EXTREME BELIEFS
Cherie Transeau, 27, faced crisis point when she called her beliefs into question…
Waving a cardboard sign in the air, I was surrounded by people shouting. At just eight years old, the crowds towered above me, blocking the sky with their homemade signs.
Beside me, my mum Karin, 63, and my dad Dave, 63, waved their placards, too. Pro-choice is evil, one read. We need Christian leaders, read another.
‘We’re saving babies’ lives,’ our pastor had said, before we all headed out to a local abortion clinic.
Being so young, I didn’t truly know what an abortion was, or why we needed to protest.
And being raised a strict Christian Fundamentalist, I knew no better.
Spending every Sunday at our local church in Washington D.C., I learned everything I knew there.
At five years old, I was learning about salvation in a church classroom.
‘If you’ve ever told a lie, raise your hand,’ the teacher said.
Looking around, the other children had terrified looks on their faces.
I kept my hand down. ‘Every lie you tell brings you closer to hell,’ the teacher told us. ‘Lying is a sin.’
I learned that to question the sacred word of God, the Bible or the Church was a sin, too.
The idea of hell haunted me. I imagined it as a fiery pit we’d be banished to forever if we misbehaved.
But there was no space to question my beliefs – I was constantly surrounded by them. It was like being raised in a religious cult.
Mum home-schooled me by following a special curriculum curated by a Christian Fundamentalist group.
So, I was never around any other children apart from my Christian friends and family.
Reading through my science textbooks, they disproved evolution, instead teaching me about creationism – the idea that God created the world. I was even taught a warped view of history and society, too – to me, the US Civil War was waged over state’s rights and the LGBTQ+ community were pretenders.
But there was one teaching I couldn’t wrap my head around.
‘Only men can be pastors,’ I was told.
It made me feel uneasy – I
looked up to Mum so much.
Pretending to be a pastor in my bedroom, reciting Christian verses, the possibility that I’d never be able to become one baffled me.
What makes me incapable? I thought, confused.
It was the first time I’d ever questioned my beliefs. Although I never brought up these doubts with my family.
Going to a dedicated Christian Fundamentalist college aged 17, I noticed the out-of-character behaviour of the students around me, despite us having the same beliefs.
All my life, we’d been taught to ‘love thy neighbour’ by showing kindness to everyone.
But that wasn’t being put into practice.
One of my male classmates was expelled after being caught alone with another female student – he was helping her after her car broke down.
This doesn’t feel quite right, I thought, feeling uneasy.
Meeting my now-husband Landon, 27, in college, we instantly bonded over our similar mindsets.
Although we couldn’t be alone together, we shared the same circle of friends, allowing us to spend time together.
We often had whispered conversations where we shared the conflicts we spotted.
We need to get out of here,i thought desperately.
But I couldn’t leave – we weren’t allowed to leave campus unattended, let alone go home for the holidays.
So, I blocked it out and focused on my studies instead.
Joking about all the strict rules that no longer made sense to us kept me sane.
Four years later, me and Landon left college and tied the knot aged 21 in September 2018 – it was a Christian tradition to marry so young – and settled down into our own place together in Washington.
Despite having doubts about our faith at college, graduating and living apart from family gave us a breath of fresh air. So, in the first few years of our married life, we jumped back into church again.
We helped run the marriage committee and the children’s service, too.
While Landon worked for a Christian-run company, I landed a job as a barista at our local Starbucks.
There, I found a group of friends who weren’t religious.
And to my surprise, they were kinder than some of my Christian classmates.
I’d been told by the church that I’d be persecuted for my beliefs. But my friends never judged me.
In March 2020, when Covid hit, everything came to a head.
While me and Landon reached for our masks, most of our church friends refused to wear them.
Watching the Black Lives Matter protests run rampant, too, I shared my support.
But again, most of our friends were against the cause.
Although we were unable to go to church during the pandemic, their social media posts haunted me.
None of this makes sense anymore, I thought.
I kept my concerns to myself, a storm brewing inside me.
Although, the pandemic gave me space to breathe – I was no longer surrounded by the echo chamber of my beliefs.
I listened to progressive Christian podcasts and read similar books, too.
They taught me that I could still be a Christian, all while being a LGBTQ+ ally and supporting women’s rights.
Slowly, my original beliefs started unravelling.
Only, I didn’t know if Landon would want to take the next step with me.
Sharing what I’d learned with him, he looked terrified.
‘Cherie, you can’t say stuff like that,’ he said.
So, I continued deconstructing – breaking down my beliefs – alone.
Only, within three months, Landon joined me, too.
And now, a few years later, I have a completely new perspective on my religion.
I still read the Bible and believe in Jesus, but I can support the causes I care about, too.
While I don’t like calling myself a Christian, I’ve settled for being labelled as a progressive or a cancelled Christian instead.
Despite everything that has happened, I’m not ashamed of my past. I never knew any better, so I can’t blame myself.
Now, I’m on a break from going to church – the thought of stepping foot inside one is too traumatic.
I’ve committed to following my own beliefs by donating to Gofundme pages of women who need to travel to a different state to have an abortion, anti-gun law organisations and refugee charities, too.
As for Landon, he hasn’t stepped foot in a church since we started deconstructing, and he doesn’t know if he ever will.
I was terrified to tell my parents about me deconstructing, but luckily, they saw my point of view.
However now, we have set boundaries – we don’t talk about religion or politics.
Only, the rest of the community weren’t too pleased with my deconstructing journey.
‘She’s going off the edge,’ our family friends told my parents.
But while the journey has been tough so far, I feel much better for it.
Now, I know that the religious beliefs I was taught don’t define me.
I had to keep my doubts to myself
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