I don’t remember the verse.
Not exactly. Maybe that’s a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s easier to admit I was hurt than to recite the actual passage.
But I remember how it felt.
The sermon was on Matthew 6—Jesus telling his followers, “Do not worry.”
And then the pastor said something like, “Worry is a sin.”
He said it with confidence. Like it was obvious.
So if you worry, you lack faith.
If you’re anxious, maybe you’re too focused on yourself.
If you’re depressed, maybe you’re not trusting God enough.
I didn’t react. I stayed in my seat, like I always did.
Smiled when it was time. Bowed my head. Took notes. Pretended it was hitting other people harder than it hit me.
But deep inside, I think I scowled at Jesus.
Not because I stopped believing. Not because I hated him.
But because I felt betrayed.
I thought he was my comfort.
Why did his words feel like judgment?
Years Before Deconstruction, There Was Confusion
I didn’t allow myself to feel that way for long.
Back then, I believed that any feeling of defiance—even internal—was something to be shut down.
So I brushed it off.
I convinced myself it was just me being overly sensitive.
Maybe I misheard. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I needed to read more.
But confusion stayed.
I was trying to be faithful, but the verses were starting to sound like rules I couldn’t follow.
Obey your parents?
Even when they hurt you?
Forgive seventy times seven?
Even when the person never apologizes?
Submit to authorities?
Even when they silence the oppressed?
I stayed quiet. I kept showing up.
But something inside me was starting to fray.
Then Life Got Real—and the Bible Felt Small
When my depression worsened and things at home began to collapse, the anger came in stronger waves.
And not just anger at the world. Not even at myself.
It was anger at how small the Bible felt in those moments.
Like the stories I used to cling to weren’t big enough to hold my pain.
I remember singing “Song of Freedom” at church and asking myself,
What freedom?
What’s the point of lifting my hands and declaring breakthrough
if I still go home and cry quietly into a pillow I can’t explain to anyone?
I Never Talked About It—Until Now
I didn’t say any of this to anyone.
Not even to my wife.
How could I?
People don’t usually talk about being mad at the Bible.
It’s easier to say you’re doubting, or that you’re confused, or that you’re “wrestling.”
But angry? That sounds dangerous.
Even now, writing this, I wonder who will misunderstand what I mean.
So let me say it clearly:
Yes, there were times the Bible made me angry.
But that doesn’t mean I walked away from faith.
It means I started being honest with it.
I stopped reading it like a rulebook.
And started reading it like a conversation.
A Commandment I Was Scared to Hear
Our church recently started a sermon series on the Ten Commandments.
The moment I heard the announcement, my stomach tensed.
I already knew what was coming.
I’ve heard these sermons before. As a child. As a teenager. As someone who memorized them but didn’t know how to carry them when life got messy.
I feared what it might trigger in me.
I wasn’t sure I could sit through it without spiraling into the old guilt.
So when the topic for the week was Sabbath, I braced myself.
I thought it would be about rule-keeping. About Sundays. About church attendance. About avoiding shopping, movies, or laughter.
But it wasn’t.
The Sabbath Wasn’t About Control—It Was About Admiration
The sermon caught me off guard.
Instead of going into strict regulations, the message focused on how Sabbath is an invitation.
To stop.
To remember.
To breathe.
The preacher explained that the Sabbath command wasn’t just about ritual or regulation.
It was a pause. A holy interruption.
God stopped on the seventh day—not because he was tired, but because he admired what had been made.
And he wanted his people to do the same.
Not just once a week, not just to keep score.
But as a rhythm of life.
As a habit of seeing beauty even when the world demands busyness.
The Heidelberg Catechism framed it differently too.
Sabbath, it said, was a time for learning, resting, and delighting in God.
Not performance. Not checking boxes. Not earning anything.
It was a reminder that I could stop—even when the world didn’t.
That I could rest, even when I felt I didn’t deserve it.
Then Came the Harder One: Honor Your Parents
The following Sunday made me even more anxious.
“Honor your father and mother.”
That verse has always made me uncomfortable.
Not because I don’t understand it.
But because I’ve lived enough to feel its weight.
What does honoring mean when the relationship is broken?
What does it mean when your parents don’t believe in your pain?
When your cries are called exaggerations?
When your faith is measured by how obedient you are, even when you’re silently breaking?
I waited for the sermon to shame me.
But again—it didn’t.
A Surprising Reframe
The preacher didn’t make it about blind obedience.
He explained the commandment’s context.
For the Israelites, honoring parents wasn’t about compliance.
It was about legacy.
It was about remembering the faith of those who came before them—those who held onto the promise, even when they didn’t live to see it fulfilled.
It wasn’t a demand to repeat dysfunction.
It was a call to uphold the good, the hopeful, the faithful.
The example wasn’t submission. It was emulation.
Not because our parents were always right.
But because, like the Israelites looking back at the stories of their ancestors, we can draw from what endured: the hope, the grit, the longing for something more.
