This is the first in a three part series.
I hate God.
I would be terrified to type that out, except for one thing: He already knows.
I’m the one who’s just finding out. Or am I just finally able to admit the truth?
I hate Him. I hate Him. I hate Him.
Sure, part of me feels sorry…or at least wishes it wasn’t true. But it is true. I am overwhelmed with hatred toward an Almighty God. Gently, I remind myself that feelings are just feelings. You can’t reason your way out of them. They just are.
Feelings aren’t the problem, but rather the symptom of a greater problem. And feelings aren’t sins either. It’s what we do with our feelings that matters.
And I’m blogging mine. I guess I’ll let God be the judge of that.
I can only imagine what my believing friends are feeling right now: horror, indignation, worry for my soul.
The rest of you? I don’t know. Maybe you’re thinking “Yes. Finally. This girl’s got a clue!” Or maybe your just confused – wondering how a Christian can talk this way.
But I’m simply sharing the rhythm already beating through my heart:
I hate Him.
I hate Him.
I hate Him.
I hate Him for all the pain. For making me so achingly sensitive and then tossing me into the raging waters of life to flail and wail and splash and thrash to survive.
For giving me a father who couldn’t love me, who left me behind while he went and made a new family, a family he could love.
For giving me a second father to love me – my first step-father – then snatching him away a few years later, when he was just 30 and my baby brother was two.
I hate Him for all the ways that loss shook me to my core. Knocked my 12-year-old ass to the ground.
For all the times He let me numb the pain with alcohol and drugs.
For letting me run and run and run and run right into the arms and empty promises of boyfriend after boyfriend.
And I hate Him for all the boys who weren’t my friend at all.
For imperfection, rejection and bad reputations.
For leaving me on the operating table. Twice. When what I really wanted, what I really needed, was to be rescued. He rescued others. I’ve heard their stories. But He didn’t rescue me.
I hate Him for giving me a stone when I asked for bread.
For answering her prayers, his prayers, your prayers…but not mine.
I hate Him for waking me up on a cool June night just after the witching hour to watch my brother die. My baby brother who just 30 years earlier lost his own father, when I was 12 and he was two.
I hate Him for tearing my family apart. I hate Him for making me watch them suffer.
I hate Him for showing me pain that lies ahead while doing nothing to stop it.
And I hate Him for reminding me, always and forever reminding me,
that I am
Less Than You
Less Than Them
Less Than Loved
And I hate Him…I especially hate Him…for showing me how Less Than doesn’t end with me. Less Than goes on and on for generations and generations.
I hate Him for sacrificing me, my loved ones, for the happiness of others.
I hate Him for the pain.
Seething and weeping, it’s easy to wonder…all these years of salvation and healing and restoration…what were they for? If a few losses can throw me face first into the dirt and leave me spitting curses to the sky, did any of it matter?
Or do those years – years of walking and kneeling and seeking and receiving and giving and teaching and weeping and writing and praying and hoping and healing – do those years make the honesty possible?
Is this raw, wide open, gaping wound spilling out over my chest, running down my arms, dripping off my fingertips and making little puddles in the dirt…is this the fruit of thousands of days, millions of moments soaking in the light, seeking the real?
Because, if nothing else, my hatred toward God is real. And what’s real is true. And the truth…well, you know what the truth does.
And if we’re being real (and that’s what we do here on my blog), we have to acknowledge that harboring hatred for God isn’t unique to Nichole. Hatred for God is central to humanity. At our core, we, God’s created ones, want to be our own gods and so we hate anything – and any One – that gets in our way.
So my hatred may scare you. It may worry you. It may sicken you.
But it is you. It’s in you. Or at least it was, once upon a time.
You are not alone. I am not alone.
I may be broadcasting to the world that I hate the Maker of Heaven and Earth, but today, I have never been closer to the Truth.