Despite the loud claims that our fundamentalist church didn't have a centralized authority structure like the "worldly churches," there was definitely a highly specified hierarchy. It was kinda like the Jacob's ladder to holiness. The closer you were to the top, the more "spiritual" you were. And my family was at the top.
This was because my Dad and my grandfather were both pastors. You could say that preaching was the family business.
It might have looked like a glamorous life to outsiders: all those life-transforming sermons and cross-country preaching tours. I've had friends tell me there was a sort of "princess" aspect to my childhood and I can see that. People were always volunteering to cook, clean and babysit for my family since we had so little time for anything but "the work of the Lord." Other people cleaned our toilets because it was a privilege to "serve the Lord" in our communal home.
But being a "holy princess" came with its own set of difficulties–especially since I lived inside a high-demand, borderline cult Christian group. I shouldered a heavy weight of expectations and also, what was for me, a distinctly uncomfortable public life. When eager new converts asked me what it was like to the daughter and grand-daughter of such noble men of God, I didn't know how to answer. To me, they weren't glorious orators so much as bombastic personalities who cracked good jokes at the dinner table and had stinky feet.
I loved being a pastor's daughter and I also hated it. There were rich times of honest, deep fellowship, especially during family dinners together. But there was also the heavy burden of needing to "uphold the testimony," which was just a fancy way of saying "keeping up appearances." I spent a good deal of my childhood smiling when I was sad and exhibiting cheerful obedience in spite of a breaking heart.
As pastor's kids, we were expected to be ready with verses to recite, testimonies to share or hours to spend serving others. We needed to look good because, well, when boiled down to its primitive motivation–that's what people's tithes paid us to do.
If my family didn't produce a valuable product (ie. holy children and a Godly legacy), who would invest in our "spiritual stock"?
I remember when it finally registered in my child-brain that the money being put in the "Lord's Treasury" was buying food for me to eat and clothes for me to wear. The older I got, the more I felt a growing sense of mortification and guilt anytime I got a new outfit or ate out at a restaurant.
All of which to say, it was tough work being "spiritual" before I even knew how to spell that word. (Ah, to experience the simple, plebian joy of being the daughter of a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker!)
Oh, well. At least I was well-trained and had my pastor's daughter routine polished to a shine.
By age 5 I knew how to share my testimony with any heathen I might encounter at, say, the playground. By age 10 I could open-air preach the Gospel in 1 minute. Damnation to salvation in 60 seconds flat. But by the time I was a teenager, the pressure of always having to perform was catching up to me. There was never a chance to discover who I was since from the time I was born I had been told who I was and who I was expected to be.
I was a miserable, panicky hypocrite. And an insufferable drama queen.
I mean, most teenage girls are prone to melodramatic seizures. Imagine mine with the added bonus of being able to out-exegete any poor soul who dared question whether or not dating was Biblical. It like SO wasn't! Duh! And then I'd turn around and try to convince my parents that the boy who'd invited me to the movies wasn't asking me out on a date-date. It was more like hanging out.
See, this is what happens when you kiss dating goodbye long before you've even had your first kiss. You go screwy in the brain. Or you become a professional Pharisee.
Even though I often dreamed about escape, we were taught that leaving our church was equal to leaving God. For me, leaving our church also meant leaving my family. And for how sick and crazy we were, I just couldn't imagine leaving them. Especially my mother and sister whom, despite the insanity, I genuinely loved and was genuinely loved in return.
I don't know if other pastor's kids felt this way but the stress of needing to live a holy life (to please God) plus the stress of needing to look like I was living a holy life (to please others and make the ministry look good) was exhausting. I got sick all the time. For awhile, nobody could figure out what was wrong with me.
I was carted off to all sorts of doctors, herbalists, nutritionists and some holistic healer who listened to me breathe over the phone. Everyone had a different solution. I was placed on a restrictive, dairy-free diet. I didn't eat processed foods. Once I went on a five-day water fast where I lost so much weight that I couldn't stand up on my own.
Not one doctor ever asked if I was living in a high-stress environment. No-one said the words "panic attack." And anyway, we didn't believe in that stuff.
I realize my experience is way off the charts in comparison to the average PK's life. But still, I wonder if the broader Christian community appreciates the emotional and spiritual cost of being a pastor's kid. I mean, since most evangelical, Protestant churches are organized like a traditional business model with the leading influence of one person (ie. the senior pastor/CEO), it's been my observation that the pastor's children often get the leftovers of their father's time and attention.
This is because church ministry as we know it today is pretty much a 24/7 job. You work weekends and make midnight dashes to the hospital to visit the dying. You write books and travel around the country on speaking engagements. There are late-night board meetings, prayer meetings and counseling sessions.
I often wonder if PKs feel like their parents love God more than their children.
To an adult it might seem all holy and spiritual to PUT GOD FIRST. To me, that seems like a spiritualized excuse for neglecting your familial obligations.
[SIDEBAR: for all the naysaying against priestly celibacy, I actually see the celibacy requirement as pro-family and pro-child since it frees the married men to be devoted husbands and fathers. The priest is also freed to serve his congregation with undivided attention. In other words, nobody neglects their children to serve God. Just a thought from my obviously biased perspective. 
]
One of the strangest things about being a PK in a hard-core church was how often we impressed other Christians. Whenever I met other Christians, they only seemed to notice how devoted and on fire for God I was (at least, until they saw me start to shake with an out-of-the-blue panic attack). Sometimes they said they wished their church was as "alive" as mine.
I have a theory that if concerned people observed the children (and overwhelmed mothers) living in these groups, they'd gain a different perspective than they would by listening to the pastor's sermon.
Instead, it seems like American Christians are particularly vulnerable to the seduction of what I like to call: Bigger, Holier, More-Radical-Than-You Christianity!
They just don't see that zealotry is often the white-wash covering a tomb.
