The Curiosity That Deconstructed Me
Raise your hand if you grew up with a nuclear family that went to church every Sunday and sometimes Wednesday night.
Now raise your hand if your parents decided at some point they don’t agree with a preacher so they left yet another church. You lost yet another set of church friends.
Keep your hand up if you would attend late night bible studies with other “like-minded” thinking families.
Bonus points if you were homeschooled.
Okay well hello and welcome, please put your hand down.
That was me for much of my life. I joke sometimes that I grew up “religiously confused.” Which is funny because I was a kid who loved church, obsessively prayed to God AND Jesus, and cried about missing youth nights.
I volunteered myself to go on Mission Trips.
I dedicated my life at almost every baptizing event “just in case” I sinned because I wanted to keep my spot in heaven.
Looking over my own shoulder most of my life was my own way of keeping in line, keeping sweet, and being favorable to the Lord. I saw my flaws and attempted to self-correct before anyone could point them out. I was ahead of all of them, and little did I know just how painfully self-aware I’d be.
Part of the reason why I slept with a bible tucked beneath my pillow every night between the ages of 7 and 15 was because I believed it proved something I didn’t believe about myself. Can God hear these thoughts? I’d wonder while I laid in my twin bed, staring at the moon through the single tiny window above the foot of my bed.
Paranoia and I were longtime pals. Afraid after googling things like “why does God let children starve” and then quickly clearing my browser history off the home computer.
Behind every curtain of choir I felt myself questioning little things. Why did we come here and others didn’t? Why are we preparing for the End Times while others aren’t? Aren’t they afraid they won’t see their families in heaven? Revelations was my introduction to the genre of horror.
No one could know how much I questioned everything. Questioning God’s Word meant I was aligning myself with the devil, and the devil welcomes us with a smile and false promises, in case you didn’t know. Was I letting something in? No, no, no. I prayed and prayed all those scary thoughts away.
No one could know that returning from a Mission Trip actually erased some of the illusion for me. Suddenly, I saw it, on the ground in another part of the world, just how complicated we all are. Suddenly, I understood, that none of us really knew the answer to anything. Now I was really afraid. Fear accompanied me home but for a different reasons. Reasons like living the rest of my life with this burden of knowing the world isn’t always kind and that saying “Jesus loves you” did not heal most people.
My parents struggled with my inquisitive nature. For most of my life I was a force of nature swirling their orbit with my questions about everything. Where did the little girl that sang “I’ve Got Jesus In My Heart” at octaves way too high go.
“Dad, why did God let so many women get raped in the bible?”
Perhaps too stunned because it was morning or because I seemed to actually be reading my bible. A mix of emotion crossed his face that often told you exactly what he was thinking, just like mine. He was mid-bite into his Captain Crunch and his 14 year old daughter was saying the scary R word. Maybe it was the fact that I had my fingers keeping tabs of multiple chapters of my KJV bible, ready to cite my sources.
Should have known then I’d spend my adult days being a paralegal. Should have known then that this was the beginning of the end of praying myself to sleep and feeling better.
“Well, no, God doesn’t necessarily let that happen. He tells us of those evils because we as men are inherently evil.” Or something of that nature. To his credit, he tried his best, and he definitely didn’t condone it.
It wasn’t enough for me.
God can save her but not him, he can move mountains but not people out of hurricanes, why did this baby live and that one die, why, why, what, where, how. I had too many questions to count and the best answer I ever received was simply “I don’t know, but I hope we get to ask him ourselves.”
Yea, yea, I know all about free will and God’s promise to us and that the kingdom of heaven is sought in our hearts. Save your comment.
My mind constantly sought more answers than my poor parents or any well-meaning youth group leader could give me. I was never good at keeping my head down, keeping sweet, and waiting to be spoken to.
That curious brown-eyed girl turned into a teenager with a zest for life and a soft spot for a lot of “different” folks. For the sake of not turning this into a book, I’ll skip my damaging teen and early adult year reflections for now. It’s the touchiest spot in my life, honestly. But those years were necessary to be the reflective and softer woman I am now.
One day, a few years ago amidst writing down how angry I was at life, I found myself afraid again. The same fear that used to keep my mind spinning at bedtime and singing bible songs. I prayed to God for the first time in many years. I didn’t feel heard or better or anything special. I just craved a familiarity and maybe my nervous system needed that prayer. I do believe in prayer, just not the same way I did when I was a kid.
I was raised to be so fearful of so many wonderful things. Sometimes I’m bitter that no one nurtured those questions I had and instead dismissed, laughed at and sometimes, punished me for them.
I’ve spent most of my 20s running away from anything that sounded like church, bible study, worship music.
Which is why I audibly laughed when I had a new friend ask me if I ever read the bible a couple years ago. I didn’t mean to offend her with my laugh. It was just so obvious how little she knew of me.
“I’ve read it all the way through.” Her face visibly shocked as I carefully pulled us into Target.
“I didn’t know you were such a believer.”
“Who said I believe any of it?” And I smirked as she quickly realized I was much sassier and prepared for religious topics than her recently converted little head could imagine.
I don’t have a problem with church, bible study, or worship music. I realized a while ago it was a combination of so many things that made me feel like I didn’t belong in that atmosphere.
One night while chatting with my husband, who lucky for me, understood my questions because he also grew up and ran from a similar environment, I realized something:
My parents version of religion does not have to be my own. I reject so much of it because I could see the hypocrisy behind the scenes. I can call out the hypocrisy, I can cry to God, and I can question things, and it doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of something spiritual.
I’ve always been spiritual. I find myself drawn to people and places; I study the moon and I swear I can hear fates strings being tied behind the scenes of my life. My intuition keeps me tip toeing and my heart beats past the noise of my doubt. There’s definitely something bigger than me and I wouldn’t put it past the trees and the ocean to know it all, actually.
So maybe my God looks different than the children books that lined my childhood bedroom walls. Maybe my beliefs are a little out there, because I dare to say the quiet parts out loud. I’d much rather think for myself, and be kind to others because I want to, instead of living in such a way that makes me feel like I have to.