Page 50 of Omega's Faith
Control.
The word comes again, harder to push away this time.
Financial resources are pooled and distributed according to need, a system critics call 'financial control designed to prevent independence.' Members are discouraged from maintaining personal savings or assets...
We share because that's what families do. When the Parkers' house burned down, the entire community rebuilt it. When Mom needed surgery, everyone contributed. That's not control, it's—
But I remember saying I wanted to save money for college, because I wanted to know what college might be like, and Pastor David explaining that self-sufficiency was a form of pride, that trusting God meant trusting the community He provided.
Perhaps most concerning is the role of Pastor David White, the Fellowship's aging leader, whose fire-and-brimstone sermons about sin and damnation have been described as 'psychological manipulation' by religious scholars. Former members report an environment of constant judgment, where normal human desires are labeled as sinful and members live in fear of eternal damnation...
My chest tightens. Pastor David can be... intense. I think of his sermon at our wedding, the way he'd called Alex a sinner in need of salvation in front of a thousand guests. The way he talks about the outside world as a pit of corruption waiting to swallow us whole.
But he does it because he feels strongly. That's not manipulation, it's—
Control?
I'm so absorbed in the article that I don't hear the door open. Don't notice another presence until Alex clears his throat.
I look up to find him standing in the doorway, hair mussed, still in his running gear. The music from upstairs has stopped.He looks uncertain, maybe even apologetic—
"Finally over your tantrum?" The words come out before I can stop them, sharp and cutting. "That music was so loud they probably heard it in town. Very mature."
His expression shutters, any softness vanishing. "I came to talk, actually. But if you want to be a little bitch—"
"Talk?" I stand, the newspaper crumpling in my grip. "Like we talked at breakfast? Where you informed me that children—the one thing I've always wanted, the one thing I thought every alpha wanted—are too expensive and time-consuming for your busy schedule of doing absolutely nothing?"
"What? I didn’t say that."
"Do you think I grew up in a cult?"
The question stops him cold. His eyes flick to the newspaper in my hand, and I see understanding dawn on his face.
I hold it up, my hand shaking with fury. "This. This garbage. Is this what you think? That my family, my entire life, is some kind of cult?"
He shifts his weight, and I wait for it. For the denial, the explanation, the diplomatic dodge that means he really does think it but doesn't want to say so.
Instead, he meets my eyes directly and says, "Yes?"
Like it's obvious. Like it's not even a question worth asking. Like saying water is wet or the sky is blue.
"You—" I can't even form words. The casualness of it, the matter-of-fact certainty. "You think I’m a cult member?"
"Jonah—"
"Pastor David married every couple in my family. He baptized all us kids. He held my hand when my grandmother died. But sure, he's a cult leader. And I'm what, exactly? A brainwashed victim? Or just damaged goods?"
"I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to." The hurt is morphing into rage, hot andclean and so much easier to handle.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Look, I'm not saying you're brainwashed, but you have to admit, some of it is pretty controlling—"
"Controlling?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You want to talk about control? Your entire life is controlled! You don't cook your own meals, wash your own clothes, make your own appointments. Every single thing is done for you, decided for you. Diana controls your money, your image, your entire life. But my family is the controlling one?"
His jaw tightens. "That's different."
"Is it? At least my family's control comes from love. What's your excuse for letting Diana run your life like you're still a child?"