That hit me hard.
Not because it erased my scars.
But because it made space for healing that wasn’t performative.
It gave me permission to redefine what honor could mean.
Reading Scripture with Context, Not Fear
I don’t get angry at Scripture the way I used to.
Maybe because I stopped reading it with fear.
Or maybe because I finally allowed myself to ask,
“Is this really what it means? Or is it just what I’ve been told it means?”
That shift changed everything.
I started focusing on context.
Not as a way of escaping the weight of a verse, but as a way of understanding it better.
I began to realize that not every command was about me.
Not every punishment was directed at me.
Not every passage could—or should—be lifted out and turned into a universal law.
Some words were for a nation in the wilderness.
Some were for a scattered people longing for identity.
Some were for specific churches dealing with specific issues.
That didn’t make them less sacred.
It made them human.
It made them reachable.
The Bible Wasn’t Written in English—and That Matters
I’ve found that understanding how the Bible was written—when, why, to whom—brings so much peace.
Like how Paul’s letters, especially Philippians, are often misquoted.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
We print that on shirts, mugs, and motivational posters.
But Paul wasn’t talking about success or achievement.
He was talking about suffering.
About hunger.
About hardship.
He was saying, “Even in this—I can endure, because Christ is with me.”
That context doesn’t weaken the verse.
It makes it more powerful.
It makes it more real.
The same goes for David and Goliath.
We are not David.
We don’t have Goliaths.
But we do face battles. And we do need courage.
It’s not about inserting ourselves into the story—it’s about letting the story remind us what courage and trust can look like, even in unfamiliar forms.
When Scripture Was Used Against Me
I’ll be honest. One of the most painful moments of my faith life was when the Bible was used to silence me.
It happened during the elections.
I spoke up, carefully, prayerfully.
I expressed concern about leadership, about truth, about justice.
And then a pastor mocked me.
Quoted Romans 13 at me like it was a sword.
Said I was being rebellious.
Said I didn’t understand God’s order.
He red-tagged me.
Publicly.
That hurt.
Not because I didn’t know the verse. But because I did.
And I also knew its context.
That Paul was speaking to early Christians under Roman rule.
That submission wasn’t blind allegiance, but a call to peace and witness in the face of real oppression.
But that nuance didn’t matter to him.
And I had to go quiet.
I made my accounts private.
I questioned if my voice had any place in the church.
But I Never Stopped Believing
Here’s what’s strange.
Even after all of that, I never stopped trusting the Bible.
If anything, I trusted it more.
Because I realized it wasn’t the Bible that failed me.
It was the way people used it.
The way they cherry-picked.
The way they silenced instead of listened.
I began to see that questioning the Bible was not a sign of weakness.
It was a sign of engagement.
It was a kind of trust.
You don’t argue with a book you don’t care about.
You don’t get mad at someone you don’t love.
It’s Okay to Get Hurt
The Bible is ancient.
It wasn’t written by people who had Twitter or antidepressants or LGBTQ+ siblings or postcolonial grief.
It was written by farmers, prophets, tentmakers, exiles, wanderers, and teachers.
Yes, it was inspired by God.
Yes, it speaks truth.
But it also carries the marks of the time it was born from.
That doesn’t make it irrelevant.
It makes it honest.
And honesty can sting.
So if a verse hurts you, you’re not broken.
You’re human.
With wounds. With memory. With longing.
You don’t have to hide that pain.
You can say, “This verse hurt me,” and still believe.
You can say, “I’m angry,” and still come to the table.
Anger Is Not Rebellion
People told me that questioning was dangerous.
That expressing hurt was rebellion.
That doubt was sin.
I believed them for a while.
Until I realized: if God gave me a heart and a mind, then maybe he also expects me to use both.
Anger isn’t the end of the story.
Sometimes, it’s the beginning of deeper understanding.
Even Jesus questioned.
Even the psalmists raged.
Even the prophets lamented.
So why should we pretend?
How I Return
These days, when I feel distant, I try new ways of engaging Scripture.
I listen to it instead of reading.
I try different translations.
I sit with a single verse for days, not rushing.
I let context breathe.
I ask better questions.
Sometimes, I just read the Psalms.
Especially the ones that feel like sighs.
“Your faithfulness continues through all generations; you established the earth, and it endures.” (Psalm 119:90)
“The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.” (Psalm 23:1)
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 147:3)
Verses like those still bring me peace.
Not because they solve everything.
But because they sit beside me quietly.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
If You’ve Ever Felt Like This Too
Maybe you’re reading this and you’ve been angry at the Bible.
Or scared of it.
Or confused.
Or numb.
You’re not alone.
I hope you know that it’s okay.
That your questions don’t disqualify you.
That your hurt is valid.
That the conversation between you and God is still open.
And that even in your anger, Jesus is not walking away from you.
Maybe he’s just sitting beside you, waiting for you to exhale.
Not with a lecture, but with presence.
Maybe he’s saying,
“I know. That part hurt me too.”