I grew up in the 2×2’s with both sides of my family being in it for generations back. Growing up, only two of my extended family members (out of many) weren’t in the 2×2’s. I remember always feeling odd around them, but thinking that sometimes, they seemed more genuine and normal than the ones in it. And I loved my aunt’s simple diamond stud earrings. I had dream upon dream as a young girl/teenager about earrings.
My family was pretty hypocritical (and I’ve learned we weren’t unique in this like I thought we were!). My mom used to joke with us about how she would change out of her long skirt into jeans on the bus on the way to school, and how her mom never knew. We thought that was so funny. Ironically though, we would do the same when the workers were at our house!
Thankfully my parents weren’t strict about our dress at home or school, but this did cause a few awkward moments with fellow 2x2s at the grocery store, with us in our jeans and shorts. We would talk all the way home about what they must have thought when they saw us and the looks on their faces. It was kind of funny, but kind of not. We wanted to belong and didn’t want to be ostracized. We made sure to wear skirts around certain “stricter” family members, and all of the “friends”.
We listened to the radio, but never on Sunday. And we had a TV, but just for DVDs, and it was hidden in a cabinet when the workers came to our house.
My parents also let us participate in sports. My sisters and I found a love and passion for skiing at an early age, and were known to miss some Sunday afternoon gospel meetings to go skiing, or, as we got older, attend ski team practice.
Overall, meetings felt like something we did—not who we were. And I was thankful for that. I knew some people who weren’t allowed to have nearly as much freedom as we had. Those people did seem to have more friends in the 2x2s and get invited to more get togethers than we did, but besides feeling isolated at convention, it didn’t matter much to me.
I remember being very young and being told by my mom that the guaranteed way to get to heaven was to get someone else to come to meetings. So, I brought my friend whenever I could. She didn’t ever join, but I was an optimistic 7 year old and was sure I was going to heaven.
Around age 10-11, I had a very strange experience. I was at Yellow Springs convention, cleaning up after lunch, when I heard a loud voice say “Hasten, Angelika, quickly!” I looked all around me, but no one was there. Just me and the salt and pepper shakers. That night was the night that they “tested” the meeting though, and I felt sure God wanted me to quickly profess. I guilty sat through that whole meeting thinking about the voice I heard. I still am really not sure if it was my overactive imagination or, possibly, a worker. But I’m assured now that it definitely was not God.
I professed at age 12 at Vanderbilt convention, because that’s when Jesus professed, I was told. I tried to be emotional, but I wasn’t. It was mostly just stressful because I knew I would have to talk and pray after that!
I dated a couple guys from the 2x2s. One was 4 years my senior, when I was 14. I was a freshman in high school, he was a freshman in college. He was a “serious” 2×2 by all standards, and I wore skirts for the first few times I went to his house. By that point we had already been messaging online for months though, and had snuck into a tent together for a night at convention. It was fast, I was young, and I wish someone would have sounded an alarm. But he was professing and baptized and did all the right things.
I made the decision to be baptized at Alma or Carsonville, around age 15. Like when I professed, I was doing it because it was expected of me. The evening before, the workers told me that I needed a long jean skirt for the baptism. I told them I didn’t have one. They said I could borrow one from someone, and I eventually found one. I remember thinking it was weird that I had to wear a long jean skirt (specifically), when I had only worn one a couple of times, but I was willing to comply.
Early the next morning, there were loud knocks on my grandparents’ camper, where I was staying. Two workers stood outside and asked me to join them. Thankfully, my dad walked up at the same time I sat down in a camp chair.
We sat in a line, as they told me that God had revealed to them, after much prayer, that I wasn’t to be baptized. I had too much makeup in my cabinet at home, missed too many gospel meetings to ski/was too into skiing, and had a TV in my house (room).
I cried a lot. It felt horrible to be told that I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t understand baptism a lot, but I understood that they were telling me that God didn’t want me. I wholeheartedly believed them, but not for the reasons they gave me. I knew that I didn’t actually know God. I never read my Bible, except to choose a verse for Wednesday or Sunday, and never prayed, except for during meeting. So, in a sense, it made sense to me that God would reveal to them that I shouldn’t be baptized.
But at my core, I felt off. Their reasons made no sense. Did God really care about the reasons they mentioned? I highly doubted it.
During the next meeting, when all the newly baptized gave testimonies, tears freely flowed. As a 8-9 year old kid stood up to talk about how grateful he was to be baptized, I had to leave the building. I couldn’t take hearing from all the people who were “good enough”.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of the end of a lot of things.
I don’t think I ever went to another meeting. My boyfriend and I broke up. And my incredibly small, naive view of God started to expand.
My parents gave my sister and I permission to go to another church’s youth group. It was incredible and felt so liberating. We had fun, talked about God in ways that I could actually understand, and were allowed to ask any questions we wanted to! I still hung on to the double life I had grown acclimated to, by being immersed in the youth group on one side, but trying out new relationships and occasional drinking on the other. My life felt so much more free though.
My mom told me that a few weeks after my no-baptism day, they met with some workers. They were told that what had happened was completely within bounds. There were no apologies. My mom said that things would have been much different if they even confessed their mistake, but no confession or apology was made.
My dad was very angry, and he went on Sunday morning for a while, simply to try to tell others the actual truth. (He’d studied his Bible a TON since my no-baptism day and had found a lot of hypocrisy. He also was surprised to learn that workers wrote most of our hymns).
Not soon after though, a few workers and the state overseer (who lived primarily with my grandparents) came to our house and, in short, told him to stop. I don’t remember it being a partially warm meeting and, by the end, they didn’t even say goodbye.
A few months later, the youth group director told me that the next Sunday at church was “senior Sunday”, and they were going to give Bibles to every high school senior. He said my family and I could come, but there was no pressure. I told my parents about it, and for a few days, didn’t hear anything from them. I assumed they weren’t going to go, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.
Sunday came, and as I walked into the living area, I saw my parents standing there, dressed up and ready to go. I was so excited, so happy, but one thing made me smile the biggest. On Sunday morning, to church, my mom was wearing jeans.
Church was awesome. We all loved it so much that we never missed a Sunday. The preaching was exhilarating, the worship amazing, the people so kind and loving. The hardest, but also most incredible part for me though, was communion. I cried every time, because I still felt like it wasn’t for me.
At Christmas that year, we went to church and actually talked about the meaning of Christmas. The day was filled with so much joy! Even more so a few years later on Christmas, when my sisters and I opened up our presents, and found the best possible present ever. Earrings! (I was the happiest 19 year old with newly pierced ears)
Fast forward to 2016, to a walk with my pastor’s wife. In those 5 years I had met my (now) husband (a 2nd generation pastor’s kid, ironically enough!), went to college, and questioned my faith. My husband had met a guy at CrossFit that just happened to also be a pastor. He invited us to small group —something completely new and terrifying to me. We loved it from the get go and felt loved and supported. My faith grew as I learned more and more about what God did for me, who Jesus was, and how none of it had anything to do with me doing enough to be “good”.
Baptism was still such a sticking point for me though, so I asked my pastors wife, “Okay but really, what do I have to do? How do I know I’m ready?” All she said back was, “Do you believe that Jesus died for you?” It is simply as simple as that. I was baptized that summer by my pastor and (now) husband.
A year later, my husband and I got married on a volcano in El Salvador while on a mission trip, by the same pastor that baptized me.
We’ve been married 5 years now and have 2 baby girls who we are raising to know and love Jesus.
I feel like I’m just now starting to wrap my head around my past—but feel super thankful for this group of people who share a lot of similar experiences!
Angelika Rasper
June 16, 2022