The Still, Small Voice
by Belle Clark
I can still hear the still, small voice described in church sermons: The Holy Spirit.
Its wisdom varied each day of the week.
On Sundays, it was loud: Get out of bed and go to church.
Mondays, it whispered: Just stay upstairs and out of sight.
Wednesdays, while weeping: Console mom.
Saturdays: Play with your little brother so he doesn’t get lonely.
I would often wonder about the whispers other worshippers heard. Were those whispers specific, like mine?
I didn’t need to be advised to pray, because I talked to God every moment I was alone. I would kneel on the tan shag carpet, positioning my knees into the fibers. I didn’t need to be reminded to share my heart with Him, because I was confident it was always on display. I was guided by the Spirit. I was fervently tied to it. Its presence— unwavering.
The voice, whether persistent in prayer,
Or a gentle graze on a gloomy day,
Always seemed to emphasize one phrase:
Stay alive.
It was natural, this voice. Protective, even. It kept me from the other noise that felt more like a noose. This voice is the reason I became so passionate about my faith. This voice was instinctual, and I relied on it to guide me. That’s why prayer was important to me. I never wanted to lose it.
I took the opportunity to move out of my childhood home at 19. I left that eggshell-colored house behind— with its beaten shutters, holes in the screens, and failing roof. When I left it behind in the rearview mirror, I finally felt peace. I envisioned a calm home: no more slamming doors and muffled screams into a stiff pillow. I wouldn’t have to retreat to my poorly painted bedroom to find comfort.
Moving out meant I could sink all ten toes into the carpet instead of lightly padding around because I was to be seen, but not heard. There would be no more volatility from my father. I was tired of praying for his anger to be swallowed.
I was relieved the still, small voice had followed me, but it started to speak differently.
You are alive.
My Christian deconstruction began when I left home behind. Christianity used to be my mental escape. God was the loving father I wished for. Jesus was the trustworthy friend I could be vulnerable with. The Holy Spirit was full of sacred wisdom I cherished.
The Covid-19 quarantine became my saving grace. I was unemployed for a few months. This collective event made me realize that our way of life can be uprooted easily. It forced me to dig deeper. I felt as if I was uprooting the bulb of my beliefs from sacred ground. I started to perceive more than what appeared on the glassy surface. My fears about the afterlife started to fade.
My curiosity was natural. In the morning, I’d sit at my rickety table with a frothy cup of coffee and spiral notebook. I researched all the major religions and poured over philosophy. I was recycling intense awe. I was beginning to think more critically and objectively. I started to listen to those that didn’t look like me, picking their memoirs up from the shelves to read. Less limitations. I remained in a serious state of reflection. I was crying constantly, releasing all the restraint, any time I ruminated on my personal testimony. My thirst for secular knowledge did not have to do as much convincing as the KJV Bible once did.
24 “Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a
wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
25 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house;
and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
26 And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a
foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:
27 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house;
and it fell: and great was the fall of it.”
Matthew 7:24-27
At night, my eyelids would grow heavy, and my brain would continue to chatter. My apartment was quiet, but late nights would leave me scared of the silence. Sometimes I was waiting for the fall.
The more lively I became, the less I relied on prayer. I was no longer kneeling by my bedside.
My nighttime reading routine was replaced with self-help stories. My royal blue leather-bound bible stayed sealed. I hadn’t attended church in weeks. My only roommate was a steadfast sense of peace.
3 “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in
thee.”
Isaiah 26:3
I still had peace without faith.
I officially left the Northwest Baptist Church, even though I was met with condescension. I’ll pray for you started to sound more like a threat than thoughtfulness. I later abandoned the non-denominational church that prided itself on free coffee. None of these churches were right for me anymore, no matter how many You Are Welcome Here signs were staked into the ground.
My faith was simply unstaked— slowly dislodged from the soil I was standing on.
I left Christianity, because I no longer needed it to survive.
My disbelief was a slow stewing:
There’s a chance God isn’t exactly who the church made Him out to be.
Maybe God is not legalistic. Maybe He’s actually a bit more liberal.
Maybe He doesn’t care about sexuality as much as we do.
It escalated into a slippery slope:
Maybe Jesus would flip the tables in some of these churches.
Maybe God doesn’t give a sh** about where I am on Sunday.
Eventually, it landed me into mental liberation:
Maybe God... doesn’t actually exist.
I did not mute these musings, but instead watched as they multiplied with time. I was a witness— to how my thoughts whisked away prayer, and how my conversations felt more sacrilegious. Guilt would gnaw at me every empty Sunday, but Monday would still rise like dandelions in a sidewalk crack.
I was afraid to backslide, but my brain rarely slowed down to ask for consent. I knew I risked an eternity in Hell without my faith. But I became more concerned with matters on Earth. I wanted to focus on paying $575 every month for this place. I wanted to pour myself into the grooming salon, to be valued for my skills. I wanted to think freely. To be open-minded about sexuality. To cuss loudly when angry, without shame. To have sex without comparing myself to Bathsheba.
Losing my faith was not easy. After all, I had moved to a house built on sand after living five years in a house built on rock.
Despite any fear, the longer I deconstructed Christianity, the more confidence I had. It was a lot like packing up my four boxes without looking back. I won’t dismiss the grief and fear that radiated from my fragile freedom. But it was freedom, nonetheless. My mind was changing. I was no longer seeking scripture to operate. I was a blank slate.
17 “...he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”
2 Corinthians 5:17
I am still recovering from the debris of Christian destruction. In the ruins, I retain my rights. I am rightfully mine and that is what matters the most. I imagine rolling a stone away from my own tomb. There was renewal in reasoning. Love in logic. I felt more purpose when studying philosophy. Psychology gave me permission to feel.
I believe it is dangerous to abide by one, single authority.
I left Christianity, and the voice followed me. The still, small voice is inherently me. Eventually I had the language for it: intuition. It has become more vibrant since then. I am much more attuned to it. I promised long ago I would commit myself to that voice, because it gave me life.
And I kept my promise: I followed it right out of Christianity.
About the Guest Author:
Belle Clark is a creative nonfiction writer from the rural Midwest. She’s a senior English major with minors in Creative Writing and Communication. Her writing centers on religious deconstruction, family estrangement, feminism, identity, and healing—drawing from personal experience to explore what it means to grow beyond the boxes we’re born and bullied into.
Outside of writing, Belle works professionally with animals, finds joy in traveling with her husband, and spends plenty of time in nature.
Disclaimer:
The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in guest blog posts are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the positions of the Religious Trauma Network. We recognize that each person’s healing journey is unique, personal, and courageous. The stories shared here belong solely to the contributors, and their experiences, perspectives, and advice may not apply to everyone. We encourage readers to honor their own paths and seek professional support as needed.