In the Shadow of Fundamentalism

The Jello Mold, part 1

The Jello Mold:


I remember Pastor Dave telling a story once in the foggy hour of morning chapel. He told about how, at a picnic with some of the less fortunate members of the congregation, someone had brought jello for the communal dessert. With the wry humor he seemed to radiate, Dave told us how this mold sat to the side, the waiting coup de grace of the afternoon feast.
As the food was devoured and summarily packed away, the jello in its mold was set in the center of the table, waiting the reveal of a delectable finish to an already satisfying feast. However, he told us, there was a flaw that ruined the unveiling moment.
When the mold was removed, masses of pinkish fluid ran out on the table. Puddles of half-set jello lingered behind like some culinary afterbirth, quivering with a quasi life of their own.
The jello had not been given long enough to set, and therefore could not stand on its own.
Dave used this metaphor as the driving vision for the school we attended. HCA was, he explained, our jello mold. It was the confining frame designed to give the unformed minds and hearts of Christian youth an opportunity to grow and “set.” As we firmed up in our beliefs, we would conform to this mold, and when it was lifted we would stand a perfect reflection of our environment.
As simple and understandable as his story was, I now see a fatal flaw in the logic that he used in the tale’s meaning.

Children are, and will be until the end of mankind, their own organic beings. They are not some liquid poured into a mold, but a living breathing being with genetically and environmentally inspired tendencies and drives. Like all living things, tight containment may lead to deformity, illness, and eventual death. To liken them to Jello in a mold, is to betray that one sees them as a commodity, like cattle, to be trained and confined and used as part of some form of commerce (in this case, heavenly.)

I remember several debates, held in my later classes before graduation, that showed I didn’t “take” to the mold in certain ways. Whenever we spoke about alcohol, and alcoholism, most of my peers were adamant to say that they would never allow those cursed liquids to cross the gates of their lips. I sat in silence, wondering what the fuss was about. Everything I had tasted at home seemed horrible, and it seemed that as long as I kept from intoxication, there was no possible contradiction to Godly law.
In fact, God seems in many occasions to condone the act of intoxication. Jesus turned water to wine, and the guests exclaimed how good that wine was. Who has ever heard of good wine, especially for a wedding celebration, that was non-alcoholic? Jesus drank wine as he broke bread at the last supper, and I have had wine with a good meal on many occasions.

We were taught about dating and relationships. The sad thing was that most of our teachers had been in horrifying relationships themselves. Few were qualified to be an example of how to meet, romance, and court a member of the opposite sex. Even though almost none of them met their spouses in church, kept pre-marital sexual purity, or asked their families’ blessings on the union they had all still married and created our generation.
These same people felt free to tell us to refrain from physical contact, to avoid being alone or in compromising situations with members of the opposite sex, to seek our mates within the confines of an accepted church, and to seek that church’s blessing on the union.
During one conversation I remember Mr. Falkenburg asking each of us how we felt about the concept of “dating.”
Having little to no experience with women, I told him what I still maintain to this day: a date is an opportunity to get to know a member of the opposite sex. They very in seriousness as the relationship begins to grow, and once the relationship is committed it becomes “courtship.”
His response was emphatically that he didn’t believe in “dating,” that it was a concept that led to many problems. He explained that all those early interactions should be done in groups, with others present, to prevent temptation.
When the question passed to the girl on my right, Jessie explained that she wasn’t worried about dating or courtship.
“Jesus will come back before then, anyways.”

So I was beginning to see that I didn’t conform exactly to the mold of the school, or perhaps even the church. In the teenage quest for identity, what did that leave me?

Friends. Indeed, “Show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future,” as I heard the teachers say often.
Usually when they said it to me, the phrase was accompanied by a disapproving wag of the head. My friends were notorious troublemakers on some levels: the slick businessman, the artsy son of a homosexual, and the athletic vandal.
We supported each other, though. They encouraged me to draw, which was the only thing that made me happy. I encouraged Spike to write, Dave to skate, and Steve to make the deal of the century. We believed in a kind of future where each of us would be leaders in our field. Spike would write books that kids like us would have to read in school. Steve would be the first African American Donald trump type (alas he was beaten to the punch by Oprah.) Dave would be a pro baseball player and X-Games skater. We had bright futures filled with dreams and fantasies fueled by youth.
And yet, in his Jello lecture, Pastor Dave again had told us part of the truth.

“Some of you,” he said as I nodded my head in disbelief, “will not stand when the mold is removed. Look at the person to your right, now to your left. One of these people will be a drug addict. One of them will have a child outside of marriage. One of them may even be dead in the next ten years.”
To my right and left were Steve and Spike. I was sure I was sitting next to the exceptions that proved the rule.

When we look back at the time that the mold was lifted from us, one summer seems to mark the passing of our solidity. In that single summer, all the dreams of Godly lives and perfect Christian legacies ran out into the leaf-strewn side of a dirt road. Our company of peers and friends split, divided into factions with loyalty for those we felt we must keep as friends, and against those we felt betrayed by. Everything implied or intended by the act of being an HCA student faded into the humid air of the upstate summer.

However, I must tell this story as I heard it, since my promise was to only tell my first hand accounts. I must tell the tale as it happened to me, and let others tell their own story.

It began, for me, at the church parking lot, waiting for our friends…

posted by NY Monk @ 3:15 PM