Spiritually Free From Church
How Getting Away From Religion Cured My Depression
For years throughout my teens and twenties I struggled almost continuously with depression and low self-esteem.
No matter what I did or tried I felt bad about myself and hopeless about my future. I was involved in church, I prayed, I went to worship services, I “rededicated” my life to God, I searched for the sin that was causing this emotional pain, and tried to constantly be a better person. None of it worked.
I attempted to be vulnerable with other Christians and talk about my depression, only to be told that “God is hope.” So how could I be hopeless? More shame. Thanks a lot.
It wasn’t like I was a troubled kid on the surface. I was a virgin, never drank, never did drugs, didn’t get in trouble, tried to help people out. Yet somehow the message I constantly received was one of not being good enough.
I didn’t have the right personality, for one thing. I wasn’t “selling it,” wasn’t “winning people over” and all that. Basically I was a bad salesperson. I got hammered with messages to “get out of my comfort zone,” “surrender to God,” be “broken” for him. Quite honestly I didn’t know how much more “brokenness” I could take.
I needed some building up. But I wasn’t getting that, so I just kept trying harder, only to sink into exhaustion and despair.
No matter what I did, there was always something else I could be doing better. The endless search for perfection was killing me. Maybe trying to be perfect was the problem? And on and on the mind games went. “Be better.” “Stop thinking you can be perfect because you can’t, you are just sinful to the core.” “Surrender to God.” “Take a stand for your faith.” “Be humble.” “Be bold.” “Love people more.” “Don’t trust outsiders; you are friends with the wrong people.” I could never get “it” right, whatever “it” was. It was so tempting so many times to just walk away from it all and be done with the striving and worrying. And then I would get scared…
Hell. You know that place of your worst nightmares. Burning alive forever and ever in a lake of fire with no escape.
Fear kept me running back. But because my spirituality was inherently fear-based, I didn’t love God. And that terrified me. But how do you love someone you are that afraid of? Even as a child I tried to understand why this all-powerful being wanted to send me to hell. What had I, a young child possibly done? What was so wrong, so terrible about me?
In the middle of the night I went to my mother in fear asking “What if I die in my sleep?” “That’s why you need to pray to Jesus” was the response I got. Eventually I gave in and prayed the “Jesus prayer.” But I knew it was really because of fear. What if God figured it out too?
I tried really hard to be genuinely good and really love God. But at my core I didn’t love God. It was an abusive relationship. I stayed out of fear, not love. I was afraid to leave, afraid to question. My early thoughts about God were so shaped by hell, that I couldn’t get past that. It was so horrific to my mind to picture it and believe that millions of people spent eternity there.
I resented God. Why did he bother with creation if the majority of people throughout time and history would just end up in hell? It was sick. What about the people who never heard about Jesus? Or the ones who had nothing but bad experiences with Christians? I knew what the “flock” could be like. What about little children? At what age were they held guilty? Somehow all this was also my fault. You know, bad salesperson, not “getting the word out,” “saving the lost,” “winning them to the Lord.” Hard to sell something you grudgingly follow yourself.
In college I tried to turn over a new leaf. I listened to worship music all the time, I went to the emotional services, I raised my hands, went forward, knelt down, everything I could. I was on the bandwagon, I convinced myself it was different and I really did love God now.
But my moments of joy were short-lived, and then the depression would come surging back. Something was off. My mind was still telling me “THIS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE.” But with low self-esteem and shame about almost everything, I had been taught better than to listen to my own mind. You know, we humans are “desperately wicked” and all that, so don’t ever trust yourself.
It really was mental torture. My nature was to be an independent thinker, to question everything, to examine things to see if they are logical and make sense. Religion did not make sense, but I was too afraid to trust my own conclusions.
Every now and then I would venture out and get curious about something else. What about my ancient Irish heritage? I googled “Druids.” That was a mistake. When related articles about “Satanism” popped up, I went running back to my dorm room to pray and repent.
I was an undecided college student, so I studied literature, just because I enjoyed reading and writing. And then I read something that I could not argue with. I could not find any come back. It was an eloquent speech by the Seneca chief Red Jacket addressing a delegation of missionaries and representatives of the U.S. government back in the early 1800s. His logic was flawless. If God had created all people, why was the special message of his book (the Bible) only given to some? If the white people had the answers why were they not all in agreement about their own religion? And if they had the truth about God, then why were they so greedy? Why did they keep taking more from the Native people and giving them evils like whiskey in return? That speech echoed in my mind for years. It raised questions I had struggled with for years.
My indecision led me to graduate school. I was going to be a counselor. That seemed like a noble undertaking. I was praised as an intelligent student, while also reminded of a woman’s place in the church: not one of leadership.
And yet even becoming a Christian counselor was problematic. My uncle, the pastor, sent me one of his writings on the evils of psychology. It’s humanistic, it ignores all the sin in people’s lives, Freud was an atheist, so you can’t trust any of it. The only acceptable option was to be a “Biblical counselor,” and rely mostly on the Bible and stay a safe distance from psychology.
Obviously I couldn’t get it right, no matter what I tried. I pressed on. At least I was going to seminary for a counseling degree, but at least I wasn’t going to seminary to be a pastor! It was a narrow path to follow.
It was a fresh start… and yet the depression followed me.
It was relentless. But it was a new start in a new town and I met new people.
Most importantly, I met Jesse. He wasn’t like other guys I had met. He was the first guy I met who didn’t have a box he tried to put me in. There was no mold of who a woman should be, no rules, no blueprint. He was open and curious about me, and it gave me permission to question and explore. He was a safe person to talk to about my own doubts and questions.
But it was also scary. I was falling in love with this man, and he wasn’t a Christian. If I couldn’t “save” him he would go to hell and we would spend eternity apart. I also couldn’t really justify trying to change him. He didn’t try to change me. He met me with respect and curiosity.
He was a member of the Lakota tribe. And talking to him brought up an old question I had wondered before: “If I didn’t grow up a Christian in a Christian home, would I choose to be a Christian?” I had been afraid of that question for a long time. Knowing history as well as I did, I knew there were so many reasons for indigenous people not to want anything to do with Christianity. It made sense to me. If I strongly doubted that I would be a Christian if I were Lakota, how could I ask or expect him to want to become one?
Our courtship was an emotional one. I was dealing with years of fear and baggage and my own doubts. Fortunately for me, Jesse is one of the most patient people I know. And I am so grateful to call him my husband. Our relationship survived the emotional rollercoaster I was on. Well-meaning Christians told me he was a nice person, but I shouldn’t date him. I had a lot of moments of doubt and fear, but beneath it all something rang true. Something about it was just right. I couldn’t justify walking away from the love that we shared, and I knew I would just resent my own religion even more if I did.
We have been married for over six years now. But there were challenges along the way. Old religious baggage that impacted our intimate relationship and the transition into parenthood. Not to mention navigating my family of origin. It has been both a love story, and a spiritual journey. And the journey is incomplete. I am still trying to learn who God is and still haunted by years of fear and shame. But the depression is gone, and I have more freedom than I ever had before. I am learning to embrace the mystery. All I know for sure is that God is much bigger than the small version I was taught to fear throughout my childhood. My children will be raised to embrace the mystery and not live in paralyzing fear. Taught to question, to explore, and not to be afraid of their own minds. And I hope I can help others on this journey. Help others to stop living in fear and shame, and instead to grow and explore the spiritual world believing that God really is LOVE.
