This is the first of several posts during January in which I’ll be addressing spiritual abuse. This is a synopsis of where I am now. I’ll be sharing examples and experiences in future posts. 

I pattied the meat and slipped out the back door onto the deck to grill hamburgers. I closed the door behind me, and all the noise from inside went silent. The darkness enveloped me while the cold air left me feeling exposed. The sliver of moon shone bright and cast a bluish glow on the naked trees. I inhaled a moment of peace after an intense day spent wandering around in my head.

My friend tells me I’m more introspective than most people she knows. I tell her I wish I could easily rid myself of that trait.

I tell her I wish I could let go of all the thoughts that have been cluttering my head for the last several months. She knows me well, and tells me what I already know: that I won’t let go and move past anything without working through it first and finding out why.

But this….these last few months…is overwhelming. I’ve been brought face-to-face with roots. The religious kinds. And they’re threatening to strangle me, to cut me off from my supply of sanity.

Back in the warmth of the kitchen, noises of my family in the background, I consider my 38 years. Chaos…much like the noise. Confusion…the same as when I try to decipher between the sounds.

Chaos and confusion. Those aren’t from God. Those are the by-products of a legalistic, religious system.

I wonder if the hamburgers on the lower rack are too close to the fire and are burning.

I contemplate how at 38 I am burned. Too much religion, too much legalism. Burned by those who tried to keep me from escaping the death trap. Burned because I asked questions that weren’t allowed. Burned because grace is more appealing to me than behavior modification. Burned because I made the choice to know God for myself instead of second-hand.

I step back out into the cold to flip the burgers.The cold doesn’t come as quite a shock this time. I wonder how much longer the meat needs to cook. I’m not the expert griller in our family, so I check often to see if they’re done.

I’m getting used to being on the outside. It’s not the shock it was when I first left church. And I think I’m probably done with the kind of religion that threatens me. But I still feel like I’m teetering on a tightrope between the slavery of legalism and the wilderness that leads to freedom. My mind is torn because it’s hard to let go of what feels like brainwashing; yet, the pull toward freedom is gentle with the repeated reminder that I am loved.

I place the platter of hamburgers on the counter and call the kids to come eat. We prepare our plates and share a meal in the warmth of our home.

I want to eat at the table where I’m accepted and won’t be turned away. I want to share the meal of remembrance and be satisfied in an environment where all the stages of questioning and grief and grace are welcome.