The North Country’s Potemkin village
Christian Fellowship Center promised us utopia. What it delivered was a nightmare.
As the Sons of Patriarchy podcast continues to expose the rot in Doug Wilson’s circles, the parallels between Christ Church and Christian Fellowship Center are striking. Today I keep reflecting on how these cults (or “immersive communities”) sell themselves as a utopia and deliver hell instead.
CFC promised parents that if they followed specific child training procedures, their children would become zealous for God. Passionate. On fire.
CFC promised that mental illness and physical illness would disappear if only we would speak in tongues, seek supernatural healing, and submit to exorcisms.
CFC promised us that we were special. It offered us Truth that could not be found anywhere else. We were a hidden gem. Where else in the North Country could you find such talented musicians leading worship? Where else would you find large, happy families that modeled multi-generational kingdom building?
CFC promised community and love and belonging.
When guest ministers came to CFC, they always told us how lucky we were to have Rick Sinclair as our pastor. “You are blessed!” they said. “Your pastor is such a godly leader!”
There were points when I believed the promises. Several times during my childhood, my family moved away from CFC for my dad to pursue schooling or a full-time job. The contrast between being a respected child of a CFC leader and being the awkward nobody at another church was stunning. The loneliness encouraged me to think of CFC as the place where things felt right—where I was complete. My family’s suspicion of the world and obsession with holiness felt uncomfortable outside the CFC bubble.
Perhaps my parents felt the discomfort as well. It was like we were putting on a scratchy wool jacket and shoes that were slightly too tight when we were away from CFC. We would try to import CFC customs and practices into the churches we attended, but it didn’t work. We would spend most of our time calling and emailing the people we had left behind. We itched and we scratched and wiggled our toes until finally, it was too much. Time after time, we shed the jacket, cast aside the shoes, and flew north.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized that what is comfortable and familiar is not always healthy. My relief at returning to CFC was not a sign that CFC was a good place. It was simply all that I knew.
CFC was immensely successful in helping people deny the truth to themselves and to each other. If we lived in a utopia, how could we possibly be unhappy? How could we possibly be lonely?
But of course I was unhappy. And I was lonely. I realize now that other kids were much lonelier, but I felt excluded as well. I felt respected by adults, but not particularly liked by my peers.
My dad’s compulsive need to be better than everyone else meant that there was always a barrier between me and other kids. Other kids might do sleepovers, but we didn’t. Other kids might watch PG-13 movies, but we didn’t. We didn’t listen to music unless it was classical recordings or worship music. We didn’t have a TV. Other kids might wear sweats, but we would never do that. Other teenagers might be allowed to have parties at each others’ houses, but we couldn’t attend.
I was supposed to be happy, but I was filled with self-loathing. It was the only way I could justify my abuse. Obviously, my parents were forced to beat me because I was a terrible child. The teenage girl who managed a household of 6 children couldn’t possibly be trusted to do the right thing.
The utopia turned out to be a fraud. It was the North Country’s Potemkin village—just an elaborate facade. There were times when I knew it deep inside, but I couldn’t admit it. It would have utterly destroyed me to acknowledge the truth. And CFC very cleverly told us that our feelings were lies.
Maybe if I just went in deeper. Maybe if I just read my bible more. Maybe if I just could speak in tongues for real instead of faking it. Maybe if I just clenched my body tight enough, I could rise above the world into a spiritual plain.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed in the North Country instead of going to college. Would I still be trapped inside? Would I still be spinning lies and smiling with my mouth but not my eyes? I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is that CFC’s promises were false. They had no community they could offer—-just cliques and silent judgment. They had no true healing to offer unless your body could somehow cure itself with fruits and vegetables.
Those zealous, passionate children? Many of them are scattered far away. They want nothing to do with CFC, their families, or religion.
It’s so easy to see the lies now. It’s so easy to ask why people still inside can’t see the fraud—why they can’t smell the shit right under their noses.
But I was born into that shit. And I know how easy it is to pretend the shit is actually chocolate.