Beyond Belief: The Secret Lives of Women in Extreme Religions

by Cami Ostman

  Just moments ago, Amber staggered in and collapsed on the bottom bunk. I want to climb down and nudge her awake so we can cry together, like we did in the final throes of freshman year, when she was reeling from a recent fling and I was doubled over and sobbing in her lap because a Brooklyn boy broke my heart.

  Doesn’t she realize I’m still here? I’m still me, just . . . different? But whatever that closeness was that we shared, it’s gone now.

  I close my eyes and struggle to conjure the soul-searching me who created this mess, hoping to unearth a satisfying explanation for why I’m losing my best friend. In my mind’s eye, I wander away from here, to the golden fields and wooded trails of my hometown. To memories of the trees towering over me and the crunch of twigs and dirt beneath my feet. To my dog, Spy, running freely by my side. Sleeping on a blanket in my parents’ backyard, watching the silhouettes of the trees sway in the moonlight, listening to the leaves rustling and the choir of crickets chirping their rhythmic rhapsodies. Staring into the stars as they shimmered in the blackened sky, my shoulders pressed against the cool, hard ground, I had pondered and wondered about all sorts of things. Who am I? What am I? How am I? Why am I? I voiced my ruminations aloud, in what felt like prayers, and waited for someone to answer me. And in those sweet stargazing spells, I communed with what I came to know as God.

  “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” I murmur. The first words of Jesus Christ I’d paid attention to in years. I grew up going to Episcopalian church services and Sunday School, but I’d decided a long time ago that God and Jesus and Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were all lumped into the same category of lies adults tell children to keep them wondering and guessing and believing in power structures and mythical characters that have the capacity to influence and dictate good, moral, and socially acceptable behavior.

  But when at the peak of my solitary summertime explorations I came across a copy of the holy book in my parents’ living room, I was spellbound. After skimming the pages and landing on the way-truth-life verse, I just sat there at the kitchen table, staring long and hard at those words, soaking them in like light-deprived skin takes in the sun’s healing rays. Reading Plato’s works in my freshman-year philosophy class had gotten me meditating on things like truth and love and the unseen realms. But until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that the biblical savior of the world might have some answers as to how to deepen my understanding of them.

  Jesus claimed to know the way, the truth, and the life, so I wanted to know Him—to sit at His feet and drink Him in: His words, His ways, His everything.

  I started tapping the shoulders of people who claimed to know this Jesus fellow. My mom, my grandma, my mom’s pastor, my grandma’s proselytizing Christian friend. I even tried talking directly to Him—Jesus, the son of God—a few times. I scoured the Internet. On a whim, I wrote to a convent, expressing my interest in becoming a nun. Then I wrote to an obscure group of Essenes, hoping they would invite me to commune with them in the mountains. No one responded.

  And then it was time to go back to school.

  Just a sign—something, anything to show me that I’m not alone, that I’m not crazy. Burying my face in my blanket, I breathe slowly, deeply, and say it one more time as I drift into sleep.

  Show me the way, the truth, and the life . . .

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake to a roaring so loud it sends shudders through my body, our dorm room, the whole building. I bolt out of bed.

  There’s commotion outside. Amber and I run to the lobby of our floor, which has a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking lower Manhattan. What we see through that window has us wide-eyed, our mouths agape, stunned, speechless.

  One of the two World Trade Center towers is ablaze. Within seconds of our arrival, we see a plane fly directly into the other tower, exploding in a massive cloud of smoke and flames. “What the hell was that?” a latecomer to the lobby cries. “A bomb?!”

  “No, a plane. It was a plane,” someone answers. “Didn’t you hear it? It flew right over us!” I rub my eyes, still groggy with sleep. What’s happening? I stand there, my feet planted, transfixed by the catastrophe unfolding before me.

  My already cloudy vision begins to blur. Memories of my late-night pleadings flood my mind. Show me the way, the truth, and the life. Is my desperate and weepy appeal for God to speak to me, to reach out and show me why I’m here, actually being answered somehow, in all of this?

