There is a particular kind of confusion that comes from loving a God who was used to wound you.

Not disbelieving. Not walking away entirely. But standing in the tension of still wanting Him while untangling what was done in His name.

I don’t talk about this easily. Because for some people, faith was never complicated. For others, it became the weapon.

For me, it was both.

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When God Sounds Like a Threat

I learned about God through love. But I also learned about Him through warning.

Through verses sharpened into verdicts. Through sermons that felt less like invitations and more like indictments. Through the subtle understanding that parts of me were incompatible with holiness.

No one said, “God hates you” in those exact words. They didn’t have to.

It lived between the lines.

And when something sacred is used to make you afraid of yourself, it doesn’t just hurt your self-image. It fractures your relationship with the divine.

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The Internal Split

There was a season where I didn’t know what I was grieving more— The loss of certainty. Or the loss of safety.

Because when God is used against you, prayer becomes complicated. Worship feels like betrayal. Scripture feels loaded.

You start to wonder: Is it God who condemns me? Or the people who needed Him to?

That question alone can shake everything.

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What Was Actually Taken

What hurt most wasn’t doctrine. It was trust.

Trust that God was good. Trust that love didn’t come with conditions hidden in fine print. Trust that I wasn’t a problem to be solved.

When faith is weaponized, it teaches you to monitor yourself constantly. To filter your thoughts. To fear your desires. To negotiate with your own humanity.

That kind of hypervigilance doesn’t disappear just because you decide to “keep believing.”

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Separating God from the Harm

Loving a God who was used against you requires separation.

Not from faith—but from distortion.

It requires asking hard questions: Who benefited from my shame? Who needed my silence? Who told me God was small enough to be threatened by my existence?

And slowly, carefully, it requires rebuilding a version of God that is not rooted in fear.

A God who is not fragile. Not vindictive. Not waiting to punish honesty.

A God who can handle my questions. My anger. My doubt. My truth.

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Staying Without Surrendering Yourself

There are people who leave faith entirely after being harmed. I understand that. There are people who stay exactly where they were. I understand that too.

For me, staying has meant redefining.

It has meant loving God without allowing others to mediate that love through shame. It has meant refusing to accept theology that requires self-hatred as proof of devotion. It has meant believing that if God is love, then love cannot be my disqualification.

That doesn’t make it easy.

Some days I still feel the old fear rise. Some days certain words still sting. Some days I wonder if I’m wrong.

But I refuse to believe that the Creator of the ocean is scandalized by the way I drift.

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Faith Without Fear

Loving a God who was used against you is slow work. It is careful. It is layered with grief.

But it is also honest.

It is choosing to believe that divine love is bigger than human misuse. That holiness is not the same thing as control. That God does not require me to disappear in order to be acceptable.

If you are trying to untangle faith from harm, you are not weak. You are not rebellious. You are not beyond grace.

You are doing sacred work.

And if God is who I hope He is— He is not standing against you in that process. He is standing with you.