Independent Fundamental Baptist. If people would ask me, an adult woman, “what is the first thought that comes to mind when you hear those three words?” my answer would be these three words: Fear. Fear. Fear.
Fear? Yes. Plain out of your mind, “I’m gonna’ die” kind of fear. The form of fear that grips your heart and your eternal soul. Fear that doesn’t allow you to think rationally—after all, it is an out of this world sort of fear, the kind that means eternal damnation. A fear of forever being lost—although you have already been found. A fear that terrifies you that maybe you were never found, so you will forever be lost. It does not have boundaries and limits, because it does not know boundaries and limits. It is the fear of missing Heaven Celestial forever with Jesus, the fear of eternal torment in Hell with Satan and his demons.
A fear that controls. A fear that confines. A fear that steals you from yourself. But most of all, I am talking about a man-made fear.
The fear within fundamentalism.
I was born and raised in IFB. It was my identity. It was my life. I also had another identity within it—I was marked—I belonged to the crowd that was not always labeled, but they were whispered about. I was one of the Doubters.
One of those who just couldn’t “know that you know, that you know.” Whom some have referred to as a “Doubting Thomas” (taken from John 20). My salvation just wasn’t as secure as some of the others. I wasn’t as sure as others.