  “JAMIE. I’VE GOTTA CALL Jamie,” Amber says hurriedly. I snap out of my internal musings and follow Amber to our room. Our friend Jamie’s boyfriend is an intern in one of the towers. Amber gets her on the phone, and she’s hysterical. We run up to Jamie’s room; Nicole and Jackie, our other friends, are already there. The TV is on. Jamie is on the phone, trying to get ahold of someone who knows something about her boyfriend. The stunned reporters on the TV screen don’t know what to say; they keep replaying the scene we just watched in real time. Who? What? How? Why? These are my questions, but nobody has the answers.

  We sit and wait for close to an hour. I’m getting a headache from listening to the news correspondents repeat themselves ad nauseam. I wish they’d just leave the cameras on and shut up. And then, just like that, one of the towers falls—as in, plummets to the ground. My mouth drops. “Oh my God, the tower. Fuck, it’s going down!” Nicole cries. Jamie groans and covers her mouth with her hands.

  Echoing through the hallways are the sounds of people crying and yelling, doors opening and closing, footsteps rushing to and fro. “He’s not there today? He’s okay?” I hear Jamie asking of whomever is on the other end of the line. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” She heaves a sigh of relief as she hangs up the phone, her pretty blue eyes spilling tiny droplets as her skin regains some of its original color.

  A girl pops her head in the room. “They’re having a vigil at Trautmann Square,” she tells us, and then ducks out and disappears. We don’t know what else to do, so we grab our things and go.

  Outside our building, the collective confusion is palpable; the campus is fraught with fear. Terror washes over and through me, suspending me in its awesome grip. I feel faint and dizzy, barely able to focus on putting one foot in front of the other as I merge with the mob of students rushing toward the square. I stop to steady myself, and a surge of something more powerful than panic rises inside me, allowing me to regain composure. Concern and compassion for those who are across the water, in that mess and dying, flood my system. What can I do? What can I do? Dear God, show me the way.

  We arrive at Trautmann Square. The sun is shining. The air is still. A smattering of our fellow students is gathered there with us, spread out along the cobblestone walkways bordering the square. Sheets of paper with prayers and songs are being passed around. Someone is playing bagpipes; their mournful crooning weaves its way through the spaces surrounding us. The swirling sounds diminish and a priestly voice is asking us to honor the fallen with a moment of silence. The speaker quotes the words of a well-known scripture: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . ” I look around me. Most people are holding their handouts, focusing intently on following the words printed on the papers as they are read aloud. Others are simply staring into space, their eyes glazed over. Some are crying and holding one another; still others are talking in hushed voices. I am soundlessly absorbing all I see and hear, feeling frozen and powerless, longing with increasing intensity for God to show me my role in the midst of this chaos.

  The crowd begins to sing. I am struck by the earnestness in two female voices emanating from my right. I edge my way closer to them. The woman nearest to me notices and moves in my direction, holding out her copy of the hymns so I can sing along. I gratefully accept.

  When the song is over, the priest clears his throat. “I’m sorry to be the one to break this news, but I’ve just received word that the second tower has fallen. Let us once again take a moment of silence to honor the lives of those lost in this tragic event.
”

  Murmuring voices and shuffling feet. Then, silence.

  The vigil comes to a close, but I don’t want to leave. Students are commingling and milling about, and I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to do something. “We’re going back. You coming with?” Amber asks.

  “No, no. Go ahead without me,” I respond, determined to make myself useful.

  I watch my friends walk away, and then turn to face the women standing next to me whose voices were so stirring. One is young and pretty, with straight brown hair and clear blue eyes: big and bright, warm and inviting. “Wow, this is something, isn’t it?” she says.

  I’m half shaking and half nodding my head. “Yeah, sure is . . . ” I recognize her as someone I’ve seen around campus. Her eyes, luminous and sparkling, are not easy to forget.

  She smiles at me with a smile that lights up her whole face, takes my hand in hers, and says, “I’m Sandra.”

