The sun radiated brightly on this cloudless Easter Sunday. Nothing but skies the color of unhatched robin’s eggs as far as the eye could see. As I walked along the sidewalk heads were nodding, eyes were winking and lips were smiling as if everyone were in on a particularly funny inside joke. As I walked along the busy street my heart felt like a feather floating gently about on the barely there breeze as the sun warmed my skin.

Could there be a more perfect day to celebrate Jesus’ Resurrection? I thought to myself as I bebopped along.

Refrains of “He is Risen!” and “He is Risen Indeed!” said in singsong reply were buzzing about like bees ’round a tree filled with cherry blossoms. The echoes of those words reverberated in my mind.

“Jesus Loves You” – shone the ginormous sign in the Christian Coffee Shop.

But does he? Does he even know who I am?

Well, of course he does, answered my inner voice. Why else would he die for you?

Why did he need to die for me? I thought. Am I a bad person?

Pondering that question while soaking in this magnificent moment, I stepped off the curb to cross the street continuing my walk to Sunday service.

Next thing I knew I was laying in the middle of the street reeling and trying to catch my breath. What happened? What is that mangled form laying in front of the haphazardly parked bus?

White fur splattered with red like a Jackson Pollack painting laid not far from me. Blood was oozing from the white matted mess, so much so it was difficult to discern what the original shape had been before this blob came to rest on the ground.

All around me people were screaming and crying and others were coming over to check on me. Faint sirens in the distance grew louder with each passing second.

The bus driver paced back and forth repeatedly wailing “I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t mean to do it.” As some of the onlookers attended to me, I asked them what happened.

“Oh dearie, you were nearly killed by this bus speeding down the road, but the Easter Bunny pushed you out of the way in the nick of time.” exclaimed the woman helping me rise from the ground. “Can you walk?”

“I, I…think so.” I whispered weakly, still unsure of what took place. “I don’t understand. The Easter Bunny pushed me out of the way and died instead of me?”

“Yes, dear, that’s about the sum of it.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked while shaking the cobwebs from my mind. “Why would he give his life for mine?”

“Well, dear, because he loved you, that’s why.” shaking her head at my questioning.

Still needing clarification I stammered, “The Easter Bunny died for me?”

“It appears so, little one,” came her confirmation as she walked me towards the newly arrived EMT Vehicle.

The Easter Bunny died for me. In this above scenario that is exactly what happened.

Now, swap out Jesus for the Easter Bunny and only in this same scenario, or something similar, would Jesus have died for me.

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Jesus died for me; therefore I owe him my life.

That is the sum of the equation I was raised with in my childhood and young adult life. I grew up in a strict Lutheran family. Attending church every Sunday and Sunday School and midweek bible studies and choir practice and Vacation Bible School. It seemed I never went more than a few days without being told I had a Savior who gave his life for me, despite the evil flesh I was born into.

The parochial school I attended forced me to memorize bible verses and hymns so I “could always keep god close to my heart.” The same school had teachers who physically paddled students for back talking and hosted a principal who lost his temper and threw desks across the room when the teenagers didn’t listen to him.

It was ingrained in my little brain that I was evil and required a savior. Evil? What is evil when you are 6 years old? Not obeying my parents was a big sin and wanting someone else’s toy was also sinful. That and hanging around my best friend who was ‘evil’ because she attended the Catholic church. My church taught they were the ‘only true saving faith’. All other faiths had it wrong somehow and choosing any of them would put me on a path to hell.

Jesus was the way the truth and the life and if I didn’t choose him, I would suffer and burn in hell forever. They told me, at a tender 6 years of age, my body would never actually burn up, but rather it would keep burning and suffering for all eternity. Eternal Fire they called it. As a young child, of course I chose Jesus over suffering forever in the eternal burning fire.

As an adult and a zealous proponent of helping the other poor lost souls find their way to his doorstep:

I taught Sunday School and Bible Studies.

Led and wrote Retreats.

Wrote Christian themed Blogs.

Worked god into every conversation I had.

Until.

Until the day a few years ago when I was breezily chatting with some friends. I don’t recall what the initial topic of discussion was but in a flash of realization the inky ebony veil over my heart split in two as I blurted out “I am not inherently evil.”

Once the revelation escaped my lips, my tears began to fall.

It felt like I had set a bomb off inside the house of Pam and loosed every nail that had ever been pounded in and cracked the foundation beyond repair.

