pot who in my office told me how their loved ones were tortured and murdered.

I don’t need or want a religion that makes me feel sinful for small inconsequential things I may or may not have done and for which I have long corrected. I certainly don’t need to be made to feel guilty for the sins of my relatives.

I want my faith to give me the courage of Abraham who upon learning God planned to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah spoke up and asked God, “Will you really sweep away good and bad together? Supposed there are fifty good men in the city; will you really sweep it away and not pardon the place because of the fifty good men? Far be it for you to do this – to kill good and bad together.”

After listening to Abraham, God agreed not to destroy the cities if there were at least ten good men living there. Lot’s life was spared. I want to have that kind of courage. Imagine being able to suppress your fear as you stand before a force clearly more powerful than yourself long enough to urge the ethical and compassionate use of power.

I don’t want to be submissive before God. Why should I? He knows what is in my heart. He knows I am trying to live a righteous life. As in the song by Robin Mark, “When it’s all been said and done, there is just one thing that matters. Did I do my best to live for truth? Did I live my life for you, Lord?” I want to be able to say yes, I have given it my all. But because I am human I have often failed. I rely on God’s mercy to forgive my failings and at the end of my life to shelter me in his arms.

I do not believe God condemns anyone to eternal damnation. God created us. He knows our stories. When I listen to the stories of men who have done terrible things and I feel compassion, won’t God feel compassion, too?” Surely God is not less compassionate than I am.

Not that there isn’t a price to be paid. But that price is paid here on earth. Godless men live lonely and miserable lives. They are more likely to die early from suicide, accidents and homicides. Does anyone really think Hitler or Saddam Hussein was happy?