The day I told God to stop loving me

Pastors rage too

My bare toes skim the surface of the freezing April marina water. A seal’s shiny head surfaces nearby to survey the harbor during an afternoon swim. My shoulders tighten and my head aches as the sound of lapping water starts to work her magic on this confused and tired body.

Water gently meets the dock as my toes dance and legs swing. I’ve tried to make space for my body to be honest about this season but there’s something about water that breathes me home.

The water makes me feel like I can tell myself the truth. That maybe I could look directly at the thing that’s been so hard to name.

Still — I’m surprised by the sentence that rises in my spirit. It’s definitely directed at God (or Love or Spirit or whatever you call the energy in our world).

Stop loving me.

Awkward.

My internal theological voice springs to action: God is love. Love literally cannot stop doing what it’s made to do. Fine, throw your temper tantrum, but God is not going to stop loving you.

Like a sullen teenager, I crossed my arms and pouted. Solid theology aside, this hurt part of me needed to tell her story today. Something I knew God could handle.

Let’s be honest, God. I trust you with the next chapter entirely. 100%. I do not, however, trust you with the end of this one. You screwed this chapter up. How can I trust you to write a decent ending?

Well, then.

For my new readers — I burned out hardcore from my work as a pastor in the local church. I stepped away and it was so hard. Three weeks later, my youngest brother unexpectedly passed away. It was awful. Our connection with church during this season has been complicated and painful. I got a couple life-changing diagnosis’ that I’m still processing. The isolation has been gift and burden.

I’m walking multiple healing journeys’ at the same time. So much so that I sometimes forget it’s healthy and good to express anger and rage. I’m one of those humans with a long history of repressing anger so it’s super awkward. I’m slowly learning to rage in helpful and healing ways.

Which brings me to a sunny cold April afternoon at the marina, imploring God to stop loving me.

God, I followed all the rules. Every single one of them. You did not keep up your end of our deal. The younger me built my life around a formula that seemed to work for a long time: If I’m good, then I’ll be safe.

I was good. You were not.

People die.
Churches harm.
Bodies betray.
People hurt people.

Photo by Layton Diament on Unsplash

Yes, I know the theology. God is love. God is good. Love doesn’t cause terrible things to happen. Love weeps with us. Love is close when everything falls apart.

But sometimes in the midst of writing, talking about, and noticing God’s love, I forget it’s perfectly healthy and normal to rage at God.

God-awful shit happens. Full stop.

Not because God willed it to happen. Not as a way to punish humans. It just happens.

As long as we make excuses or justify or spiritually bypass or rationalize or attempt to intellectually understand terrible things, we skip the part of the work that’s necessary: anger.

A seagull lazily flies by while tears trickle down my cheeks. I tap sentences out in my phone that bear witness to the anger, disillusionment, and pain that refuse to exit my body on my preferred timeline. My body tells me exactly what she’s feeling about the pain swirling inside.

A light spring breeze accompanies the rage that burns off faster than I anticipate. Turns out, it just wanted my full attention. Rage wanted to be seen. Believed. Honored.

I see it more clearly now. Formulas stop working — as coping mechanisms tend to do when we outgrow them. They will twist and morph and tangle until we bravely step into the ring with them.

I wipe my warm cheeks with my sleeve and gently smile. I notice an ease in my body I haven’t felt in months. My body takes a deep breath and the spaciousness is obvious.

Fine, Spirit. I’ll let you love me but I’m going to fight it a little bit longer.

Love nods her head my direction and I roll my eyes.

Maybe there’s a better chapter ending on the way than I thought possible. It feels good to honestly feel my way into the places that hurt. I remember again that expressing our pain is how we make room for Love to do what she loves to do. It’s how we make room for the more vulnerable emotions that anger so often covers up.

Maybe Love can heal. Even here.

May it be so.

---

Your turn

What about you, my dear reader? What’s your relationship to rage and anger? Maybe it rises often and you push it away. Maybe you express it in unhealthy and quick ways that lead to regret. Maybe you suppress it in an effort to be a good and nice person.

What might it feel like to express your rage in a holy and sacred way? To make space to name and feel the situations and people that cause you deep anger. Not because you want to fix or erase the anger. Simply because you want to honor it as part of being human.

Love can handle it. Love can even do something beautiful with your honest rage.

We’re in this together.

---

Let’s hang out

**For anyone within driving distance of Columbus, Ohio**

As we ease into this next season of being human, we acknowledge the deep grief we hold. Whether from loss of loved ones or the isolation of the pandemic or trying to find new rhythms, there’s a sense of loss that permeates the air. Our world socializes us to shove grief to the side and barrel forward, determined to succeed again.

But what if gently entering our complicated grief is where our healing and wholeness invites us next? We want to be honest about our grief so we can turn our attention to new invitations of life.

Through storytelling, ritual, reflection, and communal noticing, we will journey into the grief that lives in our bodies.

All are welcome to A Weekend of Healing on May 5-6, 2023.