“IT’S PERSONAL: Managing Your History and Unlocking Your Soul pt II”
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I – “Welcome with open arms fellow believers who don’t see things the way you do. And don’t jump all over them every time they do or say something you don’t agree with—even when it seems that they are strong on opinions but weak in the faith department. Remember, THEY HAVE THEIR OWN HISTORY TO DEAL WITH. Treat them gently.”
(Romans 14:1 – The Message)
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II – There was a time in my life when I needed to be right more than I needed to be free. I didn’t know that’s what was happening at the time, of course. I genuinely believed I was pursuing truth, defending what was holy, standing firm in my convictions. But underneath that righteousness was something far more fragile, far more human. I wasn’t defending truth. I was defending myself, from the unbearable possibility that maybe I didn’t matter unless I was right.
Growing up in the religious tradition I was born into, there was no distinction between truth and identity. They were one and the same. To question doctrine was to question your standing with God. To disagree was to step outside the bounds of salvation. So when I fought to be right, when I argued for my interpretation, my theology, my version of truth, I wasn’t just making a case. I was protecting my identity. Or at least, that’s how it felt. My need to be right was not intellectual; it was existential. It came from a deep and invisible fear that, without rightness, I had no worth.
What I see now, looking back with more compassion and clarity, is that my entire relationship to “truth” was built on the scaffolding of insecurity. I had been told, explicitly and implicitly, that I was born wrong. That I was broken. That I was sinful, depraved, undeserving. That I needed to repent, believe the right things, say the right prayers, and follow the narrow path. Only then would I be accepted. Only then would I be saved. So of course I needed to be right. My sense of worth, my sense of safety, even my sense of belonging in the universe depended on it.
And not only did I need to be right, I needed others to be wrong. Because if someone else believed differently and they weren’t wrong, then what did that say about me? What did that say about the house of cards I had built my worth upon? Their freedom threatened my stability. Their questions threatened my certainty. So I did what many of us do when we’re still trapped by unconscious fear. I evangelized my programming. I preached my conditioning. I used spiritual language to justify emotional wounds. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was trying to prove that I deserved love by proving that my beliefs were more true than anyone else’s.
Letting go of that was one of the most terrifying and liberating experiences of my life. There was no switch that flipped, no lightning bolt moment where everything fell away. It was more like an unraveling. It began slowly, subtly, with questions I couldn’t shake. Why do I need others to agree with me? Why do I feel so personally attacked when someone sees God differently? Why does being challenged feel like being rejected? These weren’t just theological questions. They were invitations, quiet, sacred invitations, to look deeper.
And when I finally had the courage to look, I saw something I hadn’t wanted to see. I saw that underneath all my certainty was shame. A deep, buried shame that had been with me since I was a child. The shame of being told that who I was at my core was wrong. That my desires were wrong. That my questions were dangerous. That my thoughts were sinful. That my very being needed to be saved from itself. That shame had never gone away. I had just buried it beneath my need to be right. I had mistaken correctness for worthiness. And once I saw that, the whole game began to fall apart.
What emerged in the aftermath was not despair, but something far more beautiful. A stillness. A space. A lightness that I had never known. I no longer had to defend myself with beliefs. I no longer had to argue people into validating me. I no longer had to project my unhealed wounds onto God. And in that space, something miraculous began to happen. I started to see that I was never wrong to begin with. I was never unworthy. I was simply young, impressionable, scared, and in need of love. And that love wasn’t waiting on the other side of theological accuracy. It was waiting on the other side of self-acceptance.
The truth is, the need to be right is not a character flaw. It’s a cry for safety. It is the mind’s attempt to control what the heart believes is not yet lovable. But what happens when we no longer need to earn love through correctness? What happens when we see that being wrong never meant we were unworthy in the first place? What happens when we realize that God, if we must use that word, is not some external authority evaluating our performance, but the very presence that has been loving us the whole time, even in our confusion?
That is when the game changes.
That is when truth is no longer something we build to feel safe, but something we relax into as freedom.
That is when we realize that what we thought we needed to protect was never under threat.
And that’s when we finally become available for what was always trying to reach us, not the cold comfort of being right, but the warm radiance of being whole.
II – There was a time in my life when I needed to be right more than I needed to be free. I didn’t know that’s what was happening at the time, of course. I genuinely believed I was pursuing truth, defending what was holy, standing firm in my convictions. But underneath that righteousness was something far more fragile, far more human. I wasn’t defending truth. I was defending myself, from the unbearable possibility that maybe I didn’t matter unless I was right.