I had never registered the choke hold the ‘inherently evil’ belief had over me. There was no going back, but was there a way forward?

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My path to that deep revelation wasn’t linear and it wasn’t quick. Rather it was like gradually turning up the temperature in the proverbial pot to boil the unwitting frog. As it turns out, the frog was me and my jumping out of the pot moment was the revelation of my inherent goodness and worthiness.

The first nail in the house of Pam wiggled loose when I looked deeper into the Bible and accepted many things were taught to me as literal events rather than allegories to make the writer’s point.

The idea of hell, for instance, melted away when I learned that the word ‘hell’ or the translation of Gehenna, was only used a handful of times in the Bible. When used by Jesus it was pointing to a literal place near Jerusalem. Gehenna, or hell, was a physical place directly outside the walls of Jerusalem. It was a place where the trash was burned, animals fought over scraps gnashing their teeth and ‘unclean’ people were left to die and suffer away from the clean and accepted beloveds of god.

Hell was not a place specially designed for me to burn and suffer if I didn’t honor the godly path. Lightning strike moment! How could an all loving and all knowing god create such a horrible place to send his precious creations that didn’t choose his son as their savior?

He can’t. A god like that is either not all loving or not all knowing and I could no longer blindly pine for myself and others hoping to save us all from the burning eternally in the lake of fire.

Another nail was pried out at the othering of the LGBTQ+ community. They were, I was vehemently told, evil, lost and going to hell, without question. Several bible verses were quoted as backup for that staunch belief and when under the veil I believed each of them to be 100% valid. However, my heart never sat right with that line of thinking, it made no sense to me, but questioning was not allowed. Full acceptance of nonsensical theology was expected, at least, if you wanted to stay within the fold.

My niece revealed her transgender self during this time. When she shared her secret with me my reaction was “I love you. I will always love you. I am here for you for whatever you need.” At that time in my life, I truly meant that statement exactly as it was. If I am being fully transparent in looking back, I meant it but it had a layer of agenda. My understanding of transgender individuals was non-existent. I remember praying that god would help him (her) learn the truth and come back to him. I figured that as I loved her unconditionally I might be a gateway back to the heavenly realm for her. I may not have ever uttered those exact sentiments, but I prayed fervently for her and I know that was the ill that was in my heart. How fucking gross is that?

Amazingly, upon my asking she shared her journey with me. Hours and hours of phone conversations later I understood her walk and she opened my eyes to what her world was like before she revealed herself and what it is like now that she has lined up her outside appearance with her inside self. She and I have fascinating discussions. We talk about life, love and walking away from those who do not accept her because “they know what the bible says about that.” Heartbreakingly, that includes some immediate family members.

It was little thing after little thing that turned up the heat in my pot until it burned my eyes open to the indoctrination I had undergone. Questioning was not allowed. Believing every word as fact was the only path forward. Anything else was sacrilege.

That was a few years ago and I am still unpacking the spider web of shame that was/is inside me. Some days I wonder if I would be better off having never seen the wizard behind the curtain. Then I relish the freedom I have to love people or hate them without an agenda to help save them.

I no longer carry the pity (gross) or the judgment (double gross) that restrained my interactions with others. There is no more fear that someone I meet has the power to steer me away from my salvation. The pressure of convincing others they are loved by a magnanimous god who just wants to be their friend, if, and only if, they accept his son’s death and agree to walk with him, is gone.

But, what now?

How do I unpack the toxic internal shame-work inside my being? How do I release the guilt and shame from leading others down the path of divine disintegration of self?

I am asking because I don’t know. Seeking assistance from others is a path forward, but finding safe people to unpack bad theology with is a difficult task. Books have been a great help but there is nothing like discussing past beliefs with others who share that history. What is incredible is that the folks I have found to unpack the garbage with are wholly accepting of where I am at on my journey as I am accepting of where they are at on their journey. No agenda is required by either party. This full acceptance by former christians or deconstructed Christians, or atheists is more like the love of god than anything I was raised to believe.

My internal framework needs rebuilding, and I am gathering the lumber to make it happen, bit by bit, piece by piece. The comforting part of this journey is that I no longer need to tie down to anchor posts or make a final decision about my stance on beliefs. Instead, this journey has opened me up to uncertainty and the peace that flows through me in those spaces.

The Pam that needed Jesus to save her is dead. The house of Pam is being rebuilt with new materials and opportunities to grow and change as I construct a safe, warm and vibrant home where all are welcome and loved, safe from toxic beliefs.