Finding peace in a world of hypocrisy is not easy, but it’s much easier when you’re sober.

From an early age, I learned a hard truth: many church-going, Bible-thumping, quick-to-shame-you Christians act less like Jesus than many agnostics or atheists I’ve met.

For over twenty years, I ran from the church, from God, Jesus, and even the Bible. During that time, I lived a life fueled by fear, anger, and hate. Sure, there were good times, even growth. But peace? Calm? Serenity? I had no interest in any of that. Staying angry was easier; it took all my energy and distracted me from the deep pain that sat at my core.

Of course, it would take years—and the fallout of my drinking—before I could heal those wounds.

The Moment I Dropped to My Knees

I wasn’t new to sobriety when it happened. I was tangled in a volatile, abusive relationship that I had ignored every red flag. He wasn’t innocent; neither was I. My rage matched his words, but I was never physical. He was. He’d restrain me, bend my fingers back, grab my throat, and strike where bruises wouldn’t show. I later learned he was a repeat offender, but I stayed. I believed there was no escape.

He’d assumed my last name, opened credit lines in my name, and destroyed my finances. I didn’t see a way out—except death.

One day, after visiting my mother and sister and tearfully admitting that I was trapped, I began tying up loose ends: canceling appointments, ripping off my fake fingernails, sobbing so hard I could barely see the road. By the time I walked through my front door, I had no plan—just resolve. I was done.

The house was quiet as I climbed the stairs. I didn’t know what I would find. I didn’t know what I would do. Would I yell until he beat me? Call the cops? Would I fight back this time? I reached the bedroom, and I dropped to my knees.

I wailed. I cried like my soul had split open. For the first time in decades, I spoke to God. I didn’t ask for revenge or rescue. I asked for one thing: Please restore my peace.

I didn’t even know if I had ever felt peace before, but it’s what I wanted more than anything.

When I opened my eyes, something was different. I stood, noticed travel bags and clothes strewn about, and grabbed my phone. I called him.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the airport, going to see my mom for a few—”

“You’re not coming back,” I yelled.

And he didn’t. I changed the locks that day.

You may not see the miracle, but I did. It was supernatural.

There Is No Separation Between Faith and Sobriety

There is no difference or separation between my faith and my sobriety. For me, alcohol was the only reprieve from pain in the darkness, a reprieve that could only end in death. I know now that to stay free, I must keep my spirit clean—free from lies, hate, bitterness, betrayal, and anger. Darkness erodes the spirit, and once you begin to let it in, it consumes you piece by piece until nothing is left. Faith and sobriety are my lifelines; they keep me anchored in the light.

My Journey Back to Faith

I didn’t “jump on the Jesus train” right away. I spent years visiting churches, searching for something—anything—that felt like home. Some churches were okay, others felt wrong. Wrong is the only word I have for the disingenuous smiles and back-patting.

Eventually, I realized it wasn’t the church I needed. It was Jesus. I decided to follow His teachings—to love people. All people. And strangely, it’s often the non-believers who feel most like home.

They respect my faith. I respect their kindness.

But in the last year, I felt those old, dark feelings creeping back: fear, anger, and hate. It happened during the election. Christians I knew—people who claim to follow Jesus—were spewing rage and cruelty. Their behavior wasn’t new to me. I’d seen it as a child. But this time, I had Jesus, not the church, to guide me.

Even still, it broke my heart.

The world was watching. Watching Christians call for deportation and family separation. Watching them preach violence and hatred. Watching them paint anyone who didn’t look, act, or believe as they did as “evil.”

But Jesus didn’t teach us to judge. He taught us to love.

He surrounded Himself with sinners, criminals, and outcasts—not to change them but to *love them.* Until they could love themselves.

Where I Find the Light

I no longer attend church, and I’m not a Bible scholar. But I follow Jesus. I surround myself with people who live more like Him than those who claim to know Him best.

Jesus didn’t live in mansions or boast from pulpits while locking His doors to the poor. He didn’t ignore the suffering of others to preserve His comfort. He loved, deeply and without judgment.

Today, I choose love. Not because I’m perfect but because I know what happens when hate wins.

Hate makes me feel like I’m dying. My hope fades, joy subsides, and darkness grows. I’ve been there before. I know that place too well.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the light lives in each of us. Even when it’s buried deep. Even when the darkness seduces us. If we stop looking for the light in others, we let the darkness win.

And here’s something else: God knows your heart. You don’t get a pass just because “everybody else does it.” If you know what is right and true and ignore it, you can’t excuse your willful ignorance away. God knows. Your spirit knows. And the only way to silence either is to step further into the darkness.

It’s seductive, that darkness. It gives you permission to stay small, to blame others, to justify your own pain. But it’s a trick. A trap. Because the deeper you step into it, the harder it is to come back.

Closing Thoughts

Faith—whether it’s Christianity, spirituality, or none at all—isn’t about labels. It’s about the way we live, the way we love, and the way we show up for one another.

I believe God knows my heart. I believe He knows yours, too.

So I’ll leave you with this: Where do you see the light?

And more importantly: Are you willing to be it?