Growing up in the religious tradition I was born into, there was no distinction between truth and identity. They were one and the same. To question doctrine was to question your standing with God. To disagree was to step outside the bounds of salvation. So when I fought to be right, when I argued for my interpretation, my theology, my version of truth, I wasn’t just making a case. I was protecting my identity. Or at least, that’s how it felt. My need to be right was not intellectual; it was existential. It came from a deep and invisible fear that, without rightness, I had no worth.
What I see now, looking back with more compassion and clarity, is that my entire relationship to “truth” was built on the scaffolding of insecurity. I had been told, explicitly and implicitly, that I was born wrong. That I was broken. That I was sinful, depraved, undeserving. That I needed to repent, believe the right things, say the right prayers, and follow the narrow path. Only then would I be accepted. Only then would I be saved. So of course I needed to be right. My sense of worth, my sense of safety, even my sense of belonging in the universe depended on it.
And not only did I need to be right, I needed others to be wrong. Because if someone else believed differently and they weren’t wrong, then what did that say about me? What did that say about the house of cards I had built my worth upon? Their freedom threatened my stability. Their questions threatened my certainty. So I did what many of us do when we’re still trapped by unconscious fear. I evangelized my programming. I preached my conditioning. I used spiritual language to justify emotional wounds. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was trying to prove that I deserved love by proving that my beliefs were more true than anyone else’s.
Letting go of that was one of the most terrifying and liberating experiences of my life. There was no switch that flipped, no lightning bolt moment where everything fell away. It was more like an unraveling. It began slowly, subtly, with questions I couldn’t shake. Why do I need others to agree with me? Why do I feel so personally attacked when someone sees God differently? Why does being challenged feel like being rejected? These weren’t just theological questions. They were invitations, quiet, sacred invitations, to look deeper.
And when I finally had the courage to look, I saw something I hadn’t wanted to see. I saw that underneath all my certainty was shame. A deep, buried shame that had been with me since I was a child. The shame of being told that who I was at my core was wrong. That my desires were wrong. That my questions were dangerous. That my thoughts were sinful. That my very being needed to be saved from itself. That shame had never gone away. I had just buried it beneath my need to be right. I had mistaken correctness for worthiness. And once I saw that, the whole game began to fall apart.
What emerged in the aftermath was not despair, but something far more beautiful. A stillness. A space. A lightness that I had never known. I no longer had to defend myself with beliefs. I no longer had to argue people into validating me. I no longer had to project my unhealed wounds onto God. And in that space, something miraculous began to happen. I started to see that I was never wrong to begin with. I was never unworthy. I was simply young, impressionable, scared, and in need of love. And that love wasn’t waiting on the other side of theological accuracy. It was waiting on the other side of self-acceptance.
The truth is, the need to be right is not a character flaw. It’s a cry for safety. It is the mind’s attempt to control what the heart believes is not yet lovable. But what happens when we no longer need to earn love through correctness? What happens when we see that being wrong never meant we were unworthy in the first place? What happens when we realize that God, if we must use that word, is not some external authority evaluating our performance, but the very presence that has been loving us the whole time, even in our confusion?
That is when the game changes.
That is when truth is no longer something we build to feel safe, but something we relax into as freedom.
That is when we realize that what we thought we needed to protect was never under threat.
And that’s when we finally become available for what was always trying to reach us, not the cold comfort of being right, but the warm radiance of being whole.
– Logan Barone
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VI – “Who can detect inadvertent errors? From those concealed to me, hold me innocent.” Moreover, keep back Your servant from arrogancies; Let them not rule over me. Then I shall be flawless, And I will be innocent of great transgression.” May the sayings of my mouth be acceptable And the soliloquy of my heart be pleasing before You, O Yahweh, my Rock and my Redeemer!”
(Psalms 19:12-14 – CLV)
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VII – “Cultivate your own relationship with God, but don’t impose it on others. You’re fortunate if your behavior and your belief are coherent. But if you’re not sure, if you notice that you are acting in ways inconsistent with what you believe—some days trying to impose your opinions on others, other days just trying to please them—then you know that you’re out of line. If the way you live isn’t consistent with what you believe, then it’s wrong.”
(Romans 14:22-23 – The Message)