This the second installment of my current substack series on my personal experience with being raised under complementarian theologies. You can read the first one here. Thank you for being gracious in receiving my story.
TRIGGER WARNING: this next part involves talking about (some) of my experience with Bill Gothard’s teaching. If the subject matter is too sensitive for you, I understand.
I never forgot the panthers.
There were two of them; apex predators with maws agape, muscles locked in position to strike, teeth flashing like daggers unsheathed in the sun. And my family walked right between them.
At the time we called rural, small-town North Carolina home. The closest big city was Charlotte, but we hardly ever ventured there. We were a single income family of eight just above the poverty line in the 90s. Traveling into the city cost time and money my parents didn’t have, unless they thought the sacrifice was worth it. And at the time, The Basic Life Seminar hosted by Bill Gothard in the Panthers Stadium was one such instance.
I was too young at the time to remember much beyond being staggered at how big the event was; I’d never attended anything with thousands of other people before. I don’t recall seeing Bill Gothard onstage. I don’t remember the specific teaching. I was dropped off with my siblings in the youth program where I filled out the work books and cringed while the leaders flirted with each other in-between lessons.
And the panthers. I remember the panthers.
Eagle. Bear. Ram.
On the shelf in our house sat three volumes. I could barely heft their weight on my own but I did often. I’d haul them off to our couch where I’d sit and pour over their pages filled with rich illustrations of North American Animals paired with character lessons for children. I can still recall the chocolate leather bound hardcovers, the white poster board dust sleeves and the gold embossing on the spines.
If you asked me today, I wouldn’t be able to articulate word-for-word what the IBLP Character Sketch Volumes stories were; it was usually something to do with being industrious and/or submitting to authority. I just remember the detailed and colorful illustrations of animals. It would be decades before I could find a word for the lessons those books taught me: shame.
Her Nails Were Painted Black
I don’t remember why we visited the church. I do remember The Girl With Black Nails.
At the time, we were in a house church situation with 3-4 other families that would completely implode years later. But because my dad was a well-known grandson of the most famous pastor in our Appalachian community, we frequently visited other churches.
Sometimes, my dad would fill in to preach if a church’s pastor was on vacation. Sometimes we would travel to visit another church where our family would perform the “special music”. But the most common reason was when a local church was hosting a revival (evening services hosted by the church every night of certain weeks out of the year).
The details aren’t clear to me as to why we were visiting this particular church that night. I just remember being put in the children’s class. One of the older “helpers” in the class was a young woman, probably in her late teens to early 20s. She had dark hair and was wearing more make-up than I’d ever seen my mother put on in her life. And this girl’s nails were painted black; like cat’s claws.
Soon after starting the class, one of the teachers brightly informed us at the end of the service we’d all be marching back into the big auditorium where the adults were. There, we’d all line up on the stage to sing the songs we’d been learning “for your moms and dads!”. I panicked.
Not only was I a painfully shy child with paralyzing stage fright, I also hadn’t been there all week to learn the songs the other children had. Imagine my horror at being told I was about to go onstage in an auditorium full of strangers and perform songs I hadn’t practiced. For an reserved elementary kid like me, it was the stuff of nightmares.
I immediately went to the teacher and told her I wanted to go sit with my parents now. I was ready to do anything to avoid stepping on that stage. She must have realized my stress was something I couldn’t be swayed out of and made arrangements. The Girl With the Black Nails was given the job of making sure I made it safely back to where my parents were sitting in the adult service.
My parents were understandably confused, but there was no time to explain myself. I watched the kids take the stage and listened to the other mom’s and dad’s applause. I hid in the pew next to mine, relieved that I didn’t have to perform that night.
Later, my mom and dad tried to get to the bottom of why I’d asked to leave the kid's church. Somehow the subject of The Girl With the Black Nails came up. “Did that girl make you nervous?” They asked. A second wave of panic splashed at my feet. Could I admit I’d been too scared to go onstage, or would I let The Girl With the Black Nails be a scapegoat explanation for what happened? I chose the latter.
It wasn’t until the following Sunday when our house church gathered in my family’s home that my dad brought up what had happened in front of the other adults. I didn’t understand why the situation was being talked about, I just stood next to my dad in silence while he retold the story.
He talked about how we’d recently visited a church and his shock that “a girl with dark lipstick and black nails” had been allowed to help in the kid’s program. He went on to tell everyone how I’d escaped being anywhere near this young woman’s teaching because of my “discernment” at knowing something wasn’t right about the situation. He praised my ability to stand up for what was right even in the face of “worldly influences”. I crumpled inside.
I confessed the truth to my dad in private later. I told him it hadn’t been The Girl With the Black Nails that scared me at the church, but rather the idea of having to perform in front of a room full of strangers. I don’t know if he ever corrected his account of the story to members of our house church.
All I learned was the idea that women in the Church who looked like The Girl With the Black Nails were dangerous. My dad just wanted to protect me. And back then, he’d been taught that anything outside the rigid structure of evangelical fundamentalism was hazardous.
I would learn later that it’s not what someone looks like that makes them unsafe, its how well they can twist God’s truth to fit a man-made agenda.
Panthers Have Many Names
My dad still tells the story of driving out in the Appalachian mountains one stormy night back in the 90s. The road he was on wound through the mountains as the clouds emptied themselves overhead. The lights from his vehicle turned into the curve and he saw something he’d never forget: the silhouette of a black panther. It sat stoically in the underbrush, the rain pelting the void of its black fur as it used the cover of night to do its work.
My parents would eventually (over a period of many years) move away from our proximity to ATI/Bill Gothard/IBLP. My mom isn’t too proud to admit a bulk of the reasons were financial in nature. Yes, they didn’t agree with everything that was taught, but we also simply could not afford the shiny curriculum and traveling expenses. I’ve never been so thankful to have been raised close to the poverty line.
Some might look at my story and wipe their brow with relief. “We’re conservative sure, but we’re nothing like that. We’re nowhere close to the cult of Bill Gothard.”
The sad reality is the teachings of Bill Gothard didn’t crop up and thrive out of nowhere and they certainly didn’t stay within that bubble. They existed elsewhere too. They were rooted in beautiful churches with stain glass windows and green carpet. These teaching were in places that sang orthodox hymns and MercyMe and Phil Wickam. They were in churches that read from the ESV and had VBS and no one in the congregation homeschooled their children. What was taught might have went by different names, but the damaging effects of patriarchal dominance were everywhere. Ask me how I know.
Where I grew up, panthers were called cougars. But travel to different regions and you’ll hear them referred to as pumas, mountain lions, or panthers (especially if they’re black). Regardless, they’re all the same species of predator. And no matter what name they go by, there’s one thing that remains constant: you don’t know you’re being hunted until you see them.
And by then, it's too late.
I appreciate you sharing your story, Breanne. You're very right. I'd never heard of Bill Gothard until very recently, but when I did, I was all too familiar with that brand of teaching and how I felt growing up in that kind of church culture.
You might find this interesting.
https://www.jstor.org/stable/25485063