Fear Of An Angry God

by Anna

We all sat frozen, afraid to call attention to even our breathing. Time, suspended in shocked horror, had stilled the cool air about us. We dared not move. We dared not flinch. We dared not question what she was saying. We were Catholic children in a Catholic classroom. She was a Catholic nun. She knew all. We knew nothing.

She paced frantically back and forth, her rosary flailing black whips of beads in the air all about her. "He is almighty! He created the heavens, the oceans, the land, the animals, the sky, and all of the people on the Earth! He is the greatest power of creation, and he can destroy all of it, all of us, in just the blink of an eye, just the whim of a thought! Oh, you don't think so? Do I see you question this?"

We all looked around at each other. Who dared question? Who dared to raise an eyebrow? Who would bring the wrath of God upon us all? Surely we would be all sent to the darkest deepest corner of hell and burn there together for all eternity. Silence hung like a dark cloak putting out even the tiniest of lights that may have at one time shone in us. We were all doomed. It was only a matter of time. Someone had dared question.

The nun walked up to a large poster in the front of the room. She stood to the side of it. We all looked at the poster. He was an old and very angry man. His face wore the forever frown of disapproval. He had long white hair and a beard. He stood on the very top of a great billowing cloud. Shooting out of his hands blazed fiery bolts of lighting. Beneath him people tried desperately to cover themselves. They shuddered and hid from his fury. In vain, they all sought refuge, but there was nowhere to hide. He sees everything. He is everywhere. There is no escape. There is no safe place. He even sees you when you're under your blanket.

Once again the nun glared at us. Once again we all cowered. The only sound in the room was little Mary Ellen in the back row softly crying. We all pretended that we didn't hear her.

Then the nun said, "Well then, now with our math lesson".

Not every nun who taught us was this way, and after our year with her was up, she was put into a mental hospital. However, every teacher that we had in that Catholic school did their best to remind us that God was an entity that we should fear more than anything else in the world.

Every Wednesday we were marched to the church that was connected to the school. Then we all sat in the pews waiting. The priest entered. He gave us a quick stern look. He stared just a little harder at a choice few of us. Then he walked to the back of the church and entered the confessional. He slowly closed the door, while looking back at us just a little from the darkness. There he sat waiting.

Then we were all herded into a single line and brought to the confessional. No matter how many times I had gone to the bathroom, no matter how much I remembered to not drink anything before hand, and no matter how much I prayed not to, I always had to pee when we were brought to the confessional. I just had to hold it.

When it was finally my turn to enter the confessional and talk to the priest, it was always the same. I sat there shyly repeating the prayer that started with, "Bless me Father for I have sinned, my last confession was last Wednesday". The priest always said the same thing. "I can't hear you child, can you talk a little louder". Again I would say the beginning confession prayer, this time with my voice a little shakier. The priest would say, "Tell me your sins".

I was a very very shy child. At home I was the one who never got into trouble. I was ever so sweet and did whatever I was told. I never talked back to my parents, I never stole anything, and I would not even dream of using the Lord God's name in vain. So, after the priest asked me for my sins, I said nothing. Then the priest said, "Oh come on now Anna, surely you've done something wrong."

He said my name! Oh, no, God help me, he's not supposed to know who I am. There's a thick screen between us, covered by a dark curtain. How can he know who I am? He is all powerful. He knows everything too. God had made him omniscient!

Again the priest said, "Anna, come now, what have you done that's so bad you can't even tell me?" I stumbled, I started to stutter, I searched my mind for anything. Had I stepped on an ant? Had I had unclean thoughts? Had I sinned in some way that I was not even aware of? Finally the priest heaved a heavy sigh and said, "For the sins that God knows you have committed, you will say three "Our Fathers" and ten "Hail Mary's". You can go now Anna.

I opened the door. I stepped out into the light. I was free again til next Wednesday. I had lived through it once more. I walked past the next child in line who was sadly making his way to the confessional.

I went to Catholic school for eight years. I went to Catholic church every Sunday morning for the entire time that I was growing up. I sat through the Latin (that I never could understand) and the sermon in English afterwords. I learned to kneel, to stand, to kneel, to stand, to make the sign of the cross with holy water. I learned all of the things expected of me in the Catholic religion, except for one.

What is God really like?

Later, as a grown up, I prayed for God to let me know what he, she, or it, was really all about. I sat there waiting, not knowing what would happen. Would I feel a faint electric shock of the lightning from the poster? Would I feel the degradation and guilt of being in the presence of a being that was all powerful, all knowing? Would I see the image of an old man with white hair and a beard frowning always disapprovingly down at me?

I had gone through times when I was angry at God yet afraid to be angry, fearing what he would do to me if I dared to question him. I had gone through times when I did not believe that I deserved God's help or love. I had gone through times when I cowered at the very mention of heaven and hell.

When I prayed and asked God what he was really like, I was actually afraid of the answer. What I felt was small at first and then it began to grow. I felt a love enter my body and fill me from my head to my feet. I felt accepted, protected and understood. I felt that I could always turn to God when I needed him.

I began to know that if you really wanted to know God, you just had to ask him. It was that simple all along.

I still suffer from my early conditioning about God. I still shudder when I remember it. I'm even shocked that I could write this story. I will probably pause in fear for awhile before I hit the key that sends the story in.

God Bless.

Response from Dr. DeFoore

Hi Anna, and thanks for your story. I have had many clients over the years who told me they were angry at God. I think that has a lot to do with misconceptions that come from childhood experiences like yours. I think your story will help a lot of people to heal.

My very best to you,

Dr. DeFoore

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