Do You Stay Christian Because of Fear, Obligation, and Guilt?
Lent, Guilt, and spiritual trauma
Two years ago I killed an orchid and I still feel bad about it. This is ludicrous for several reasons: while I’m adept at caring for cats and small humans, all but the hardiest of plants wither at my touch. Secondly, I invested little time and no money in this plant—it was a centerpiece from a friend’s wedding. Thirdly, (and this is probably obvious if you’re a gardener) orchids are the finnickiest flowers. I knew all this, and yet, when I beheld the mold-spotted roots, I was gutted.
My inner critical voice came on loud: how had I let this happen? Imagine its suffering! How had I been so irresponsible? Why hadn’t I bothered to learn more about orchids? No, I’d just blithely doused it with water, week after week, as its once-firm roots rotted into a slimy pulp. I lost sleep over the fate of my orchid long after I’d tossed its carcass in the compost.
Since then, I’ve come to recognize guilt as a persistent pattern in my life. How many decisions do I make not based on what I want, but because of FOG: fear, obligation, and guilt? And how did this pattern become so ingrained, anyway?
This malevolent trio lurks in many dysfunctional relationships. While healthy connections are built on interdependence, codependent relationships involve one partner taking care of the other to the expense of their own needs. When relationships are made up of a giver and a taker, the giver stays not because they enjoy it or because they’re getting their needs met, but because of a combination of fear, obligation, and guilt. As time goes on, joy is replaced by resentment. The giver keeps hoping for love and reciprocity that will never materialize.
Many of my early relationships were defined by FOG. While my mother did the best she could with the hand she was dealt, I spent much of my childhood preoccupied with her unhappiness, trying, in my own childish ways, to comfort and stabilize her. When she talked nostalgically of the past or pined for missed opportunities, the message my child brain pieced together was my life would’ve been better if you hadn’t been born.
This message was tragically reinforced by the church. According to the Apostle Paul, my very nature was sinful, my flesh evil. One of the most confusing of Christianity’s double standards is the way it holds individuals responsible for their sin but attributes their good works to the power of Christ. My sins grieved God and were responsible for Christ’s suffering. My very existence seemed to wound the two people I loved most, Mom and Jesus. What’s a kid supposed to do with that knowledge but scrabble frantically towards perfection, trying to finally prove herself worthy of love? My evolution towards constant guilt makes sense—guilt was the way I kept myself in line, striving to win acceptance.
As I’ve written about before, Ash Wednesday was my high holy day, a service in which my nothingness was affirmed each time a pastor smudged my forehead and declared, “You are but ashes, and to ashes you shall return.” Contemporary Christianity has many messages that affirm God’s holiness by pointing to humanity’s worthlessness. (Secular culture doesn’t escape this trap, either, eco guilt is real.) For a long time, I’ve been confused about the strange pleasure which can come from this level of shame. It was only in reading Krispin Mayfield's book, Attached to God, I learned the answer. Mayfield writes, “In a shame-filled attachment style, feeling bad becomes a mark of closeness.”
After all that, I sometimes wonder why I don’t become an atheist. Do I keep spiritually seeking simply out of fear, obligation, and guilt? At some deep level, perhaps I still feel a need to repay God for my existence. Perhaps our relationship is hopelessly dysfunctional. Perhaps it would be better to sever those last ties of belief.
But then I remember this tweet from therapist and author, Hillary McBride:
It stops me in my tracks, because it acknowledges my pain: getting beat up by this voice you believe comes from the creator of the universe. But what if that voice had nothing to do with God? Is it possible there is a loving god out there, voice long drowned out by the inner critic? Part of me feels foolish for still wondering, still seeking. In giving faith another chance, am I like the battered wife coaxed back with promises to change?
Then again, I’ve experienced the warm fuzzies of a spiritual high on many occasions, including when I sit down to write most mornings. How do I hang on to those positive spiritual experiences while shedding the shame? I don’t know. But I’m going to interview Krispin Mayfield, therapist and author of Attached to God, this week so I’ll ask him.
What I do know is that I want to learn to feel an appropriate level of guilt—a level which motivates me to reflect on my actions and make amends as needed, not a proactive defense mechanism. I want to toss my dead plants with a sigh, not a groan.
Journal/discussion questions:
What role has guilt played in your life? In the past? Currently?
Do you have any questions about attachment theory and spirituality for Krispin Mayfield? Let me know in the comments!
Should I post a poll on Twitter, Elon Musk-style, about whether I should become an atheist?
Nope,I did not stay christian. We become attached,because,in early life,it is a survival trait,in later life a means of achieving a connection with others who seem to be of our "ilk". Then sometimes an awakening occurs to the reality that. I didn't as for the universe to be created or to be born into it. I'm not responsible for the unknowing sins of my past folks. Who didn't know what wrong was ,until they ate the fruit. thereby condemning all for eternity,unless......... Kinda seems like-being forced to pay for something that you didn't order or desire. Polls seem to accomplish little,that is yours to decide.
I could not resonate with this more. Thank you.