Taking Back What Was Lost to Religious Fundamentalism - Reuniting With My Disfellowshipped Father

As a nation that defends the human right to religious freedom, we must reckon with the pain that the rigid application of religious and ideological beliefs can bring upon our lives. This is a story of such pain and loss; a story of faith gone bad and of the dark side of the very beliefs that we look to for light in the dense mystery of human existence.

I was raised as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. As such, the obligation before God to shun members who leave the group for ethical or intellectual reasons was an important part of my belief system. It was deeply connected to my moral values, self-concept, and purpose in life.

The divisive potential of my faith struck close to home when my father chose to assert his opposition to the religious beliefs of our community. Out of loyalty to the Almighty Creator of the Universe, I shunned my father for 13 years.

Among the horrors of awakening to how the coercive policies of my religion and the social influence of my faith community had entrapped me was reckoning with the pain that I had caused others. Empathy for my father’s suffering and that of thousands of former Jehovah’s Witnesses in similar situations finally moved me to take accountability for my actions at the risk of being shunned by family members who remain in the faith.

Making the Call…

So it was, with great apprehension, that on a Tuesday afternoon in April 2019, I picked up the phone to call my father.

I had long ago removed his contact information from my cell phone and blocked his number. So, I had to look up his number in an old email. Trembling, both out of fear of divine retribution and general uncertainty about what I would say, I waited as the dial tone began.

“Hello?” a voice that I had not heard in over a decade came on the line.

““Geoff? Oh shit…Wait, son. I can’t hear you. Wait, let me step away. Oh shit...””

There was noise in the background of chattering crowds and the thumping down-beat-up-beat of live music. He was at a concert. It was hard to hear.

“Geoff? Oh shit…Wait, son. I can’t hear you…. wait, let me step away. Oh shit,” his voice quivered and broke with a mixture of tears and urgency, desperate not to miss an opportunity, however brief, to reconnect with his son.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” I said and began to cry softly.

“No, no, no, please,” he said, stopping me before I could internalize an unfair amount of blame for submitting to the policies of my religious organization. “Are you safe?” he asked.

“Are you safe?” is a common response I receive whenever I dare to admit to anyone that I remain a member of a New Religious Movement that I no longer support because of the organization’s captive policies. But I was safe. The worst of my religious trauma symptoms were behind me, and I was cautiously taking steps to rebuild my life.

I reassured my father that I was well, that I was receiving professional mental health support, and that it would not be another thirteen years before we spoke again. We talked for about twenty minutes, most of which was taken up by me as I rapidly disgorged a torrent of incoherent details about the intense psychological symptoms that accompanied my disillusionment and intellectual awakening. I soon realized that I was talking too much and that halfway through a rock concert was not the time for philosophical ramblings. We scheduled time for another call and hung up.

A Pivotal Moment

It seems so mundane: picking up the phone to call an estranged family member. But that spring afternoon represented a pivotal moment in my life. For the first time, I was acknowledging my values and acting upon my assessment of reality rather than what was prescribed for me by a religion, holy book, or god. What is more, I was getting my first taste of the exquisite sweetness of rebellion against oppressive authority and spiritual liberation.

As we grow older, we begin to value more deeply the time we have left with supportive family members. I will never get back the time with my father that I lost because of my fundamentalist beliefs. Both my father and I knew that there was no point blaming each other for the missed memories. It was best to focus on the future and our newfound opportunity to make up for lost time.

Even in times of national peace, religious fundamentalism carries the potential to cause great pain. I am resolved to do my best to encourage others to remove the ideological roadblocks that restrict their ability to show love to others. I’m so glad that I removed mine when I did. Three months after that momentous Tuesday afternoon in April, my father was diagnosed with stage-4 cancer.