Growing up, I constantly dreamed
about going to college, but when I actually arrived at the University of
Arizona in Fall 2006, something wasn't right. Higher education had been
idealistically presented to me as this magical land of unbreakable
bonds, educational growth, and personal fulfillment, and so far, it
didn't live up to the hype. I'd been wrongly placed in the UA's biggest
party dorm, where hundreds of new fraternity and sorority members
dominated the hallways with their social success and fast friendships,
both of which I lacked. Still grieving the
recent death of my father, I felt disconnected from other
freshmen. It was the most vulnerable time of my young life, so when a
friendly campus minister approached me one afternoon, I welcomed the
positive attention.
It was refreshing to meet an educated
Millennial who could talk about more than just hangovers, drinking, and
nights on the town. She'd lost her dad early in life as well, and
while I liked being able to relate to someone on that level, I couldn't
get behind her chilling opinion on this parallel: "Our shared tragedy is
why God brought us together." Looking back, I know now that what I
really needed was a therapist, not a religious person with an ulterior
motive. Because I grew up in a mixed Catholic and Jewish family, I
decided to shrug off the remark and be open-minded about the church she
represented, but as she continuously pestered me about going to
services, events, and Bible study sessions, I cut off contact. I even
considered changing my number as the volume of calls got out of hand. It
seemed like her entire existence revolved around the ministry and that
she desperately wanted others, me, to do the same.
That was more
than eight and half years ago, and since my connection to that
organization was fleeting, I can't recall its name. But when the Arizona
Daily Star reported earlier this month
that dozens of former members of Faith Christian Church, which has
operated at the UA for more than decades, consider it a cult, I couldn't
help remembering my own experience and wondering if the woman who
tried to recruit me freshman year had been part of FCC. Whether she
served FCC or another ministry, I believe her aggressive tactics
were inappropriate and exploitative, and I wish the older, more
confident version of me could return to freshman year and tell her to
back off before she ever got a chance to start blowing up my phone.
Unfortunately, she's far from the only campus evangelist to take
advantage of student vulnerability. Certain religious groups capitalize
on the uncertainties of college life by preying upon students who have
yet to form strong relationships, ties to the campus, or identities.
Old Main at UA: Ken Lund/Flickr
UA Mall, where campus evangelists hang out: Matsubatsu/Flickr
Following the Arizona Daily Star's massive investigation on FCC, the UA said it would meet with
the church's recruiting arm to address the accusations of abuse. The
Arizona Daily Star exposé was published after reporters interviewed more
than 20 former workers and members of FCC, which parents
believe deliberately seeks vulnerable young students and sometimes urges
them to drop their professional aspirations to do work for the church.
The church is also being accused of encouraging moms and dads to hit
their children, gradually taking control over all aspects of members'
lives, draining members' bank accounts by pressuring them into donating
piles of money, and telling students to distance themselves from their
families, among other grievances.
“You don’t know yourself at the
end,” Lawrence Alfred, who spent nearly a decade in the church and was
punished for things like spending too much time alone, said to the
Arizona Daily Star. “You don’t know you’re in a cult until you leave.
Pretty soon, you’re at the point where you can’t make any decisions.”
Hillary Hirsch, a former member and UA alum, told
the Arizona Daily Wildcat, an independent student publication, that
Executive Pastor Steve Hall's daughters tried to cast out demons inside
her when she dated boys. "I went over to their house and I was over
there for six hours," Hirsch divulged to the Arizona Daily Wildcat.
"Every hour, they’d ask me if I was ready to repent, which basically
meant that you tell what you were doing and ask God’s forgiveness."
Hall
insulted Hirsch's family and said it was more important for her to
serve God over the military, ultimately leading her to release her full
ROTC scholarship.
Religious groups that behave like cults and hone in on the college crowd are all over the country. Almost three years ago, former freelance writer Pam M. detailed her shocking experiences
with a Christian cult at Old Dominion University in Virginia,
explaining she got into it to figure out what she truly believed.
"[W]ay
before I'd even enrolled in college, I was on a quest to figure out
spiritual truth, confused, and in a sense, lost," Pam wrote in XO Jane.
