When I was a teenager I took my faith very seriously. I had so much confidence that God loved me and everyone else around me and I just really needed them to know that. I wore cringey Christian t-shirts and covered my binder in stickers and cut-out e-mail chain apologetics. I did not miss an opportunity to tell people about Jesus.

Miraculously—like, loaves and fishes level—I did not get bullied in middle school. I was well liked and if the people around me did not appreciate my efforts they tolerated them amiably. I wasn’t really a turn-or-burn variety Christian so maybe that’s why. 

Regardless, it wasn’t enough for me. I felt alone and increasingly hungry for guidance. My family had not belonged to a church community since I was six and while I enjoyed attending my grandparents’ Lutheran services, I was only ever a visitor. I wanted a place and a community that was mine. Where I could learn and grow and be surrounded by people who took this thing as seriously as I did.

And I found one. When I first walked into the Independent Fundamental Baptist organization on a Sunday morning, I felt intimidated and eager. They took everything very seriously. They dressed differently, spoke differently, read a different bible than the one I had marked up at home (and quickly left there on Sundays and Wednesdays). They had a very specific set of rules that they were confident would make God happy and that was the thing I thought I wanted most.

I can’t be sure, but when I think back, I don’t remember stopping to ask the Jesus that had been with me my entire life what he thought of the whole thing. I was so excited to have some guidelines, some objective standards, some “spiritual nourishment” that I think I ran full steam ahead, assuming that because they used the name of my most trusted Friend, they were just passing along information he hadn’t told me yet. 

It didn’t take long for me to be fully indoctrinated into my new religion. I trashed my CDs and jeans in exchange for hymns and long skirts. I replaced the NIV bible I’d been given as an Easter gift years before for a King James Version that sounded foreign, less relatable, and therefore holier. Something that had never been an issue before—diversity of belief and behavior in my friends—caused me to distance myself from people I loved, but now saw as “other.” Even my family didn’t pass muster with my new worldview and I tried to break down my mother’s childlike faith into pieces so she could see how ridiculous it was. (Spoiler: it didn’t work; an arrogant kid doesn’t hold a candle to a lifelong friendship with Christ).

There were many red flags I didn’t see at the time, but one bright enough to rattle my faith in this institution was when I attended a youth camp and stood up for “reassurance” of my salvation. From the very beginning there were constant questions about salvation. Did you have a spiritual birthday? Do you remember giving your life to Christ? Are you sure you actually did it? Are you really sure?

For a kid who had never not known Jesus, this introduced a very real sense existential dread. Hell was preached on and talked about quite a lot and the more they asked if I was certain about my salvation the more I was sure I was on my way to fire and brimstone.

So I stood up during the altar call when the guy on stage asks if anyone wants to give their lives to Christ. I remember my youth leaders seeming surprised and disturbed. Maybe I was projecting my own disturbance on them. Maybe something in me knew that there was a problem here. The peace and comfort of my “reassurance” didn’t last long. It felt confusing more than anything. What was my life before this? Did I really know God at all? How could I be sure I knew God now?

I followed every rule, attended every service, knocked on doors, submitted my life to the authority of the people I believed were God’s agents. So why was I constantly scared that I would burn in Hell for eternity? Why wouldn’t God give me peace? Why did I no longer experience the joy and friendship inside that I once did? Had it all been a lie? Was that Satan tricking me before? Had God given up on me? Is that why he didn’t seem to answer my desperate prayers for relief?

I had visited this place because I wanted to be faithful to the pull in my heart to deepen my relationship with God, but I had stayed because they promised certainty.

“Can you know for sure that you’ll go to Heaven when you die?” Well, no, but since you’re asking it must be possible, and you must have the how-to.

Certainty was the apple to my Eve. I bit hard and everything fell apart. I look back and I can hear the snake whisper, “Did God really say…?” About the times I felt lonely for people, but un-alone and deeply loved in my heart. About the conversations I had with God as a small child where He told me I was special to Him. About Jesus sitting next to me in the car, invisible, but buckled up because I wasn’t going to let Jesus get hurt. About holding His hand on the lakebed so I wouldn’t fall.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew, even as a little kid, that some part of all this was my imagination. I knew I didn’t have to leave room for Jesus on a park bench or ask if he wanted a lick of ice cream. I knew it and I didn’t care. It wasn’t any less real to me and I enjoyed the game. That I bridged the gap between what I felt inside and what I could express and experience outside wasn’t evidence that it was all made up, it was just how this relationship worked. I saw my mom’s face and heard her voice and felt her arms around me and that’s how I knew she was real. I felt warmth and joy and peace inside that bubbled up into laughter when I talked to God and that’s how I knew God was real.

I’m not sure I cared as much about certainty before I joined that organization. It’s hard to remember, but I don’t think I did. I think I was happy to live with the dogmas I did have, but I don’t think I was aware that knowing anything “for sure” was an objective. If someone had asked me in passing if I was certain God loved me I probably would have laughed and said yes, and he loves you, too.

And maybe the close examination wasn’t all bad. Maybe that desire for certainty was always in me and would be exploited at one point or another. Maybe it’s better that it happened when I was young.

Or maybe the years and years it took me to untangle myself from that terror, that dread, that perceived separation between me and my closest friend did not have to happen. Maybe the organization violated something sacred when they called into question a young girl’s relationship with and worthiness of divine love.

Maybe it was a little bit of both. I really can’t be certain.