Those of us born into the church were “Blessed Children.” Our parents believed we were the first people since Adam and Eve without original sin. I was taught that my purpose was to grow to perfection, take part in a Matching and Blessing ceremony, and ultimately have Blessed Children of my own.
Because Moon picked our spouses, dating was not encouraged. I was raised to call other members “brothers” and “sisters” in order to emphasize the importance of pure relationships before marriage. Many members believed that Moon had won significant spiritual battles against Satan, and therefore the way for us to be similarly victorious against Satan was to follow Moon’s example and teachings.
The problem was that I was always questioning. My faith was shaky and, as a reflex, I was ashamed and hated myself. By 19, this had led me to a terrifying personal precipice ― considering leaving the Unification Church. But with no means of supporting myself and no safety net outside of the insular church community, the fear of the outside world paralyzed me.
Before I could make a decision about abandoning the faith of my childhood, there was news. After five years of having parents match their children, Moon was, at 82, stepping up again, and was going to conduct a Matching ceremony himself for the second generation ― perhaps for the last time before he died.
My parents sat me down in their bedroom and listed all of the reasons why I should go. The summer before Moon began Matching again, I’d rejected a Match my parents had tried to broker when they’d gotten wind of my struggles. If I failed to find a good Match, it would be more difficult for my four younger siblings. Plus my dad worked for one of Moon’s sons. I worried that if I said no, our family could be considered unfaithful and Dad might lose his job. And though it was unspoken, we all knew that at barely 20 years old, my eligibility expiration date was staring me hard in the face.
My mother finished our conversation with, “If Jesus came to you and said that he had found your perfect spouse, what would you say to him?” She paused for effect. “Now, how much more is Father?”
I couldn’t think of a coherent response. To refuse was to deny the remotest possibility that Moon might be who he said that he was. I simply had not gotten there in my journey. Then, as though from a great distance, I heard myself mumble, “OK.”
Mom’s face lit up. The tension went out of Dad’s body too.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a Matching,” Mom said, leaning across the bed to hug me. “You’ll have time to get to know each other before getting Blessed.”
She had a valid point. One never knew when the next Blessing ceremony would be. Often couples had to wait several years before Moon decided it was a spiritually significant enough time to hold a Blessing. I had been taught there was a three-year separation period (during which time the couple had to live apart from each other) for first-generation members, although this was not necessarily a requirement at all Blessings for the second generation. Still, when my mom said that we would have time to get to know one another, I assumed she meant there would be time before a Blessing was held and a three-year separation too.
The next morning she drove me to East Garden, one of the Westchester properties owned by the church. At 5 a.m., we pulled up to the iron gates guarding the estate. After security cleared us and we passed the mansion, Mom dropped me off in front of a long conference center built into a rocky outcropping. Terraces wrapped around each level ― one ended in a tower that looked like it belonged on a prison.
For the next several hours, a few other early arrivals and I sat on the floor of the marble ballroom while a rotating cast of leaders lectured us on our profound unworthiness to receive the Matching. But when other young women began arriving with wedding dresses, I realized that this wasn’t just a Matching; there was going to be a Blessing ceremony as well. There would be no time to get to know my future spouse, and likely no separation period either. The thought of the sexual expectations I might suddenly encounter chilled me.
Hot, angry tears streamed down my face as I approached anyone, even strangers, to borrow a cell phone to call home. When I begged my mom to pick me up, she said, “Jennie, this has always been your choice.” But in those words I heard both a threat and a refusal.
And this is the part that so many struggle to understand. If I had said, “I choose to come home,” my mom likely would have driven down to pick me up, no matter the hour. But I was afraid. The weight of a lifetime’s worth of indoctrination crushed me into compliance, believing that I would lose everything I held dear if I walked away. Sociologist Dr. Janja Lalich might have identified this as an instance of “bounded choice,” or the illusion of choice created by a high-demand environment.
