I've always wanted to share my experience of Houston Baptist Univeristy.

And now I can.

I had no choice but to go to a Baptist school. I had applied to other colleges, ones with great film majors that weren’t too far away, but never heard back from any of them, and I was running out of time. It was the end of the school year, I was graduating high school, and my mom made sure I knew how important it was for me to get a scholarship. Being a single mother, she didn’t have enough money to send me to college herself, and she had heard that Houston Baptist University was a good school…and that they had given me over fifty thousand dollars for four years. The decision had been made, but I thought, “I’m not Baptist. I don’t go to church. I don’t even pray on a regular basis! What can I possibly learn from that school?” But I couldn’t worry about that. It was a good school, it was close, and it gave me money. I put the Baptist part aside to be worried about later.

As I sat behind the wheel, learning the route to my Baptist school, “No,” I said to myself. “Don’t call it that. As far as you’re concerned, it’s Houston University. No need to work yourself up over something that doesn’t matter.” It was just a school, same as any other. I’d just ignore that Baptist part.

Amazingly, preview weekend had impressed me. I was amazed by how friendly everyone was; the teachers, the group leaders, even the random people we passed by on our tour of the school. Everyone was so nice. The campus was small and quiet and clean; absolutely nothing like the hustle and bustle of my high school. I had never fit in because of all that chaos. I was never comfortable being a small fish in a big pond. For college, I needed to feel special and comfortable, and I could already sense a close-knit community. So what if this wasn’t my first choice? Just because it started off as a last resort didn’t mean it had to stay that way. It started to seem like I could be happy at HBU.

The school had just started a Cinema and New Media Arts program. They had new equipment, fresh, experienced teachers who’d actually worked in film, and because the program was so new, I’d be one of the first few to experience it! It was perfect! None of that old, rusty equipment from high school that always broke down or being so short staffed, the school hired totally unqualified people. Finally, here was a school with the financial backing and independence to teach me real, in-depth art. He’d said all the right things: we’d focus on the art, not the technology, we’d learn what made cinema great then and how it makes it great now, we’d learn hands-on with experience. “Finally I could be an artist in a place that understands what that means,” I thought.

Then the professor said something that sank into the pit of my stomach. “We also focus on our responsibilities as artists of faith,” he said. “Students will study how Christians have thought about culture and art and will be challenged to understand their vocation as media creators from a biblical perspective. Through this, students develop an understanding of how to live out their faith through their work as they seek to affect the culture around them.”

My dream came crashing down. Were all my films supposed to be about Jesus? Would I never be able to write, direct, create anything without the overwhelming shadow of Jesus and his Father looking over my shoulder, taking over everything I do, stealing my work? This was the creative restriction I’d hoped to get away from. I’d spent my entire high school career defending my creative choices to teachers who didn’t know a thing about the twenty-first century, and now I would have to defend myself to a room full of religious Baptists.

“But never mind that,” I said. “You’ll worry about that later.” I put the “Baptist” aside; but even as I walked away, the future flashed into my head of me once again the outcast. Fear ran through me as I worried if I would have to battle the world for another four years.

As I walked along the campus of Houston University in the fall of 2014, I felt like I was on an advanced alien planet – with me being the inferior species. So these were “Baptist” people. People who’d probably read the Bible backward and forwards six times over, walking the same sidewalk with me, the one who’s Bible stories came from Veggie Tales and stopped there. Here were people who went to church and enjoyed it, going to school with me, the one who can’t remember the last time she went and is too lazy to go. These were the people prayed every morning and over their food at the dinner table, sitting in class with me, the one who only prays when they remember that God exists. There they were and there was me.

It had happened once already in Lecture class. The professor, about to begin a lengthy telling of academia, asked the class how many knew some fantastical biblical story. All the hands around me went up while mine stayed stationary, sunk and heavy in my lap.

How long before they would lash me with Bible scriptures, tear me with proverbs, beat me with brimstone? How long before gays were going to hell and abortion was murder, before music was gospel, before books were biblical and imagination was blasphemy? How long before they knew the truth and would beam down on me with horror-stricken, judging eyes?

“You don’t know that?” they’d gasp.

“You’ve never read it?” they’d shriek.

I slunk around for the first week, keeping an eye out for God’s mighty thunderbolt when I all of a sudden I was stricken with...kindness. Sometimes there’d be wide eyes when I told them: “I don’t go to church. I’ve never read the Bible. Who’s Elijah?”, but they’d last for so short a time, you forget they were there; and then they’d tell me. They were just as happy to teach me as I was to learn. I suspect they loved my asking, so they could teach me and I grew to like asking, so I would know.

I learned that Baptists watch Netflix and sing lead in their bands. I learned that Baptists love Chick-Fil-A. I learned that Baptists joke and draw funny pictures on the board before discussion class. I learned that priest professors spend an entire class making paper hats out of newspapers and go canoeing with students. I learned that Baptists wear fedoras and talk about history’s presidents. I learned that Baptists watch cat videos on YouTube and read horoscopes. I learned that Baptists are ordinary.

I didn’t trust them. I didn’t trust Him. I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t be swallowed whole, that every part of my life wouldn’t be devoured the second I stepped foot into His domain. I was afraid He’d demand so much of me that I would lose me. I either had to stay away or be lost forever. I wasn’t ready for Him. I’m still not ready for Him. But I’m learning about Him…and He’s looking better every day.