an open letter to nicktheradical

eight years ago I was a fundamentalist Christian let loose on the early internet. My transition to my current spiritual state is another long story, but having this as background doesn't hurt. During the reign of AOL and Netscape browsers (meggy4JC@netscape.net), and years before Myspace, there was Bolt.com. Bolt was a really amazing place back then; it existed as a lively social networking site with games, quizzes, "badges" to encourage frequent interaction, and discussion boards.

Sometime in the early 2000s I discovered these boards and became a frequent contributor under two topics: Sex, and Religion. The former, I knew absolutely nothing about; of my posts on the latter, I would completely disavow any statement re-published today. What I find remarkable about this period of my life, and of the internet, is that while the other Bolt members might not have been the most eloquent, they certainly didn't post the types of rock-bottom English language comments that one might see on any given YouTube video or popular blog today. The great majority of the posts were passionate, if imperfectly-syntaxed, and represented genuine feeling and a meted sense of worth. Hence, memories of my own "fundie" contributions horrify and astound me, since I know people had actually read them.

On more than one occasion, I would come home from babysitting late at night, grab my three Bibles (different translations), and sit cross-legged on the office chair at the family computer. I'd open up the Bolt religion boards and provide thoroughly "researched" comments and rebuttals to my peers' metaphysical assertions. The things I was saying were as real to me as anything in a textbook. I would emphatically remind the internet that anyone who genuinely accepted Christ into their heart would go to Heaven. That the Old Testament required acts; the New Testament only faith. That simplifying the terms was what "Christianity was all about; going from a crucifix to a cross."

"You mean Protestantism," some smart agnostic pointed out.

"Sure," I said, not at all embarrassed that I didn't even have the history straight.

I found a particular person over the course of my lectures who was well-spoken and gentle. He was "deist," who prayed "more as an art form than as a genuine act of supplication," but engaged me in the debate in a more human way than many others. His avatar was a yin and yang symbol, and his username was "nicktheradical."

On one occasion, we got into a really heated argument; it may have been about—and I cringe as I type this—abortion. I'd refresh the page until his message would appear, type for 15 to 20 minutes, submit, and repeat. Some family friends picked me up to go babysit; I would rush to their computer after making dinner for the kids, after reading 5 year-old David a Bible Adventures story, after reassuring Sarah she was safe from her particularly bad "night dream." I cleared the cache, and the parents came home. As soon as I was back in my own house, I ran back to the computer yet again, typing so furiously that my dad woke up and came into the den.

"What's going on, honey?"

I jumped. The part I left out was, I knew my parents would not like this. My dad was the type that forwarded emails around about Little Susie almost being murdered by an AIM buddy, who turned out to be a policeman just trying to get a point across. Dig?

"Um, nothing."

"What is this site? What are you typing?"

"It's um, just a message board."

"Who are you talking to? Strangers?"

And it sort of didn't matter that the entire night had been this strangely intense, passionate voicing of the religion my parents had raised me in, and that I was trying to—in the most respectful way possible—save the soul of an agnostic who lived a couple thousand miles away. I crumbled at his disdain, disappointment.

"I'm not saying anything about my life, we're just talking."

"I don't want you on this site anymore." He looked at the browser's URL. "Bolt.com? I don't want you going to Bolt anymore. Go to bed, honey." He walked off, still struggling with the brightness of the monitor light at 1 a.m.

At fourteen years old, choices are limited: obey, or rebel. It wasn't the kind of night I was willing to risk my youth group privileges on. I deleted the history, closed the browser, and went to my room.

You may have forgotten, kind reader, that this is an open letter. I tell this story in hopes that it reaches nicktheradical, somewhere. To Nick: This is why I never responded that night. I tried to contact you through Facebook, but I'm not sure if either of those profiles were you. I'm not a bot; I'm a real person who has survived twenty-four-hour prayer meetings, speaking in tongues, Lifehouse as the church worship band, and yes, internet troll-ism. Thank you for listening to me, for taking me seriously. You didn't change my mind back then, but you were an oasis of gray in my teen-hood's endless sea of black and white.