I was reading Richard Rohr this morning when one sentence made me stop: “It’s common for us to think of evil as an interruption of an otherwise smooth functioning order, usually caused by someone else…” Richard Rohr, The Tears of Things

I had to put the book down. Some words hit you in places you didn’t know were still tender.

That sentence made me think about all the times I’d blamed other people for the mess in my life. How convenient it was to point fingers instead of looking at my own stuff. And how desperately I’d been searching for someone—anyone—to tell me I was finally enough.

Looking for Someone to Fix Me

I grew up adopted, always searching for the person who would finally tell me I was enough. My inner critical voice never let up—constantly reminding me I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, worthy enough. I tried to do everything right, but somehow I still felt invisible.  And when people did notice me, the shame of being noticed made me feel uncomfortable.

Then I met a spiritual leader who said he actually saw me. For the first time, I thought maybe this was it—maybe God’s representative would be the one to finally silence that critical voice in my head and let me live in peace.

The evangelical world I became a part of at 19 was all about following the right systems. Looking back on that time, I realize the right theology was more of an obsession than a passion. I dissected verses, memorized doctrine, and learned to argue every point. One denomination said this, another said that. I convinced myself that if I just studied hard enough, I’d find the truth.

But really? It was all about feeling superior. I loved having answers that other people didn’t have. I loved feeling special when the pastor would share “deeper truths” with me—things he said others “wouldn’t understand.” I soaked it all up like I was dying of thirst.

Looking back, I can see how shallow it all was. All that theological knowledge never actually changed me. It just fed my ego and my desperate need to feel in control.

The Performance We Don’t Even Know We’re Giving

Rohr talks about how our ego stuff happens unconsciously: “Christianity is not a purity cult that we use to prove we are superior beings, although it has certainly seemed like that during its long history. Up to now, this has made far too many Christians into unconscious hypocrites, or what Jesus calls ‘actors.’ And I do mean unconscious; scapegoating is almost entirely an unconscious mechanism.” Richard Rohr, The Tears of Things

That word—unconscious—hit me hard. I wasn’t even aware of the performance I was giving.

When everything fell apart with that pastor, people kept telling me he failed but God didn’t. “Don’t blame the system,” they said. “Blame the man.” They wanted me to keep coming to church, keep trusting their version of Jesus.

But here’s what I couldn’t ignore anymore: if the system was supposed to work, why didn’t it? If this pastor was teaching others, why was he so broken himself? You can only take people as far as you’ve gone.

The real problem wasn’t one bad man. It was a system that taught us to look everywhere except inside ourselves for the source of our pain.

When the Truth Won’t Stay Hidden

I told that pastor everything I was struggling with. I wanted to be healed, to be fixed. But he didn’t know how to help me—he only knew how to use my brokenness to feed his own emptiness. The worst part was how he convinced both of us that this was somehow part of God’s plan.

I learned to rationalize it just like he did.

But truth has a way of surfacing. It doesn’t matter how good we get at hiding—eventually, the shell cracks and what’s inside starts leaking out. If we’re brave enough to look at what leaks out instead of frantically trying to patch the cracks, we might actually find what we’ve been looking for all along.

I think religion keeps us focused on problems “out there” precisely so we won’t look at the hurt we carry inside. Anger feels better than grief. It gives us energy and temporarily covers the shame we feel about our unmet needs—needs we might not even know we have.

Learning to Fly (Sort Of)

I picture my real life hidden under a shell that’s supposed to crack open so I can stretch my wings. The cracking and breaking isn’t the problem—it’s necessary. If I keep trying to tape myself back together, I’ll never learn what it feels like to fly.

Honestly? I’m still figuring out this whole flying thing. Some days I feel like that guy from The Greatest American Hero—crash landing more often than soaring. But I’m learning that’s okay. Flying takes practice. Some of us might be more like doves than eagles, and that’s fine too.

The main thing is staying true to who we actually are, not who we think we should be.

This isn’t easy work. You can’t fly until you feel the wind beneath your wings and actually want to rise. The Bible describes being born again as a mysterious wind that you don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going. But it’s there, ready to lift the heavy stuff and love us without conditions.

The best we can do is slow down and stay open to that wind.

People say if they had to do it all over again, they’d go through the same pain to become who they are today. I won’t say that. I think too much religion has made pain last longer than it needed to. There’s a reason Jesus flipped those tables in the temple.

The Weight We Pass On

Trauma that doesn’t get healed gets passed along. Each of us has to face our own pain honestly. I can only help someone else go as far as I’ve gone myself, and that’s okay.

When I do this work—when I’m honest about the hurt inside and take responsibility for my part—the anger starts to loosen its grip. Shame still shows up. I don’t think it ever completely goes away. But love doesn’t go away either. It’s there in every breath, in every beautiful thing in this universe we’re all part of.

It’s okay that we don’t have all the answers. It’s okay that nothing’s perfect. What matters is that we tell the truth, and love will find its way to us.

“Avoid the futile works of darkness by exposing them. We are ashamed even to speak of our works of darkness, But anything exposed to the light will be illuminated, And anything illuminated turns into light itself.” —Ephesians 5:12–14

The shell cracks. The light finds its way in. And somehow that’s when we finally learn how to fly.

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What shells are you ready to let crack open? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.