  “And I’m Sofia,” says the other woman, the one who shared her handout with me. She’s petite, with a somewhat unsettling intensity flashing in her eyes and tight black spiral curls falling wildly about her face; she speaks with a strong accent that sounds Latin American to my sheltered suburbanite ears.

  “Elise,” I smile, too warmed by their presence to be intimidated.

  Sofia’s gaze softens a bit. “You know, we’re a part of this really great church, the Church of Christ, and we’re having a service tonight if you want to come along.”

  “Really? I’d love to!” I exclaim. Maybe this is God’s answer to me! Unable to hide my enthusiasm, I almost reach out to hug them, but stop short.

  Sophia laughs. “Well, good. It’s not too far from here, but do you need a ride? I’ll be on campus all day so you can just come with me.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say. I feel so sure God has led me straight to these women, I impulsively spew out my story of summertime salvation-seeking and of last night’s brokenness, how I was up for hours begging to find the way, the truth, and the life, and how meeting them isn’t just a coincidence; it’s an answered prayer!

  “I just wish there was something I could do,” I say at the end of my sudden burst of chatter.

  As if on cue, a voice rises from across the square. A man is holding a megaphone on the steps of the Student Union. “For those of you who are wanting to help, I just spoke with the American Red Cross. This is a national emergency, so the best thing any of us can do right now is stay put and stick together and, if you can, give blood.”

  I can do that, I think. Though it hardly seems like enough.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I climb in the passenger seat of Sofia’s car. Minutes later we’re pulling up to a small church in a residential neighborhood. THE UNITARIAN CHURCH OF STATEN ISLAND, the sign on the front lawn reads. Sofia catches me looking at the sign and quickly explains, “The International Church of Christ doesn’t believe in owning buildings, so we rent from the Unitarian Church.” Sounds fair enough. I nod my head and take in the rest of my surroundings. The building is quaint and cottage-like, with a brown brick exterior and antique-looking stained-glass windows. I watch as people of all ages and colors gather outside, greeting one another with loving embraces. A rush of warmth softens my insides, and I happily surrender myself into their arms, hugging and even kissing on the cheek some of these beautiful strangers.

  The sounds of singing and clapping draw us into the sanctuary. “Soldiers of Christ, arise, and put on your armor . . . ” The tiny church barely holds the congregation. Sofia guides me through the bustling bodies to an open pew. Sandra with the bright blue eyes is standing at the front of the room, leading songs with a group of singers, their voices blending and harmonizing in angelic accord. She sees me in the crowd and smiles. I smile back as I clap and sway with the others, basking in the tightly knit glow.

  The music dies down, and the singers find their seats. A young man steps into the hollow of the pulpit. He is tall and good-looking, with commanding eyes and a disarming smile. He’s dressed in street clothes, and he carries himself like someone who spends a lot of time on stage. “Let’s bow our heads and pray,” he says. “Father God, be with us now . . . ”

  His words muddle and melt in my ears. “That’s Mike,” Sofia leans in and whispers when he finishes praying, “the minister.” He’s unlike any preacher I’ve ever seen, and his intensity captivates me. “When I saw those towers go down, something inside of me broke,” he’s saying. “All those souls, all those people suffering and dying without knowing the truth. It’s time for us to wake up. . . . God needs us now more than ever—to step up and spread Jesus’s message, to take up the sword of truth and the helmet of salvation. To seek and save the lost. . . . ” His emphatic proclamations hit the spot. I wipe my eyes, discreetly. My body is quivering.

  Sofia wraps her arm around me. The trembling subsides. We lock eyes. Hers are soft, brimming with tears, brilliant flecks of green glimmering in her dark brown irises. She squeezes my hand. The music is starting up again. “I prayed, yes I prayed. I prayed, oh I prayed. I prayed, yes I prayed until I found the Lord. My soul just couldn’t be contented . . . ” The voices of the congregation swell with conviction as they sing. The lyrics are simple, so I join in.

