Allen’s Story
“Allen” alleges spiritually abusive behavior on the part of CFC leadership.
Emotional scars run deeper than the physical. They cut to the soul. They last for what feels like forever. Just when you think you are over something, past it, one little thing will trigger you and it all comes flooding back. The memories, the pain. It’s all still there. Buried deep, but never gone.
When I was first invited to CFC, it came at a time in my life when I was coming back to religion. I had been baptized Catholic, but stopped attending church when I was about ten years old. I called myself different things after that (agnostic, atheist, etc.), but never felt the urge to attend church. When I was finishing graduate school in Potsdam, I befriended someone else in my program who was a member of CFC. Heck, he lived right in the same neighborhood! When I first made the drive out to a Sunday service, I was hooked.
It felt so new to me at the time. This was not what I thought of when I thought of Catholic masses from my youth. That’s how it first happens. Come on in, the water’s fine. We’re not like other churches. I’m a big talker, so of course I shared my thoughts with new people I just met.
As soon as they find out you come from another denomination, especially a mainline denomination like Catholic, Episcopalian, or Methodist, they draw you in. It’s almost like they treat you like a survivor of some tragedy. They lure you in with promises of something better. I fell right in.
I quickly became very involved in the church. I sought out more and more opportunities to be involved. I joined the worship team, volunteered at Upward Basketball, and joined a men’s bible study. I even became the head of their Sunday School. I made the drive out to Madrid several times a week, getting better acquainted with my friend and, eventually, the Sinclair family. I was invited over for various get-togethers at the Sinclair house and other houses of the elite families of the church. I kept falling further and further into the well.
The realization that I was being changed and brainwashed came slowly.
When I was not a church-goer, I considered myself very open-minded toward others’ beliefs. Just because I didn’t share those beliefs didn’t make them wrong. My first realization of how CFC was changing my views of others came at work.
At my school, I worked very closely with another teacher who attended a Catholic church. While I do not recall the exact words I said, I know that some scathing, judgmental things came out of my mouth one day that really hurt my colleague. That was sign #1. I thought to myself: Where did that come from?? I never thought that way before! That was when I started to see what was happening. I stopped falling.
The largest eye-opener came when I began dating the woman who eventually became my wife. She was also Catholic. I invited her to one Sunday service and she was thoroughly creeped out. The hands in the air. The speaking in tongues (which I thankfully never could grasp how to do). It was all way too much for her. That was sign #2. Was this not how church was supposed to be?
Then came the comments from CFC goers. “Did you know Catholics believe this? Did you know Catholics believe that?” I would go home and ask my girlfriend about these things I was being told that Catholics believe and she would promptly correct me. I found out later that the misconceptions that CFC-goers had about other denominations was coming right from the top. I started to climb back out of the well.
Another eye-opener came when one of the Sinclair sons-in-law found out that I was not tithing. Tithing is the practice of giving money to the church. CFC teaches that to actually tithe correctly, 10% of one’s income needs to be given to the church. I was a teacher’s assistant at an elementary school. I barely had enough money to live on my own, let alone give a tenth of it away.
I gave my time to the church instead. With the amount I was involved in, I thought that was enough. Oh, not this particular son-in-law. He even said—and I quote—“you spend more money a month on your cat than on God?” Correct me if I am wrong, but since when does God need money? Be honest with what you are asking. You’re upset that I am not giving money to the church, not God. I neared the top of the well.
The final straw happened when I got the phone call from Daniel Paladin, the associate pastor and another Sinclair son-in-law. He told me that I shouldn’t have this one gentleman from CFC teach Sunday School anymore. He claimed it wasn’t a “good season” for him. This particular gentleman, who was a friend of mine at the time, happened to be gay.
That’s when I broke. I got off the phone and threw my cell phone across my kitchen. I have two gay siblings. This is a very close subject to my heart. I was done. I emailed Rick Sinclair to tell him I wanted to step down as Sunday School leader. I wanted a way to not have to go there each Sunday. He responded to my email and accepted my resignation, but he wanted to meet and talk about why I was stepping down. This was the last day I ever stepped foot in CFC.
I met with Rick. I explained to him how I felt about being told not to have a gay man teach Sunday School and how I was getting comments about my girlfriend being Catholic. He spent an hour over-explaining the one verse from the Bible that talks about how gay is bad. Fine. I was not going to take offense. That was his interpretation, not mine.
Then, he switched topics. For ten minutes, with a smile on his face and a chuckle in his voice, he tore every other denomination to absolute shreds. He said that if you looked at what a Catholic gets on an average Sunday versus what he was teaching, you couldn’t even fill a thimble with it. I sat, without speaking, feeling the blood rush to my face.
He finally stopped his tirade and asked me what I was thinking. I was somehow able to compose myself enough to tell him that he had given me a lot to think about and I needed time to digest. He suggested meeting again the following weekend, then I left. When I got back to my car and closed the door, I screamed until I had no more air in my lungs. I mailed all of my Sunday School materials back to CFC and never stepped foot in that building again. I wish my story ended there. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
One does not simply leave CFC. They have your number. They have your email. They have your address. They don’t just let you leave. I wasn’t left alone for nearly a month straight.
I got daily phone calls (which I let go straight to voicemail) from Daniel Paladin. I got email after email from Rick himself. I was surprised that nobody ever showed up at my house. I was scared. I was emotional. I didn’t know if it would end. I finally got an email from Rick asking where the breakdown actually happened. That’s when I let him have it.
I explained exactly what he said that offended me. He responded to that email by cutting, pasting, and refuting everything I had said. This caused me to have a panic attack at work. Finally, he said, at the bottom of the email, that he would try leaving me alone for a while. The silence that followed was more than welcome, but I was left an emotional, lifeless wreck.
It took me a very long time to trust anyone in religious authority again. I avoided Madrid completely and the surrounding area for fear of running into anyone who goes to CFC. If I did see anyone, I would act like I didn’t see them and run away. The scars run deep. All of this occurred twelve years ago, but it still feels like yesterday. It took all of my bravery to get out of there, but the effect that those two years had on me still lingers today. But there is hope. There are much better churches out there. You don’t have to let them change the person you are. You can be yourself and still worship God.
There is hope.
