A Sermon for a Faith Outgrown.

I learned my prayers on tidy knees,

In quiet rooms with polished grace.

Aunty Con and Uncle Charles meant me well.

Their God was kind. Their world, a place

Where love wore cardigans and smiles,

Where faith was plain, if dull at times.

I thank them still. I’ve wandered since.

Here’s what I’ve learned, in beats and rhymes.

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Fear hums beneath the hymns we sing,

The engine under altar rails.

Not awe, not love, but terror first

Of fires, of judgment, endless jails.

A God who’s sold as threat and stick

Wins souls by fear, not by the good.

That gospel scars the nervous system

More than it ever heals or should.

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A collar, stole, or polished role

Confers no magic from on high.

“Anointed,” “called,” and titled names

Don’t make one closer to the sky.

Degrees don’t grant divine control.

No halo comes with office keys.

Authority is earned in living,

Not claimed by robes or pedigrees.

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We call things sacred when we’re taught.

We don’t invent them on a whim.

The holy comes by inheritance

Before we ever question Him.

What moves one town leaves others cold.

The lesson’s simple, if it’s stark:

The sacred’s learned before it’s chosen,

Lit by culture’s hand me down spark.

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The stories weren’t meant as timelines pinned.

They’re not the minutes of the past.

They’re myths and poems wearing boots,

Big truths in metaphorical cast.

Read them as parable and dream

And watch them open, wide and strange.

Read them as fact and frozen law,

And all they do is stiffen, shrink, and chain.

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Prayer isn’t leverage, coin, or deal.

You can’t negotiate the sky.

No posture, fast, or whispered plea

Can make a silent heaven comply.

If God exists, He’s not impressed

By grovel, bargain, praise, or tone.

The maths beneath those prayers breaks down.

The premise never stood alone.

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Whatever God you say you know

Looks back at you with your own face.

A loving God means love matters.

A judging God keeps score and place.

Divide the world and God divides.

Make tribes and God draws sharper lines.

God may be real or may not be,

But God reflects the soul that signs.

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We’re born into a ready-made script,

A map decided by the crib.

The post-code writes the creed we learn,

Long before we can reason, probe, or fib.

Faith comes by water, milk, and song,

Not by some neutral search for truth.

No one compared the cosmic menus

At seven years old, or even youth.

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Theology guards what it begins with.

It rarely risks a changed belief.

It builds a case, then calls it truth,

A circular, airtight relief.

It proves itself by self-reference,

Answers framed before the ask.

It’s less a hunt for what is real

Than armour worn behind a mask.

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More religion won’t save our skin.

It scales both mercy and the knife.

It blesses soup kitchens and crusades,

Compassion paired with sanctioned strife.

Fanatic heat rises with fuel.

Devotion sharpens every edge.

The good gets louder, yes, but so

Does cruelty wearing a pledge.

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Less religion won’t save us either.

Opposition hardens into creed.

A godless fist can crush as well

As any sanctified decree.

We’re skilled at turning any flag

Into a reason to exclude.

The problem isn’t faith or doubt.

It’s fear, and ego, poorly subdued.

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A healthy faith would face the shadow,

The parts of us we’d rather hide.

But clergy train to sell the brand,

To justify, defend, and guide.

If justice grows, it grows inside,

Through honest work with what we are.

That work may mean unlearning stories,

Even the ones we love and guard.

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“My authority is Scripture,” they say.

What they mean is, “What I was taught it means.”

A book mistaken for a system,

For flawless code, for moral machines.

Right belief becomes the final test,

While pews stay full of quiet pain.

Correct theology fills the room,

Yet lonely hearts remain the same.

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When cash rides on packed out pews,

The metrics shift from life to show.

Maturity looks like attendance,

Tithes, programs, saying yes and go.

But love lives loose, not centralized.

It moves outside the building’s frame.

You won’t find Christ on spreadsheets first,

Or membership rolls stamped with His name.

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You’re not as broken as you’re told.

You’re not a child without a light.

You carry tools already sharp:

Empathy, reason, conscience, sight.

You can walk inward, choose your way,

Grow strong without pretending small.

A faith that feeds your fullest self

Shouldn’t need you weak at all.

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I still remember gentle prayers,

The decent warmth I once was shown.

I don’t call it evil. Just mistaken.

A map that thought it was the throne.

If faith survives, let it grow up,

Lose fear, lose rank, lose holy glare.

Let it sound more like honest living

And less like someone else’s scare.