"I don't mean in the haven't-found-Jesus-way lost (although fundamental
Christians might disagree). No, I mean I wanted to be certain about my religious beliefs...I really wanted to get the significance of it!"
This curiosity
and hunger attracted a popular classmate named "Hilary," who slowly but
steadily lured her into a Christian group. Overtime, Pam found herself
trapped in Hilary's world. Pam had always been a top student, but her
evening schedule started "filling up with more meetings, Bible
discussions, dinners, and even worship dance team practices," leaving
Pam little time to study. Hilary responded to Pam's academic concerns by
insinuating worship was more important than scholarly pursuits, which,
of course, drew Pam to higher education in the first place.
Pam
broke away from the group when Hilary invited her to join her "cell
group," which entailed a "spiritually mature" individual coaching twelve
others on accountability. As the leader, Hilary would be Jesus and the
others disciples. Pam had reservations about viewing Hilary as "Jesus,"
but the final wakeup call was when Hilary said partaking in the group
would mean Pam couldn't keep secrets from her and would have to tell her
when she had crushes on boys.
"I probably should have seen the red flags sooner, but I was a blank slate," Pam wrote.
Though Pam fled before too long, things played out quite differently for Boze Herrington, who spent half a decade entrenched in an abusive prayer group that
started at Southwestern University in Texas. After finishing school, 20
community members relocated with group leader, Tyler Deaton to Kansas
City to join the International House of Prayer. When
Herrington expressed skepticism on Deaton's methods, he was
excommunicated. It got even crazier when Deaton's wife Bethany, with
whom Herrington had been close, died in an apparent suicide. Then a
fellow member confessed to killing Bethany, but the charges against him have since been dropped.
Herrington recently wrote in The Guardian
that he appreciates Tina Fey's Netflix comedy Unbreakable
Kimmy Schmidt, a show that follows a kidnapped cult escapee's transition
to regular life again. Like Ellie Kemper's character Kimmy, Herrington
found it hard to adapt to the real world upon leaving the cult. "I was
no longer sure how to behave socially," Herrington wrote. "For instance,
when I rented a house for the first time, I asked the landlord if there
would be mandatory weekly meetings in which we were required to discuss
our personal issues, as I had to do this every week when I was living
in the cult. I was stunned when he said no."
E! Online
As
their experiences took place fairly recently, Herrington and Pam had
the opportunity to write about and share them online, but college cults
have been an issue long before social media and the web gave people a
platform to tell their stories. In the early 90s, 19-year-old Rutgers
University student Sarah Lieu feasted off butter packs at Au Bon Pain, having given all her food money
to religious group Campus Advance. Like Lieu, freshman Diane Savill
found herself sucked into the ministry, recalling to the New York Times
that she'd been "love-bombed" by the church as soon as she began looking
into it.
"I was sitting alone in the dining hall when a young
woman by the name of Tara asked if she could sit with me," Savill told
the Times. "There was small talk. She said how hard it was for freshmen
to meet nice people on such a large campus."
Though Savill was
eating solo, she didn't necessarily feel lonely as Tara seemed to
imply. "I have lots of friends back home in Cherry Hill, but I wasn't
homesick," Savill said.
It's not unusual for campus ministers to
corner students who are all by themselves. The Arizona Daily Star report
noted that FCC campus ministers often stand around UA dorms during
move-in week, offering help to students with heavy lifting but harboring
ulterior motives. When I was fed up with the UA's flood of campus
evangelists later in college, I wrote in the Arizona Daily Wildcat about being ambushed while simply trying to read on a bench.
Because
of what I'd been through, that initial feeling of discomfort had
shifted to anger. When I was closer to the issue, I described it as
such, "[M]ost religious recruiters on college campuses appear to have
obvious intentions in mind: to help students find a suitable place of
worship ... Do they really care about the well-being of a lost, lonely
freshman seeking a substantial connection to the UA and a higher power
to turn to, or do they just want to feel better about themselves for
single-handedly obtaining another member to their institution? A
combination of both seems to drive the recruiters, but they aren't
helpful to others if the latter option holds more weight to them. In
that case, the troubled freshman is more alone than he initially thought
he was."
