God is Dead. (At least, the one I made up in my head is.)

Today I had therapy. My counselor came out to the lobby to collect me where I was pretending to read a magazine, but was really waiting anxiously.

"How are you?" He asked on the pilgrimage back to his office, and I just laughed. 

"How are YOU?" I threw back, and he laughed, harder than I did.

"Have a seat," my counselor began.

"I've had a spiritual breakthrough," I immediately confessed as I flopped onto his office couch, stretching out in the stereotypical languid patient position. (I enjoy playing the part on that blue couch, I must say.)

"Ah," he said. "Go on."

"I think I've been doing my faith... All wrong."

"Is faith something you DO?" He asked.

"It was something I THOUGHT," I said. "It was all a mental game."

My counselor looks intrigued and interested, something that during our first sessions made me uneasy. He seems caring, even admiring, in a way that made me nervous. I didn't like how friendly and open he was in offering himself as not only a professional but a sympathetic audience. I wanted a doctor, not an carer. But in time, I've come to appreciate the organic conversations that lead to honest thoughts from us both. 

This man occasionally checks out from the role of counselor, and becomes a fellow soldier in the battle of "figuring this shit out". 

"Yeah. Mental games." I repeat. "It's all been mental games I play with myself, not real FAITH. Mental games."

He starts to open his mouth, then stops. Then starts, finally.  "I was raised Catholic," he says. He waits for my nod of understanding before continuing. "And it was a lot of mental games. We had catechisms. A literal list of questions and answers and it was a mental game for me too. It takes a long time to separate the mental games you learned to play from the reality of what you believe."

I stare at the bright painting on the wall over his head. "What I believe..." I trail off. "I've always believed what I believe now, but something... Clicked. About God."

He puts down his pen and I feel as if our therapy session is on pause (at least usual trauma/drama/nightmare stuff that brought me to therapy in the first place). 

"You may have always had a cerebral faith." He says. "A faith that you comprehended and evaluated mentally, and accepted. But perhaps there's a true, spiritual knowledge of God you've experienced now."

I nod. 

"What has changed with God?" He asks softly.

I reflect, and finally begin. "I used to feel constant guilt. There was a constant judge breathing down my neck. I used to always feel a giant 'to-do' list looming in the
background. And I felt like he was always disappointed in me. I was never enough for
him. I never cared enough. Did enough. Thought about him enough. Prayed enough. You know."

"And how do you feel now?"

"I feel... Like I have space." I laugh. "I took a bath the other night and for the first time in years I felt truly alone. I felt peace. I felt like there wasn't anybody with me... Even Him. And I only say that because... I didn't feel scared of Hell or God or Satan or anything... I just felt... Calm."

My counselor nods. "God is love. Do you believe that?"

I shrug. "If He's there, which... I want him to be... Because if He's not then I don't even see the point of life..." I stop myself from rambling. "Yes. If He's there, He's love." 

"So what are you SCARED of?" My counselor asks. "He's love. He is love. What's scary about love? Isn't love what you want?"

"Perfect love casts out fear," I recite from the depths of my mind. "Do I really believe that? Because... I've been secretly scared of him for all these years." 

"Fear and love are opposites." My counselor holds his fists as far apart as they will reach. "They can't exist on the same plane. You can't have perfect love when you're secretly stuck in fear. You just can't. And maybe what's gone now is your fear."

"God was always just so... Mean!" I burst out. "I've just wanted him to shut up for years! I've been in trapped in a constant conversation with him that makes me feel horrible about myself, and I can't ever escape because the conversation is INSIDE ME, but now..." I want to cry right there on the blue couch. "Now he's quiet. The room feels empty when I'm alone. And I like it." I pause and make eye contact with my counselor. "So... I guess what I'm saying is, I'm not sure if God is even there anymore. And I don't feel terrible or guilty. I just feel relieved."

My counselor begins delicately, "I don't think it's that he's not there. I think you're seeing him in a new way. Maybe he's speaking in ways beyond words. In a way that goes your cerebral knowledge of him. If you're finding peace..." He shrugs. "Maybe you're finding God. In a new way. In the right way."

I nod, overwhelmed with the fact that since I've quieted my brain and my judgements and my self-criticism and my pre-conceived ideas and my habitual GUILT... I've quieted God. 

But not the real God. 

I've quieted a god I made up, who is really just a version of myself that is almost.... A bit abusive. Confusing. Scary. Mean. Loud.

And now that THAT made-up-God is out of the picture (or at least, on his way out of the picture) maybe I'll find out what the God I TRULY believe in, believe in through faith, not mind-games, has to say.  

My counselor gives me a big "thumbs up" at the end of our time. 

"This was a good shift." He says. "The trauma will be waiting for us next week. Try and keep up this whole 'not being scared' thing," he finishes with a smile.

I swing my feet off the blue couch and walk out the door. I don't feel an instant flood of anxiety, regret, or guilt. I don't wonder what I said wrong or didn't say well or what God is thinking of the fact I said I want him to shut up. No. No judge breathing down my neck. 

Just a sense of calm. A sense of being. A sense of love.