Katie Schmid gave me the following to post on the blog in her name. Anyone who would like to add their “testimony” to the blog is welcome to send it to me by email and mark whether or not they want their name included. Thank you, Katie, for giving us your story! ❤
I wish there was an easy way to say this.
I loved the bible. I clung to it, the way a drowning person clings to driftwood. Because to me, that’s exactly what it was.
The words in that book were the only life I’d ever known, for 30 years. I spent 9/10ths of my life thus far defined by it.
I begged God for the forgiveness of my sins. Sins like “lusting after” both men and women. Like the whispers in my mind and in my dreams saying I should be a girl. Like stealing my sister’s clothes to carefully wash them and put them secretly back in her drawer.
I grew up absolutely convinced I was under perpetual demonic attack and at constant risk of hell.
I spent every single day in deep gratitude for what I thought Jesus did for me. Although I didn’t admit it at the time, it was humiliating to have that gratitude. The trauma of realizing how Jesus suffered crippled me psychologically.
Attending bible college didn’t help this. I vividly remember the examinations of Roman torture techniques in Mark Moore’s class. Because the message to me, every single time, was “this is because of what you did. This is your fault. This is because you sinned. You held the whip. You held the hammer. You held the nails. You did this. Now chew and swallow your communion and admit your guilt.”
It’s like being accused of murder, and then getting pardoned for it. You’re grateful for the pardon, but every week you go to a building and thank the one who pardoned you. You also hear constantly about how terrible what you did was, and how incredibly nice it was to be pardoned. This makes you cry in gratitude. It changes your life and the way you see yourself on a fundamental level. It defines you.
And then, one day, you find out that you didn’t actually commit the murder. The story you heard about the horrifying death of perhaps the one person in all of history who didn’t deserve it, didn’t really happen. Or if it did, it didn’t happen the way they said it did.
You realize that the demons skirting the edge of your vision aren’t really there. The voice of shame and condemnation isn’t God’s, it’s just a book. A historically significant one, but not The Word. There’s no healing coming, but you’re not sick.
It’s not heaven. It’s not forgiveness. But it is good news.
I wish there was an easy way to say this.
I loved the bible. I clung to it, the way a drowning person clings to driftwood. Because to me, that’s exactly what it was.
The words in that book were the only life I’d ever known, for 30 years. I spent 9/10ths of my life thus far defined by it.
I begged God for the forgiveness of my sins. Sins like “lusting after” both men and women. Like the whispers in my mind and in my dreams saying I should be a girl. Like stealing my sister’s clothes to carefully wash them and put them secretly back in her drawer.
I grew up absolutely convinced I was under perpetual demonic attack and at constant risk of hell.
I spent every single day in deep gratitude for what I thought Jesus did for me. Although I didn’t admit it at the time, it was humiliating to have that gratitude. The trauma of realizing how Jesus suffered crippled me psychologically.
Attending bible college didn’t help this. I vividly remember the examinations of Roman torture techniques in Mark Moore’s class. Because the message to me, every single time, was “this is because of what you did. This is your fault. This is because you sinned. You held the whip. You held the hammer. You held the nails. You did this. Now chew and swallow your communion and admit your guilt.”
It’s like being accused of murder, and then getting pardoned for it. You’re grateful for the pardon, but every week you go to a building and thank the one who pardoned you. You also hear constantly about how terrible what you did was, and how incredibly nice it was to be pardoned. This makes you cry in gratitude. It changes your life and the way you see yourself on a fundamental level. It defines you.
And then, one day, you find out that you didn’t actually commit the murder. The story you heard about the horrifying death of perhaps the one person in all of history who didn’t deserve it, didn’t really happen. Or if it did, it didn’t happen the way they said it did.
You realize that the demons skirting the edge of your vision aren’t really there. The voice of shame and condemnation isn’t God’s, it’s just a book. A historically significant one, but not The Word. There’s no healing coming, but you’re not sick.
It’s not heaven. It’s not forgiveness. But it is good news.
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