In the journey of disentangling my faith from the rigid framework of Evangelicalism, I've stumbled upon truths about myself, lying beneath the rubble of what was once an unshakeable belief system. It's akin to rummaging through the remains of a house razed by a storm, each piece unearthed carrying the weight of memories, of past convictions. This exploration into the ruins of my faith has led me to a stark realization, one that is as raw as it is revealing.
The crux of my internal struggle is a paradox that gnaws at the core of my being. On one side, there's a deep, gnawing hunger for genuine connections—relationships that are anchored in mutual interest and respect, rather than the undercurrents of an evangelical agenda. I crave these bonds, free from the manipulative tendrils of a doctrine that once dictated the worth of every interaction. But, like a wounded animal wary of the hand that feeds, there's another side of me that recoils at the very notion of caring for others. It's a visceral reaction, a blend of fear and disgust, a knee-jerk response to anything that even remotely resembles the religion I've struggled to leave behind.
This part of me sees caring as a weapon, once wielded under the guise of religious duty. It was a tool, a strategic ploy in a larger game where souls were the prize and salvation the goal. My past is littered with memories of relationships forged with an agenda, where every word, every gesture was measured against its potential to serve the 'greater good' of my faith. The irony is biting—a religion that preached love became a breeding ground for a twisted form of affection, one that was conditional, calculating, and ultimately self-serving.
Picture this: I'm at a coffee shop, and I strike up a conversation with the person next to me. Under the guise of casual chit-chat, there's a silent, almost predatory calculation running in my mind: how can I pivot this discussion to talk about my faith? It's not that the intent was malicious; rather, it was a manifestation of a deep-seated belief that the ultimate value of any interaction was its potential to serve a higher, spiritual purpose.
In this new, rugged terrain of my post-evangelical life, I grapple with these conflicting impulses. The desire for authentic connection clashes with a deeply ingrained suspicion of my own motives. It's like trying to navigate a minefield, where every step towards someone else risks detonating remnants of my former self. The fear is palpable, almost tangible—a fear that in caring for others, I might unwittingly slip back into old patterns, that I might once again use human emotions as currency in a spiritual marketplace.
This struggle is a testament to the depth of the indoctrination I experienced. It's a vivid illustration of how a belief system can warp the very essence of human relationships, turning them into strategic moves in a grand, divine chess game. The realization is jarring, unsettling. It's a stark reminder of how much I've lost in the name of faith—simple, unadulterated human connections.
Yet, amidst this emotional turmoil, there's a glimmer of hope. It's a faint light in the darkness, a whisper in the chaos, urging me to redefine what it means to care. This journey is not just about unlearning old habits; it's about learning anew what it means to connect, to empathize, to love without an agenda. It's a rugged path, fraught with obstacles, but it's a path that promises a return to something more profound, more genuine.
In this raw, unfiltered quest for authenticity, I am learning to embrace the vulnerability that comes with true connection. It's a process of stripping away the layers of pretense, of facing the fears and scars left by a faith that demanded more than it gave. It's about rebuilding from the ground up, crafting relationships that are not just free from ulterior motives, but are enriched by the sheer joy of shared humanity.
As I navigate this rugged terrain, each step forward is a step away from the shadows of my past. It's a journey not just towards others, but towards a truer version of myself—a version that can love, care, and connect without the burdens of dogma and doctrine. It's a journey from a faith that manipulated human connections to a reality where those connections are the very essence of what it means to be human.