My earliest memories of the religion begin somewhere around the age of 4. I was at least three, because I recall leading the ‘pack’ around the yard on an ‘explore’ of some sort. It was a hot summer day. Our small town was always quiet, and we saw few visitors at our home, for that matter even on our block, when I happened upon a large black four door sedan parked in the edge of our lawn – as the streets in our town had no curbs and were narrow. Sitting behind the wheel was a man, whom I would later come to know as Raymond, a kindly gentleman, whom I recall standing in our kitchen some months later, dancing a ‘soft-shoe’.
I turned to my siblings and recall saying something about the car not belonging there. When I turned to the door, my mother was just saying her goodbye’s to Velma at the door. Velma was holding a black book and a large purse [which later I came to understand was a ‘book-bag’]. She and mom were discussing matters of which I have no recollection. I do recall though, that as us three children hovered about her skirt, and as she prepared to leave, a particularly pleasant smelling perfume. This was a nice lady, was my first impression. She further impressed all of us with pulling some chewing gum from her bag and giving us each a piece. She had left mom some literature of some sort, retrieved from the same bag, and clearly with some questions. This woman would become a major influence in my life, and the religion she was peddling would become my own.
Now, some fifty years later, those memories remain among a small cluster of my earliest. And I suppose in some respects, among my most bitter-sweet. It took me most of those 50 years to understand that this day represented the beginning of a very strong mind-capture that takes many a lifetime to break, if they ever do.
I write this book, hopefully after putting the majority of my anger behind me. My efforts are focused on how I was robbed by this religion, and mentally imprisoned by them. I spent decades putting life on hold, waiting for an elusive reward promised I thought, by God, reiterated a thousand times by the very literature my mother held in her hands. My mother died believing it – I will not! But I now understand that reward will never come – it was just delusion. Delusion robs us of reality, and of irreplaceable time taken in its pursuit.
It would be nice if one or two people read these words and find some value in my experience. It would be grand if one or two use them as a springboard to discovery that will free them too from what I view as religious irons. But it is also written because I can! I have discovered freedom to have my own opinions and express them.
These experiences, and my discovery of the fraud that captured my life, may also find an audience among others held in captivity by religious delusion of slightly different varieties. These are the memories of, and the tale of escape, of a Soul Shackled.