The God Who Keeps Us Sick
When Theology is the Problem
My sponsor told me I should fire God.
It was one of those comments that hit me sideways—so bold, so irreverent, it felt almost heretical. But Steve said it with calm conviction, like someone handing me a wrench and pointing to a leaky pipe that needed fixing.
"You can't fire God," I protested.
"You can if it's not really god," he replied.
That was the day I realized something I hadn't been willing to admit: the God I believed in was keeping me sick.
🐘 These weekly articles are reflections from my upcoming book: The Lie That Kills Us: We ALL Have Elephants.
📩 Email pastored@addictionandfaith.com if you'd like to be notified when the book comes out.
When God Becomes a Barrier
I was about two years into recovery, walking with my sponsor, Steve, through the woods at his log cabin by the Nooksack River in Washington State. We were talking about faith when he asked me to describe my God.
I wasn’t sure where to start. Nobody ever asked me to articulate what I believe before. I launched into a stumbling version of my theology—a few Bible verses I'd memorized as a kid, maybe something from Sunday School lessons—I don’t remember. I never paid attention—when I was ever there. What I learned was a mix of childhood Catholic and adolescent born-againism. All of it was sprinkled with a generous serving of shame and fear.
What I described wasn't a loving presence waiting to embrace me. It was a cosmic judge with a wagging finger. Yes, God was love, but you needed to be good, right? And I wasn’t that good.
"That's not God," Steve said after listening patiently.
“What do you mean it’s not God, of course it is,” I said defensively.
He said, “No, that's sounds a lot more like your dad."
And just like that, the whole foundation of my Higher Power cracked and fell apart.
I had never considered that the god I prayed to—the one I begged for help, who I hated disappointing as regularly as I did—might not be God at all. At least not the God of grace that recovery and scripture promises we can find.
Building God in the Image of Our Wounds
When I really examined my concept of God, Steve's diagnosis was painfully correct. My "god" was often angry, unpredictable, hard to please. Yes, God forgave but you better stop what your doing! God always expected me to do better.
God was watching me constantly—not without some care, but mostly with scrutiny. I hadn’t realize it before but the more I considered it the more it seemed like a giant frowny face from heaven.
This wasn't theology. This was trauma dressed up in religious language.
Without knowing it, I had shaped my image of god in the likeness of my earthly father—emotionally distant, impossible to please, quick to anger, slow to comfort. I hadn't really met the divine; instead, I had projected my childhood pain onto the heavens and called it faith. This god was fake, just a blown up version of my father.
This “god” wasn't healing me. It was perpetuating the very shame that had driven me to drink and use in the first place.
When Religion Feeds Denial
This is the trap many fall into, especially those of us raised in religious environments. We take our early emotional experiences, particularly the painful ones, and dress them up in spiritual terminology. The God we turn to in our pain ends up being a mirror of our pain.
Just like substances, bad theology can be addictive. It gives us a false sense of control: if I behave perfectly, God will bless me. If I mess up, I'll be punished—but maybe not too harshly if I repent fast enough and dramatically enough. Either way, it puts me in control.
That's not faith. That's spiritual performance anxiety.
I've heard people describe a Higher Power who sounds more like a probation officer than a loving parent. Rules without relationship. Justice without mercy. Power without tenderness. Conditional love wrapped in theological language.
In truth, it's a form of spiritualized denial. We use this harsh God to keep ourselves in line, to manage our shame, to avoid the vulnerability that real healing requires. It gives us the illusion of control over the divine but delivers no real peace.
Writing the Termination Letter
At Steve's suggestion, I went home that night and wrote a letter to the false god I'd been worshipping for decades.
I poured everything onto those pages: the impossible conditions, the constant criticism, the silent treatments when I failed to measure up. I told this god I was done. Done with trying to earn love that should be freely given. Done with fearing punishment for being human. Done with a spiritual life that felt more like walking on eggshells than resting in grace.
I wrote about the exhaustion of never being enough, the terror of making mistakes, the crushing weight of trying to be perfect for someone who seemed determined to find fault.
Then I brought the letter back to Steve to read. After we burned it together on the banks of the river.
Watching those pages curl and blacken in the flames, I wasn't rejecting God. I was rejecting the lie I had mistaken for God for most of my life.
The God of Grace Shows Up Differently
That moment didn't solve all my problems or instantly heal decades of spiritual dysfunction. But it cracked something open in me. It made room for a new way to understand God—not a tyrant to be appeased, but a presence to be trusted.
The God who saved my life doesn't look anything like the god I fired that night, not cruel but compassionate, not distant but as close as my own breath. God doesn't demand perfection or trade love for performance. God doesn't punish struggle or shame or brokenness.
This God shows up for me most profoundly and in authentic community, the kind you find in 12-Step meetings. In the laughter, the tears and the heart-wrenching real-life struggles--and in the miracles of healing that happen time and time again!
It’s the kind of God who steps into shame and whispers, "You're already loved, let it go."
When Your Higher Power Is Part of the Problem
In recovery circles, we talk about turning our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understand God. But what if our understanding of God is still entangled with our wounds? What if our higher power is actually keeping us stuck?
I've worked with many people whose biggest obstacle to lasting recovery wasn't drugs or alcohol—it was theology. They clung to a concept of a higher power that told them they were fundamentally flawed, that their suffering was deserved, that their healing was conditional on perfect behavior.
And because that harsh, conditional God was all they knew, they stayed sick.
What About You?
So let me ask you the same questions Steve's challenge raised for me:
What kind of God do you believe in? Is that God helping you heal—or keeping you stuck in old patterns of shame and fear? Where did that image come from—we aren’t a very Biblically literate society after all, so bad theology abounds. Chances are, like me, you picked up lessons from wounded people who didn’t really know God either, but just enough to be dangerous.
Do you have the courage to examine whether your Higher Power is actually higher, or just a projection of human brokenness?
If your concept of God is fueling your denial, keeping you small, or perpetuating the very pain you're seeking healing from, it may be time to write your own letter of dismissal.
Final Thought
God doesn't keep us sick.
God heals. The real God liberates. God brings truth into the places we've kept silent and calls us beloved even in our brokenness.
Sometimes the most faithful act is to let that false god burn and trust that the God of grace who has been there all along waiting for us to stop running.
"There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."—1 John 4:18