It’s Not Your Fault: A Letter to Every Church Kid Haunted by Legalism and Lies | (Re-Release)
On Voicemails, Good Will Hunting, and the God Who Refuses to Leave You Alone in the Dark
Author’s Note: I first wrote this months ago when my SubStack was relatively small, around 75 readers… but it really seemed to resonate with so many folks. I am re-releasing it today in hopes that it might encourage you, whether you struggle with doubt, or whether you are helping others who struggle.
I sat on my couch holding my phone, the screen dim, the weight of the voicemail heavy in my chest. It was late. Too late to respond with anything long, but I couldn't just ignore it.
A young man I mentor… someone I care for deeply—had reached out, voice trembling.
"Hey Aaron… I’m struggling… I need to know how God sees me… I feel like He’s against me… Like because I haven’t read or prayed, He’s mad… I just don’t know… I don’t know, man… I feel like everything’s working against me and it’s my fault…”
He didn’t even have the strength to finish the message.
Just silence. Just pain. Just breath through static.
The raw honesty was disarming, like a kid lost in a forest of guilt, just calling out into the dark.
I felt for this young man. I knew he grew up in a more legalistic religious background, and really has struggled to accept God’s love for him.
I’ve had versions of this talk with him so many times it should feel routine. It doesn’t… because every time he messages me—tired, soul frayed, asking again if God could really love him—it cracks something open.
Not just for him. For me.
Because I remembered the boy I used to be. The one who, despite growing up with two amazing parents who modeled grace beautifully… still found himself sprinting down the aisle for the youth group altar call over and over, trying to chase down salvation through feelings. Hoping for the fire, fearing the silence.
My first response was quiet. Just a few words texted through tears.
"I’m so sorry, bro. I know how much this hurts…
I’ve been there. I’ve lived there.
The difference between us is not that God loves me more and you less. It’s just… I’ve learned to see that His love isn’t transactional. It’s not behavior-based. We didn’t earn it. And we can’t lose it."
But I knew that wouldn’t be enough. Because when you’re in that place… the haunted place, the twisted house of mirrors where the Enemy has hung accusations like barbed wire… simple answers don’t reach you.
So I did something strange.
I told him about a movie.
The Scene That Breaks Me Every Time
Good Will Hunting. If you’ve seen it, you know.
The story is about a young man named Will—played by Matt Damon—who’s brilliant, but broken. A math genius with a tormented past. He grew up in an abusive home with a violent father. His life had been incredibly hard… he spent his formative vulnerable years beaten, bruised, and betrayed by the people who were supposed to love him most.
And… like most people with trauma, he covered it up with charm and cynicism. He made jokes. Got in fights. Pushed people away. Because it’s safer to hide behind sarcasm than to admit you’re afraid you’re unlovable.
Then enters Sean, played beautifully by Robin Williams. A therapist, who, honestly, a lot of pastors could learn from. A man with his own wounds. Sean is no mere professional counselor spouting platitudes… he’s someone who gets it. Who’s lived it. Who carries his own scars with gentleness and truth.
They dance around each other for most of the movie. Sean tries to reach Will, but Will deflects. Dodges. Pushes.
As a former youth pastor, it reminds me of so many students I’ve mentored in the past. Will’s deflection is classic church kid behavior, really.
Laugh it off. Quote a verse. Distract. Don't go there.
The audience is left in the tension and emotional dissonance, wondering if Sean will be able to get through to the young man.
For a long time, it seems he won’t.
And then… we get the scene.
(I’m sharing a cleaned up video version here because my audience has people of all ages in it, but if language doesn’t offend you, go look for the original on youtube, it’s worth watching.)
Sean pulls the file. Documented history of every hellish thing that happened to Will—the photos, the medical reports, the receipts of his pain. The unfiltered record of what others did to him when he was too small to stop it. And Sean… he doesn’t flinch. He looks at it. Really looks. Then he looks at Will, not like a case, not like a student, but like a mirror.
He sets the folder down.
“Hey, Will… I don’t know a lot. But you see this? All this crap. It’s not your fault.”
Will brushes it off immediately. “Yeah, I know that.”
That’s the reflex. The well-worn armor of a kid who’s had to grow up fast.
He’s heard people say things like that before… teachers, guidance counselors, therapists with their empty eyes and legal pads.
He’s learned how to survive: nod, agree, pretend you believe it.
Pretend you’re fine. Move on.
But Sean’s not moving on.
“Look at me, son. It’s not your fault.”
Will says it again—“I know”—but now there’s a twitch. A flicker of something beneath the words. Discomfort. Panic. Maybe even hope trying to claw its way out of the coffin he buried it in.
Again.
“It’s not your fault.”
Will shifts. “I know!”
But this time it’s not defiance, it’s fear. You can feel it—his chest tightening, his heartbeat quickening. Because something’s happening that he didn’t plan for: someone is actually trying to love him.
Sean refuses to back down. “No, no, you don’t know. Listen. It’s not your fault.”
Sean steps closer, and Will—like a wounded animal—instinctively recoils.
His whole life, people getting close has been dangerous. He’s not dodging truth. He’s dodging pain.
The unbearable, radioactive grief of realizing that what happened to you wasn’t because you deserved it. That maybe you were innocent. That maybe you really were a little boy who needed protection, and no one showed up.
