Rather than beginning in the beginning, I will begin
at a place that was the beginning of the end - the
end of my abuse legacy, the beginning of my healing.
A number of years ago, a newly-made feminist, I just
had made some very interesting discoveries about my
faith. One of those discoveries was the feminine
imagery of God. God was like a mother, the Scriptures
said, nourishing us, birthing us, crying out in labor.
Jesus himself had maternal qualities, longing to
gather His people under His wings as the hen gathers
her chicks.
It was supposed to excite me and make me feel good.
It disgusted me.
I was beginning to dislike God. Most remarkably, I was
beginning to dislike Jesus. I was beginning to see
Jesus as manipulative, self-pitying, threatening and
pushing my buttons, just like my mother.
Suddenly, I realized that I hated, loathed, detested
everything that had to do with motherhood. The posters
promoting the benefits breastfeeding made me feel
physically ill. If God was a "Mother" (even a little
bit), I wanted to have nothing to do with God.
I made an appointment with a pastor of a friend's
church at that time. He listened quietly as I spilled
my story to him. I told him everything. He listened,
without saying a word. He listened to me saying how
much I hated everything that had to do with
motherhood, and how much it all made me physically
sick. I told him I did not like my mother (an anathema
in Christian circles).
Finally he spoke. His first words to me were, "I am
not surprised at all
were abused."
I exploded in anger. "You people in the western
culture are always whining about abuse! Everybody is
crying abuse all the time, no matter what happens, no
matter how minor it is."
He backed down. "Okay, let's not call it that," he
conceded. "Can we, at least say that it wasn't
acceptable behavior?"
I nodded, choking on my tears.
He spoke to me. He told me that God is not like that.
That Jesus does not say to us, "go do what I say, or
else I will hurt myself/die on the cross." He spoke
some more, imparting a feeling of grace and acceptance
to me. I wasn't judged for my feelings. I was told
that it is okay to be angry and to feel hurt - and
that it doesn't mean that I am 'unforgiving'. I was
also told that it is okay for me not to like my
mother, or have any warm feelings towards her.
"You won't tell anyone what I told you?" I asked as I
was leaving.
He shook his head with a smile. "Yeah, I will tell
everyone about Sarjenka and her terrible crack habit."
We chuckled. He placed his hand on my shoulder as he
was seeing me out and said simply, "You are beloved of
God". The grace of that moment was overwhelming.
I chose that day to be a turning point in my
reconstruction of myself.
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