  In this moment, as my voice merges with the masses until I can hear it no longer, I am clueless as to the eventual significance of this small act. There’s no way for me to know that in becoming one with this group of believers, I am signing up to spend six years of my young adult life in a fantasy land where God speaks through microphones using seemingly perfect preachers and their wives to persuade their devotees to do as they’re told. Or that I will soon be challenged to cut myself off from my friends and family who do not agree with my new ways of thinking and being and believing; or that in the not-too-far-off future I will marry a man I’ve never even kissed—all for the sake of upholding the sanctity of the way, the truth, and the life of which Jesus allegedly spoke.

  No, right now, all I know is I believe—I believe God is with me, and that he led me here. I believe I have found a way to do something, not just for my own lonely and searching soul, but also for those around me, and especially for the ones who lost so much on this tumultuous day.

  “I found, yes I found. I found, oh I found. I found, yes I found. I finally found the Lord . . . ”

  Swan Sister

  Yolande Elise Brener

  My elder brother, Adam, was the most constant person in my life. In our earliest years, we changed homes often, and our father left when I was three and Adam was five. But Adam was always there. I could always lean on him or hold his hand, and I loved him fiercely.

  I held tight to Adam for comfort and because I longed to find out what he meant when he teased me, saying “I know something you don’t know.” Adam knew how to make people happy just by smiling and letting the world roll over him. I have always been more serious than he, even as a little girl. I wanted to do something great, to sacrifice my life for something bigger than myself—like Joan of Arc did, or like the sister in the Six Swans fairy tale, who spent six years silently sewing stinging nettle suits to turn her swan brothers back into men. In morning sermons at my Church of England school I learned about Jesus and wished I could love unconditionally with such passion that I could heal the sick and raise the dead. My greatest childhood desire was to meet Jesus someday.

  By the time I was sixteen I got accepted to art school and moved to London to live on my own. As Jesus had not turned up yet, I continued to follow my eighteen-year-old brother in his search for the truth, which had turned serious by this time. I accompanied Adam when he ate vegan food with Hare Krishnas and took wafers and wine with Catholics; I stopped short of following him only when he began fasting with Franciscans. Finding no religion adequate, and aided by hallucinogenic drugs, Adam concluded that he was Christ himself.

  Shortly after Adam realized his divine mission, he turned up in my London flat and announced there was a global conspiracy against him. Even as he stood at my d
oor I noticed there was something different about him. His clothes hung loosely off his bony limbs and his eyes searched above my head as if he were being hunted. “Listen to the radio,” he said. “It’s talking to us. They’re in the television too. Nothing is an accident.”

  I turned the radio off while Adam looked suspiciously at my window.

  “They’re in the walls,” he said. “They know where we are.”

  By his shaking, nicotine-stained fingers, the small scratches on his arms and face, and his unsettled eyes, I could see that Adam was in trouble. I had never seen mental illness before and it shocked me. He was the same person on the outside but so changed inside that I was frightened for him.

  As befitted the self-proclaimed Son of God, Adam took up residence at our local Church of England chapel. He curled up in the wooden apse, the stained-glass windows casting blue shadows of saints across his face. The vicar, switch-thin and pale in his dog collar, spoke with my mother about exorcism but decided on eviction instead. Several pink-cheeked police officers removed Adam to Heatherwood, a shrubbery-bound hospital in Ascot, twenty-five miles outside of London. But soon, Adam was discharged back to my mother’s house only to begin his cycle again. Sometimes he would disappear for months at a time and then reappear with mysterious bruises and cuts. Several times he turned up in jail or in hospital, and I was always relieved when he finally came home.

  Not long after one of his releases, I took the forty-minute ride to visit Adam at our mother’s house. We went for an afternoon stroll into the nearby Runnymede Forest, and by twilight we had walked deep into the woods. We didn’t talk much but occasionally stopped to look at an interesting plant or to identify what kind of animal or bird was scurrying away. We both loved nature and I savored this time together, relaxing and sharing, listening to the soft voices of the leaves in the breeze and the slowly settling earth under our feet. As children we had often wandered together along the Thames or across the fields beside our mother’s house. I never felt more at ease than when I was in nature, and being with Adam right then was as comfortable as it had ever been.