For clarity it is not because I dislike church, doctrine, Scripture, commitment, or even authority. In fact, I’ve spent most of my life deeply invested in all of those things. The suffocating part wasn’t Christianity itself.
It wasn’t Jesus.
It wasn’t the Bible.
It wasn’t even the Church, at least not entirely.
The suffocating part was the feeling that my relationship with God was being filtered through expectations, performance, and gatekeepers.
I grew up Pentecostal. Later, I found a home among Reformed Baptists and in the PCA. I studied theology, read widely, and took my faith seriously. Very seriously. But somewhere along the way, faith became intertwined with pressure.
I often felt as though I needed permission to live. Permission from pastors. Permission from elders. Permission from church culture. Permission from theological systems. There were always expectations to meet, ministries to serve in, meetings to attend, books to read, doctrines to master, approved ways of thinking, approved ways of being.
The words that come to mind now are yoke, burden, pressure, and bondage. For a long time, I didn’t recognize it because I genuinely loved God. I wasn’t trying to earn His love. At least I don’t think I was. But somewhere in the process, my faith became tangled up with striving.
Another part of it was that my faith became highly intellectualized.
I knew the arguments.
I could discuss Calvin and Piper. I could talk about election, sanctification, repentance, church history, covenant theology, and all the rest. I spent years learning. Years studying. But knowledge doesn’t always comfort a broken heart. When Siafa got cancer, something shifted inside me. I remember standing on the praise team looking out across the sanctuary and wondering, “Where is God?”
I wasn’t asking for a miracle or demanding healing.
I wanted His presence. I wanted His comfort. His strength to sustain me through the uncertainty. And somehow all the answers that had once felt so solid no longer seemed enough.
At the same time, I began to realize there wasn’t much room for sorrow. Not deep sorrow. Not the kind that sits beside you for months and years.
Too often there seemed to be an explanation for everything. A theological answer. A Bible verse. A framework. But sometimes suffering doesn’t need to be explained.
Sometimes it needs to be witnessed. I found myself longing for something older and deeper. A faith that could sit quietly in mystery. A faith that could acknowledge pain without rushing to solve it.
Then there was the question of belonging.
I studied theology at Liberty University because I loved these conversations. I cared deeply about ideas. I wanted to learn. But often it felt as though the real conversations were happening somewhere else. Among the elders. Among the men who held authority. I wasn’t angry about it. I wasn’t trying to fight it. But I often felt like I was standing outside the room.
I could listen. I could learn. But I couldn’t fully participate.
Looking back, I think I spent years carrying a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying.
So when I eventually became Catholic, the word that rested on me was freedom.
Not freedom from God.
Freedom from striving.
Freedom from having to prove myself.
Freedom from constantly evaluating whether I was measuring up.
Freedom from feeling as though God’s favor rose and fell with my performance.
Freedom to simply be a daughter.
As I write today, it is not an attack on Protestantism. There were beautiful people there. Faithful people. People who genuinely loved Jesus and loved me.
This is about what happens when faith becomes so wrapped up in performance, certainty, persuasion, and proving that you can no longer breathe.
This is about what it feels like to discover, after all those years, that Christ may have been inviting me to rest all along.
Matthew 11: 29-30
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
|
Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
From Big Bowl of Popcorn
Finding Alberta
A novel about love, grief, and what is remembered and misunderstood.
Thank you for supporting my writing.
Leave a Reply