Faith, Pain, and Silence

I grew up in the Church of the Firstborn in Oklahoma, a faith-healing sect where medicine was distrusted, doctors were rarely consulted, and prayer was considered the only cure. To outsiders, it may have looked like devotion. To those of us who lived it, it was a daily gamble — health, safety, and even lives were put on the line under the guise of faith.

I was one of the “lucky” ones. I survived. But I did not walk away unscarred.

As a child, I suffered from chronic ear infections and swimmer’s ear. For any other kid, that might have meant trips to the pediatrician, antibiotics, or simple medical intervention. For me, it meant pain and prayer circles. It meant waiting for healing that never came.

The infections returned again and again, and no one ever addressed the root problem. Over time, the damage compounded. I lost hearing in one ear. And in recent years, the pain has returned with a vengeance. I am now scheduled for an MRI in the coming week to assess the extent of the damage — damage that traces back not to bad luck or genetics, but to medical neglect, sanctioned and normalized in the church I was raised in.

This is what happens when children are denied healthcare under the banner of religion. The effects don’t disappear when you grow up. They follow you. They shape you. They steal from you.

On December 21, 2010, another child paid the ultimate price. His name was Rhett Ferguson, and he was only three years old when he died in Cortez, Colorado. Rhett was a member of the same sect — the Church of the Firstborn.

The cause of death was devastating but preventable: acute tonsillitis, acute pneumonia, and sepsis due to Staphylococcus aureus. Someone finally called 911, but it was too late. The obituary described Rhett as a boy who “loved to attend church and loved to sing. He was a blessed child who always brought a smile to your face and a kiss to your cheek.”

What the obituary did not say was that Rhett died because the people who loved him most were shackled by a belief system that valued prayer over medicine. He didn’t die because doctors couldn’t save him. He died because he was never given the chance to be saved.

Rhett’s story is not unique. There is a long and painful history of children who have died under the Church of the Firstborn’s teachings, where medical neglect is justified as “faith.” Families are left grieving, siblings grow up in silence, and the cycle continues.

I survived that world. I carry the damage in my own body. Rhett did not survive. His absence is a permanent reminder of what happens when faith is weaponized against children’s basic right to healthcare.

For years, I carried my pain quietly. Ear infections and partial hearing loss may not sound like headline news compared to a child’s death. But they are two branches of the same poisoned tree. Whether it’s chronic untreated illness or a life cut short, the root cause is the same: medical neglect dressed up as holiness.

As I prepare for my MRI this week, I can’t help but think of Rhett. I can’t help but think of all the children like him who never got the chance to grow up, to complain about swimmer’s ear, or to sit through a noisy MRI machine.

It has taken me a long time to write these words. But I am writing them now because silence only protects the system that harmed us. Silence allows the Church of the Firstborn to keep burying children, whether through preventable deaths or lifelong damage.

Faith should never be a death sentence. Prayer should never replace basic healthcare. And the stories of children like Rhett — and survivors like me — should never be buried under the weight of religious denial.

I grew up in the Church of the Firstborn. I carry the proof of its neglect in my own body. And I will keep writing, keep speaking, and keep naming names — because every Rhett, every child, every scar deserves to be remembered.