to the god who hated me

to whom it may concern : letters to the faith that raised me

To the God Who Hated Me,

You were the first person to turn away from me. You were the first to weaponize holiness and to hold grace over my head like a trick. You taunted me and threatened me. I felt shame before I knew it had a word. I felt it in your silence, in your disapproval, and in the doctrines that taught that my (developmentally appropriate) behavior revealed my dark, wretched heart. I believed that I was bad and you were good. I was wrong about both.

They told me you were everywhere and could see everything that I did. Childhood songs became hardened doctrines that informed every step — Oh be careful little eyes what you see, for the Father up above is looking down in love, Oh be careful little eyes what you see. Your omnipresence terrorized me. I whispered apologies to you all day long. I wrote you hundreds of letters and poems and songs, hoping that it would be enough. If I couldn’t always choose the right things, maybe I could chisel my love into my life and you’d believe it was true. Maybe it would be enough to keep you from punishing me. They told me my sin would find me out, but maybe my love for you would too.

When I started to read the Story of God and His People for myself, I felt confused and afraid. The God in this story was loving and kind and it made no sense to me. The God I met on the pages of Scripture wasn’t the God I went to bed begging forgiveness from. The one in the story was gentle. It scared me.

It must have been the devil trying to trick me. He was trying to make me believe that you weren’t actually going to punish me, just like he tricked Adam and Eve. But I couldn’t escape this God who pursued people with kindness and mercy. This God who was in the gentle whisper, not the wind or the fire. Who forgave without reason. Who healed without being asked. Who pardoned people who’d done worse things than a child could ever do.

I was afraid when I started to sense God in the air. When I’d go for a walk in the woods behind our house and feel him in the wind that blew through the trees. When the gentle ripple of the creek water over my bare toes made me feel like God was sitting on the bank with me, it was too much. I couldn’t recognize Him because of you. I ran from him because of you. It couldn’t be God’s voice carried on the songs of the birds and running across my toes in the water because the God I knew was full of wrath and he hated everything about me. So I ran.

I ran from kindness and goodness and grace and mercy and doubled down on the rules that made me feel safe. You were fashioned out of doctrines and shaped by control and I liked that about you. You made sense to me, but I could never please you. God, did I try though. I broke myself and poured myself out over and over and over and over. And they told me you’d meet me where I was but you were never there.

I knew where to find you, though.

You were in the rules I could never fully follow, the punishments that I deserved, the unblinking stares of disappointed adults. You were there when I smashed all of my CDs because they weren’t Christian. You were there when I chopped off my hair to get the “sin” out of it. You were there when I decided to die for you and spent years fantasizing all of the brutal, gory ways I would give my life up for your name. You were present in my restriction, in my shame, in my condemnation, in my fear, in my self hatred. You were an omnipresent witness to my self destruction and you called it good.

But my tears never moved you. Your love was given with conditions. It was never fully mine, even though I was fully yours. Devoted, committed, sold out. I only ever wanted to please you. You only ever wanted to punish me. You were sick and sadistic and I worshipped you wholeheartedly.

We both know how this story ends cause you were there, just as I was. I gave you up when my life collided with the lies of who you were. The promises I’d built my life on shattered and I was left to try to sort through the rubble of a faith shaped by a god who never wanted me. You wanted my obedience, not my heart. You wanted what I could do for you, not who I was created to be. You wanted me to hurt. And you won, I guess. For awhile.

But as I sorted through the ruins, I heard a river. I abandoned the rubble and followed the sound of water and carried on the songs of birds, God whispered, stay. rest. I knew His voice immediately, even though I’d never heard it. So I stayed. And I rested. And he met me there.

Sometimes He sent people who’d come to know His voice too. They fed me and clothed me and played with my kids. They didn’t tell me all the ways I’d got God wrong, but they showed me, by being who He had compelled them to be. I’d never been met with such kindness. I kept waiting for the trick. For the condition. When are they going to tell me what’s in it for them? But they never did.

I’ve learned that Love doesn’t feel like a trap and God doesn’t feel like a threat. When I meet this God’s gaze, it puts me at rest. Yours always put me on edge.

I’m not sure why you got shaped into my understanding of God, but I’m not sorry to have left you in the ruins. I couldn’t build my house there again, I hope you understand.

These days, I’m gloriously free from your grasp. And if you ever need to find me (please don’t), I’ll be sitting with the God of the river…not that he’d ever let you that close to me anymore.

No longer yours,
Kristen

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This will be the last letter you read from me for this series, but I have a few that were submitted that I’d like to share with you. I’ll compile them into a single letter for you to read later this week.