Part Three: The Room

by Ripley Johnson

The Worldwide Church of God only owned a handful of physical properties and church buildings. Its members met in a wide variety of rented facilities. WCG members that lived anywhere too far from WCG HQ in Pasadena, California or the Ambassador College in Big Sandy, Texas had their weekly church services in thousands of different locations over the years.  

I remember lots of different places that the WCG used for church services when I was little. There was my favorite place, The Garden Center, located in Downtown Dallas, Texas very close to the Aquarium. The Garden Center was amazingly beautiful. (I remember lush beautiful plants everywhere, outdoor gardens, water features… oh man it was so perfect. Sometimes there would be a wedding ceremony with a potluck reception and dancing after church services were over. Those Saturdays were the best!) But it for whatever reason, the rental agreement ended and we moved on to other spaces for our unusually long Saturday services. I remember several school auditoriums and/or gymnasiums, a Chiropractic college that was formerly a Baptist church, a few other places that I was too young to identify, and the place I hated the most out of all of them, the VFW event hall.

All of these places were distinctly different and had their own features that the WCG congregation would adapt to their own needs. One feature that you could always find in every rented WCG space around the world was something called “The Mother’s Room.” Even just thinking about the term “Mother’s Room” puts a knot in my stomach and I get an overwhelming desire to crawl under the nearest table and hide.

The Mother’s Room was a place for three specific events. 

1. Changing diapers2. Nursing babies3. Beating children

Imagine a room that smelled like a hundred dirty diapers and was full of the sounds of angry women’s voices, the smacking of wood on bare skin, and children screaming in terror.

If you think it sounds like the stuff of nightmares, you’re right. I still have nightmares about it.

Most of the kids at church got hit with a bible or a hymnal at least a few times. We all knew that we deserved to be hit, although we were rarely clear on why. Making noise during the service, running after the service, or failing to have your Y.E.S. (Youth Educational Services) bible lessons fully completed seemed to be the most common offenses. And if you didn’t shape up after a trip to the Mother’s Room, then your Dad would take you to the Men’s bathroom (if it wasn’t in use by other men) or out to the car for some discipline that was beyond what your mom was physically capable of delivering.

Wives almost always received their “corrections” at home after services. Usually those corrections were related to the misbehavior of the children at church. And then, as if that weren’t enough, there was always a good dose of “gaslighting” for mom and the kids from dads, who got it from the pastors, who got it from HQ in Pasadena.

For everyone who manages to make an exit from Armstrongism there is a time where nothing seems real and nothing can really be trusted. People who get out often find themselves unable to really believe or trust anyone or anything for an extended period. Our lives are an endless series of questions that nobody is able to answer for us.

o Did I see what I saw?
o Did I really live that life?
o What it really as bad as it seemed?
o How could that have actually happened and have been accepted as normal?
o Who am I if I’m not in “the church” anymore?

I think what’s really the most challenging part of it all is coming to accept that not only are the people who did these things NEVER going to apologize for them, but they aren’t even going to acknowledge that they even happened.

My entire childhood was shrouded in secrecy and deception. The only way that I know that I’m safe, sane, and not going to suffer at the hands of an angry and vengeful God is through the stories told by others who made it out and remember what happened to them too.
And again… I was one of the lucky few who weren’t hit with bibles or oversized homemade paddles. I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of hell those kids experienced. What I do know is that the thought of living one day in their houses was both my fantasy and my nightmare at the same time. I always wanted to live someone else’s life, but I never forgot how lucky I was that my mom was so obsessed with staying slender and feminine instead of being strong and independent.

If you were one of those kids and you’re reading this now as a survivor, please know that I heard your screams. I still cry for what was done to you. It was real and you didn’t just make up that story to hurt someone or make them feel or look bad. What they did to you was wrong, they knew it was wrong, and they lied about it to make themselves feel better. Each and every Saturday was nothing but theater and behind the perfect scenery there was the worst kind of darkness and fear. But the echoes of Armstrongism are dying out and with them all the horrors of “The Mother’s Room” are fading away as well. 

See the complete story here, that was published in response to Tonto's comment about HWA: