The Inheritance of Suffering Breeds a Legacy of Rage

It’s been a while since I had the time, or the opportunity, to sit down and write a blog post. So much life has happened in the time between my last post and the one currently being penned. In the meantime, the lessons I have learned have not only been ones of humility, kindness, and meekness.

Some have been on rage—and the kind of wrath that paints everything red, echoes the racing heartbeat into a war cry of drums and blood.

But I digress.

As an author, I can take my pen and paper—or rather, fingers to keyboard—and expose the seething underbelly of a monster who hides in plain sight, protected by the very people it feeds on.

His name is Shame. He also has a few nicknames: “Family honor,” “hitting your wife is ok,” “treating your daughters like courtesans sent out to the highest bidder,” and last but never least, “I teach my son to carry on the traditions of feeding this beast, because, well… it's really what we want.”

Don’t get me wrong—this isn’t some hate post against the patriarchy, nor slander against the so-called Christians who only use the word as a cover for their narcissistic abuse. The past few months have opened my eyes and my heart to a capacity that I had not thought myself capable of. The young men and women I have met who live in bondage to this beast are overwhelming, saddening, and so enraging.

And what strikes me most is not just the presence of Shame, but the religious veneer so often lacquered over him. Scripture twisted like barbed wire, wrapped around tender hearts until they bleed. Verses weaponized rather than cherished. Christ’s gentleness distorted into control. The apostles’ teachings reshaped into systems that value compliance over compassion, silence over healing, and image over integrity.

This is the tragedy of our time: an inheritance of suffering passed down like a family heirloom, wrapped in piety and handed to children who don’t yet know that faith was never meant to feel like a cage.

When the words of God are used as chains, the soul learns to flinch at the sound of His name.

I’ve spoken to too many who were taught to fear God’s disappointment more than they were taught to trust His love. People who were told obedience meant enduring the unendurable. People convinced that questioning abuse meant questioning God Himself.

And so they stay—generation after generation—believing the bruises, the silencing, the shame, are somehow holy.

But some… some find the courage to break the cycle. They look their demons in the eye—both real and imagined—and choose freedom, even when freedom costs them everything they’ve known. They step away from family, community, and the only version of “faith” they’ve ever been taught. And for this, they are cast out. Pariahs. The unwanted. Wanderers branded as rebels simply because they refused to let someone else’s sin define God’s character.

They fight for breath outside the walls that once smothered them, only to discover that the world is colder than they expected and healing is slower than they hoped. Yes, they are worse for the wear. Yes, they carry scars. But scars are proof of survival—and survival is the first step toward resurrection.

And here is the truth I cling to, the truth I want to leave with you:

Christ is not the architect of abuse. He is not the enforcer of silence. He is not the voice that says, “Stay small so I can stay powerful.”

Christ is the One who lifts the fallen, binds the broken, confronts the oppressor, protects the vulnerable, and restores the dignity that shame devours. His Kingdom is built not on control, but on love. Not on fear, but on mercy. Not on appearance, but on truth.

If you have been wounded by those who claimed to speak for Him, hear this: their cruelty is not His character. Their manipulation is not His message. Their violence is not His voice.

There is hope. There is healing. And there is a place for you—even if you haven’t found it yet.

You are not the only one. Find your people, and raise up a God-honoring generation of worshipers in truth and spirit.

So here is my invitation, simple and sincere:

Seek the God whose love is the reason behind creation itself, the God whose power levels mountains and kingdoms, and yet bends low to comfort the crushed in spirit.

Call upon His name—because everyone who dares to speak His name in truth finds that He always, always answers.