Christians are Yelling at Deconstructionists (A Layered Conversation on Kindness)

I watched a social media video a few days ago where someone asked, “Why would I trust a God who allows people to suffer?” What followed was a stitched response from a Christian—sharp, dismissive, and layered with contempt. I paused. Then I realized why it unsettled me so deeply. It wasn’t the question that crushed me; it was the response.

Seeing that exchange made me reflect on how many similar videos I’ve watched over the past few weeks—especially from people openly questioning or deconstructing their faith. I often choose not to respond to those videos, not because the questions don’t matter, but because I don’t always know what brought someone to that place of distrust. Sometimes it’s their own intellectual wrestling/reasoning. Other times, it’s something far heavier—rooted in pain, loss, or trauma.

And that’s why the Christian response matters so much. As believers, we shouldn’t be quick to answer suffering with harshness…leaving no room for wounds. We should pray. We should listen. We should reflect the loving kindness of our Father.

I struggle when I see response videos where deconstructionists or unbelievers are met with raised voices instead of compassion. We don’t know their story. We don’t know what they’ve endured. I’m not saying we shouldn’t respond—but I am calling for a response rooted in love.

Now comes the layered part of this conversation.

Please note—I’m not here to add to or subtract from anyone’s point of view! I’m simply sharing my perspective. My story.

Here’s what I’ve noticed—not as a criticism, but as an observation shaped by experience and listening. Some people experience God as harsh or unapproachable, almost like a tyrannical king who feels distant in moments of suffering, whose standards feel impossible to meet when life is already overwhelming.

I know I could have seen God this way, too, if my circumstances hadn’t shifted. And honestly, that realization is what keeps me grounded and humble. We don’t always realize how thin the line is—how easy it is to find ourselves on the other side of the debate. And that’s when compassion matters most.

For me, that openness came in 2015.

That year was marked by a series of circumstances so heavy that I still struggle to articulate them. Then, in the fall of 2015, I received a diagnosis for a loved one. I cried nonstop. In that moment, I didn’t understand God. I didn’t understand my purpose. I remember asking myself, Was I brought into this world just to suffer?

In a last-ditch effort, I left the door open and prayed the most heart-wrenching prayer of my life:

“Jesus, I can’t bear this anymore. When I go to bed, come get me and take me home. Let me open my eyes in Heaven.”

I can’t believe I’ve typed what I actually prayed. Sigh. And to be clear, it wasn’t because I wanted to harm myself. I just wanted relief. I wanted to see if it was possible—if I could somehow wake up beyond the pain. I’ve never shared this part of my testimony because it’s… so raw.

That very night, I went to bed.

And then a bright light filled my room.

I lifted my head from the pillow and sat up, trying to make sense of what was happening. I saw the silhouette of a man, His hand stretched out toward me. I instinctively raised my hands to shield my eyes, opening them just enough to squint and try to see His face. I wasn’t dreaming. This was real.

The atmosphere felt different—peaceful in a way I had never experienced. I’ve shared with close family that “It’s like the man carried the atmosphere of heaven,” and then the peace… it truly surpassed my understanding.

I tried then to look directly at Him again, even without my hands shielding my eyes, but He shone like the sun, and my eyes couldn’t fully take Him in.

Then He said, “Thank you for restoring her.”

That visitation changed the course of my life.

In the months that followed, God slowly began teaching me about suffering. This is where I’ve personally landed: I don’t believe God causes suffering. I believe that idea often takes root in the places where pain goes unanswered, and grief has nowhere to rest.

I still find myself wondering—what if I hadn’t left the door open for God to move? I’m not more special than anyone else.

Sometimes I think about how different this space might have looked if I hadn’t had that course change. This blog might not have even been a Christian blog—it could have been shaped by something entirely different. And that realization keeps me deeply humble.

What I’ve come to see is that God doesn’t rush, force, or overpower. He waits. He stays near. As long as we’re still here, still breathing, there’s room for a relationship and restoration. He honors our freedom and free will—always gentle, always inviting.

Layer two of this conversation: my Dad.

My earthly Father was a deeply intellectual man. He loved science and research and approached life through logic. He also endured immense childhood trauma, and over time, he distanced himself from God. One thing about my Dad—he knew the Bible cover to cover. You couldn’t have a theological argument with him. He could out-debate Bible scholars (I’ve embarrassingly witnessed this more than once).

One of the most heartbreaking moments for me was when my Dad began explaining his “calculation” that hell isn’t actually that hot. He pulled out numbers, created his own version of a Kelvin scale, and confidently concluded that one would eventually adapt to an eternity in hell. This was a man with an extraordinary IQ… so you know it wasn’t a casual guess. It was a full scientific breakdown.

At the time, I was appalled. My legalistic instincts wanted to Bible-thump the nonsense right out of him (Don’t worry — this was my younger, more rigid era. God had some tender work to do in me, especially around legalism. It’s in my video testimony … and looking back, God absolutely knew I needed that humbling. 👀)

Back to my Dad…God told me to step aside. My initial approach was wrong!

So God urged me to do the following:

To love my Dad with the love of Christ.
To pray.
To ask for laborers in the harvest.

So in the years that followed, before his death, I called my Dad often. Sometimes it was to check on him—ask if he’d taken his insulin, talk about the weather, share a silly joke, or tell him a care package was on the way. Other times, the calls were simple: “Dad, I love you. I just wanted to say that.”

I didn’t try to force conversations about faith. I chose love and compassion instead. Once, when he shared his regrets, I told him, “Dad, you’ve been an amazing father. You went above and beyond.” And I meant it—he truly was a great dad.

With each conversation, I watched his heart soften.

And eventually, he re-dedicated his life to Christ.

It took years to get him to that place of surrender—and not through me. The Holy Spirit used my sister-in-law.

So why am I sharing all of this?

Because this is a layered conversation. A deeply human one. And sometimes it’s not as simple as someone doesn’t want Jesus. Sometimes pain gets in the way. Sometimes trauma distorts the image of God that people were handed.

Can we be kinder as Christians?
Can we trust the Holy Spirit to do His work instead of trying to do it for Him?
Can we lead with discernment instead of defensiveness?

I don’t know where this post will fit on my blog, but I’ll post it anyway.

On that note, I’ll stop here.

Signing out.

Lots of hugs,