At least in my Southern Baptist community, the emphasis on faith revolves around establishing a "personal relationship" with Jesus Christ.

Just the thought of those words makes me want to throw my laptop across the room.

My pursuit of "closeness to God" can be encapsulated in one phrase: nothing is ever sufficient. I employed every method I knew to reach this unattainable goal: praying, reading scripture, attending services, participating in Bible studies, going on mission trips, engaging with daily devotionals, diving into Christian self-help literature, scheduling meetings with pastors, undergoing Theophostic therapy, frequently switching congregations, and my least favorite, fasting.

I wish I could say there was a moment when I felt nearer to Jesus, but honestly, that never happened.

Instead, I found myself increasingly loathing who I was.

Childhood Fears

The struggle of not feeling "connected" to Jesus began subtly in my early years. I was a typical elementary school child—well, as typical as someone raised in a fundamentalist environment could be while dealing with trauma. I was painfully shy and introverted, enjoyed playing outside and riding my bike, and with some encouragement from my mother, I developed a love for reading. However, I faced bullying throughout fourth grade, which was just typical childhood angst.

Yet, being an ordinary kid wasn't deemed adequate. In third and fourth grades, I listened to sermons where the preacher narrated Jesus’ parables. Each story presented a dichotomy between virtuous and sinful Christians. For instance, there was the tale of the wise and foolish virgins or the servants entrusted with coins by their master. The wise invested their resources wisely, while the foolish were punished and cast into hell.

As I absorbed these stories and their interpretations, I felt an undeniable conviction that, if placed in a similar situation, I would inevitably be the fool. I envisioned myself making the same errors, like hiding the coin instead of investing it. Thus, with increasing certainty, I concluded that hell awaited me. Alternatively, thanks to the doctrine of "once saved, always saved," I might escape hell, but I was sure I’d still disappoint God.

It was only after fifth grade that the weight of my perceived failures began to bear down on me. I cannot pinpoint when it started or why, but after returning from my first mission trip, I was overwhelmed with guilt. I wasn't praying enough. I wasn't reading my Bible enough. I felt that my time spent on homework, playing, or reading was a betrayal to God. I was disobeying him. I wasn’t being a good Christian.

Despite my shortcomings in prayer and scripture reading, I strived to uphold the Ten Commandments. I made every effort to avoid lying, especially to my parents or teachers, and when I did, it filled me with fear and guilt. I never uttered God’s name in vain, terrified of the repercussions from my parents. Even a minced oath like “geez” earned me a reprimand.

I also worked hard to eliminate cursing from my vocabulary. The more I tried to suppress those thoughts, the more they invaded my mind uninvited. I assumed this was Satan tempting me and feared that even thinking of a curse word counted as sin.

Then came the commandment to honor one’s parents. While I wasn't a perfect child—who could claim to be?—I endeavored to obey my parents. Their strict and authoritarian nature kept me in check, and the fear of God’s disapproval added to my motivation. I didn’t want to accumulate more sins.

My path of unwavering dedication to Jesus began with a public “rededication” at church. Though it's unusual in Southern Baptist circles, the idea is that if you wish to publicly reaffirm your faith, you return to the altar and inform the pastor after the service. An announcement follows, along with others who have also "gotten saved" or joined the church. I did this twice—once at ten and again at twelve. Simultaneously, I pushed myself to improve my Bible study and prayer habits. It was a challenge. I had outgrown children's Bibles, and my only other option was the King James Version, which is notoriously difficult for anyone to understand, let alone a child.

Naturally, I was far more interested in writing stories or reading novels than in diving into scripture, and my efforts eventually dwindled. Shame and guilt would wash over me, leading me to plead with God to forgive my failures once more.

As I entered middle and high school, my feelings of guilt intensified. I began listening to heavy metal music, which in the 1980s and 1990s was not only popular but often deemed sinful. My youth minister was so concerned that he gifted me a cassette of Christian metal bands. Unfortunately, he had no idea about the genre, and the collection largely consisted of death metal, which was not to my taste. (I recognize the irony in a Christian death metal band, but it’s more about musical style and lyrical themes.)

Despite my worries about sinning through my music choices, I couldn't quit. The intense emotions expressed by my favorite bands provided an outlet for my own frustration. I was trapped by the Christian guideline of "never let the sun go down on your anger." If I went to bed still angry, I felt I was sinning. Heavy metal became my solace; I could blast it through my stereo and rage along with the artists without fear of judgment for my anger.

While I managed to dismiss my shame about anger, I couldn’t escape the guilt surrounding my inconsistent Bible study. I felt an unbridgeable barrier between myself and Jesus, convinced that the only reason God could hear my prayers was due to his omniscience. He simply had to know what I was saying.

Struggles in Adulthood

Upon reaching college and graduate school, I intensified my efforts to connect with Jesus. This marked the beginning of a barrage of strategies: not just Bible reading, prayer, and church attendance, but also fasting, self-help literature, daily devotionals, and meetings with various clergy members. No one could accuse me of not putting in the effort. I even began meditating on scripture, engaging in long prayer sessions, and playing hymns on the piano. I ordered numerous books aimed at deepening my faith and connection to Jesus, spending countless hours in a quest to build this personal relationship, but to no avail. I never felt closer to Him.

Instead, I found myself literally on the floor, my face pressed into the carpet, begging God for forgiveness for my perceived failures. I felt eternally inadequate, perpetually falling short of the most basic Christian standards to be considered a "real Christian" rather than one of those "lukewarm" individuals God would "spit out of his mouth," as described in the Book of Revelation. According to the text, being entirely cold-hearted was preferable. "Lukewarm" Christians were the worst, and I felt trapped in that lukewarm state, wondering why I hadn’t found my way closer to Jesus yet. I felt doomed.

Understanding Religious Trauma Syndrome

In 2017, I discovered that I was not alone in my struggles. My life partner, who was my best friend at the time, found a website dedicated to Religious Trauma Syndrome (RTS). Suddenly, I encountered numerous stories that mirrored my own. Others had also endured a lifetime of torment, fearing hell, dreaming they had already been condemned, or worrying about being left behind during the Rapture. Many had devoted themselves to Jehovah, only to feel like failures marked for destruction on Judgment Day.

I cannot emphasize enough the significance of recognizing Religious Trauma Syndrome. This condition is now officially recognized in the UK and the US, and possibly in Canada as well. It manifests as a form of Complex PTSD, leading to anxiety, depression, and diminished self-worth. Thankfully, it is something that can be addressed through therapy.

Moreover, any true deity that embodies love would not desire for anyone to endure anxiety, depression, or low self-esteem. A god that demands individuals to live in bondage, constantly berating themselves and feeling worthless, is not divine; it resembles a demon.

While I firmly believe in the freedom of religion, this freedom must also encompass the right for individuals to recover from RTS in ways that suit them. No faith that preaches love should require followers to sacrifice their self-esteem, self-worth, or mental health to please a higher power. I’ve observed similar patterns among some Pagans: as ex-Christians, they bring their RTS burdens into new spiritual paths, punishing themselves in the name of ancient deities instead. If a religion only brings fear, pain, and suffering, why engage with it at all?

In my view, a religion should provide support, healing, and empowerment on one's spiritual journey; otherwise, it holds no value. Following a divine figure should enhance one’s life, not complicate it. Life is already full of challenges; there’s no need to add to them.

Note: The Pagans I know prefer the term "pagan" and do not view it as derogatory.