Updated: Oct. 11, 2023 | Originally Published: Oct. 11, 2023
“Mom, what’s God like?” my four-year-old asked one evening as we snuggled in his bed.
“Well,” I started, “God can be seen in all sorts of things. Just look around at the beauty of nature—the clouds, the flowers, and the ocean. We also see God in acts of kindness and love.” I continued, “Remember when we gave money to that man who needed food? That was like showing God to him. And when you share your toys with your sister, that’s also reflecting God…” My words trailed off as I searched his little face for any sign of comprehension, wishing my response was sufficient.
After a moment’s thought, he said, “Okay, but can you just show me a picture of God on your phone?”
Ah, the innocence of childhood. To think that the enormity of God and faith can be wrapped up neatly in a cute little box of Sunday school songs and a quick Google search for a divine image. My children’s big inquiries demand solid answers, yet as a mother who has been reevaluating her beliefs for years, I’m at a loss for words that will reassure them—and myself—that I’m not just winging it.
Honestly, I find discussing faith with my kids more daunting than explaining the facts of life. At least with sex, the mechanics are straightforward, albeit awkward to explain. At ages six and four, their curiosity revolves around how they ended up in my belly. But God? How do I convey the concept of God to them in a way that sparks curiosity without instilling fear, and keeps them open to faith but not shackled by it, as I once was?
It took me nearly four decades to break free from a God that demanded I abandon my curiosity and intellect to gain His approval. I now view the Bible not as a rulebook but as a collection of narratives and parables that provoke more questions than answers. Anyone who spouts the phrase, “God said it, I believe it, that settles it,” gets a serious side-eye from me. This mindset is not only intellectually lazy but also a privilege, and quite frankly, false. The Bible is riddled with contradictions, and many scholars dedicate their lives to deciphering its complex messages and cultural contexts. So, sorry, Brenda—this matter is far from settled.
As a child, I believed in a God who once wiped out the entire planet with a flood, saving just one old man, his family, and a few animals on an ark because they obeyed Him. The lesson? God is to be feared and has the power to destroy anyone who disobeys Him.
But now? I feel that humanity is quite capable of ruining the earth all on its own. Watching children plead with older generations to address climate change has made me rethink the need for a literal hell in the afterlife—because if we don’t enact significant changes soon, we might end up living in hell right here on Earth. How do I explain that possibility to my children? How do I face them and say that their future may be bleak?
I have never been one to advocate for a complete teardown of everything. People are multifaceted, and systems are even more intricate, with elements worth preserving. I don’t want to entirely alienate my children from faith, yet I’m concerned about the impact of American Christianity and its intertwining with political power on their developing views. How can I ignore the man behind the curtain, manipulating the strings of control masquerading as goodness and morality?
The thought of my children growing up devoid of any religious influence feels strange and wrong, but why is that? I now find so many aspects of the church off-putting, particularly because what I once interpreted as love often masked control. It’s not love to dictate to a teenage girl what she can or cannot do with her own body. It’s not love to exclude half the population from leadership roles based on their gender. And it’s certainly not love to determine whom someone should or shouldn’t love. Yet, that’s the church I’ve known. Is it possible to sift through the nonsense and find the truth, differentiating the simplified American Christian version of God from the divine essence?
One thing I can say for sure—my children will not grow up believing they are worthless, that their bodies are shameful, or that the Bible should be taken literally, word for word. The next time one of them asks what God looks like, I’ll show them images of children in cages at the border, those leading climate justice marches, and, of course, pictures of themselves. What’s the point of a loving God if we don’t also recognize a God of justice? And even though some of their profound questions make me squirm and feel inadequate, I embrace them as they challenge me to confront my insecurities and redefine my beliefs.
This article was originally published on Oct. 11, 2019.
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Summary:
In grappling with my children’s questions about God, I reflect on my own evolving beliefs and the complexities of faith. The innocence of their inquiries contrasts sharply with my struggles to convey a nuanced understanding of God, shaped by my experiences within and outside traditional religious frameworks. I aim to raise my children without instilling fear or shame, while also encouraging them to recognize the importance of justice alongside love.
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