“I know.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Alright.”
Sean keeps pressing, each word like a chisel to the concrete around Will’s heart. Not preaching from a distance, but stepping into the kid’s hell, barefoot and unarmed. No clipboard. No distance. Just proximity. Tenderness.
“It’s not your fault.”
Will can’t hold eye contact anymore. His face crumbles.
“Don’t screw with me.”
Because that’s the fear, right? That this is just another setup. Another authority figure playing the long game, pretending to care just long enough to hurt you deeper when they walk away. That “I’m here for you” is just a prelude to abandonment. That no one really sticks around.
“Don’t screw with me, alright? Don’t screw with me, Sean. Not you!”
And that’s the most honest line in the film.
Not you.
Not you too.
He’s thinking… if you leave me after this, if you lie to me after this, then I’m done. Then no one is safe. Then I don’t know what love is and I don’t want to know.
But Sean doesn’t back down. He moves in again. He’s not afraid of the outburst. He’s not offended by the bravado. He sees what’s underneath it. He holds the kid. Places his hand on the back of his head like a father shielding a son from the storm, and whispers it again.
“It’s not your fault.”
And Will breaks.
He breaks all the way.
Not performative tears, not a breakthrough with music swelling behind it—he collapses. The weight of years, of silence, of pretending, of fighting, of building walls and keeping everyone out… it all comes crashing down in Sean’s arms. And all he can do is weep. And say sorry. And hold on for dear life.
The camera pulls back and we sit watching a man holding a boy who’s finally let himself be held.
What a beautiful scene. It undoes me every time.
Like Jesus cooking fish for Peter on the shore.
In this moment, Sean becomes the father Will never had—a strong, wounded, tender, paternal presence who meets the kid’s shame with mercy instead of demands, helping him process his trauma and shame with just 4 simple words:
It’s not your fault.
The moment Will collapses into Sean’s arms, weeping, everything pouring out of him… is SO powerful.
Because… for the first time, someone didn’t correct him or scold him or hand him a spiritual to-do list. Someone just told him the truth and wouldn’t let him escape into avoidance.
I’ve seen that scene dozens of times…. and I cry every time.
Because I know that moment. I’ve known so many young men like Will.
And… I too know what it’s like to believe the things that happened to you are somehow your fault. I know what it feels like to carry shame for things that weren’t your doing.
To lie awake wondering if your suffering was earned, If God had stopped caring about your situation… if people would’ve stuck with you if only you’d been better, more productive, holier, easier to love.
The Real Abuser: The Father of Lies
Here’s the thing. In our spiritual story, there is an abusive father figure too. But it’s not God.
It’s the Enemy.
Jesus calls him “the father of lies.” Not just a liar, but the literal father of lies.
Since the moment we first opened our eyes, a shadow has been whispering in ours. The liar—ancient, patient—has watched us crawl towards rebellion, watched us speak our first “little white lies.”
Not content to merely tempt us… the father of lies wants to raise us. Form us in his image. Make us fluent in deception, just like he is.
He’s the serpent in the garden, the accuser at the gate, the father of lies with a cradle full of death. And, due to the black hole of sin nature, we’re born with ears tuned to his voice.
He doesn’t just lie to us.
He disciples us.
And unless we’re rescued, we grow up in his likeness.
That means these lies are generational. Inherited. Whispered from childhood. Wrapped in Christian language. Stitched into sermons. Pressed into your mind with every shameful moment you tried to hide.
“You’re too sinful to love.”
“You are a pathetic wretch… not worth saving.”
“Your only hope is to follow all the rules perfectly. If you slip up, God will abandon you.”
“It’s all your fault.”
The Enemy does what every abuser does: he convinces you that love is conditional, that your worth is tied to performance, that affection must be earned.
He manipulates the image of God into something cold, distant, and punitive.
And then he tells you it’s your fault. That God’s silence is a punishment. That your struggle is divine disappointment.
That unless you're spiritually productive, God is pulling away.
But I need you to hear me: that is not the voice of the good Shepherd.
What I Told My Young Friend
I told him the story. The scene. The way I cry when I watch it. And then I looked at my phone and typed through tears:
"That’s what I want to say to you right now, man. Over and over. Until it breaks through the lies."
It’s not your fault.
It’s not your fault you were born into a broken world.
It’s not your fault that you inherited this sin nature.
It’s not your fault that religion taught you love was earned.
It’s not your fault that Satan has been gaslighting you since you were a kid.
It’s not your fault that you feel tired, confused, and numb.
And… it is certainly not your fault that you're not strong enough to climb your way back into God's good graces…
Because grace isn’t something you climb into.
It’s something that meets you on the floor. Arms open. Before the confession. Before the resolution. Before you try to fix yourself.
Like the Father running to the prodigal before he says a word.
Like Jesus feeding Peter before the apology.
Like the Spirit groaning prayers for you when you’ve got nothing left.
God Is Not Against You
My young friend thought maybe God was mad. That things were working against him as punishment. That his lack of reading or praying meant he was disqualified. That God was sitting on the throne with a disappointed scowl.
But that’s not our God.
He is not against you. He is not disappointed. He is not waiting for you to get it together.
His wrath was poured out on the cross. What's left now… is mercy.
And when you’re exhausted, He’s not pacing the halls of heaven, shaking His head. He’s sitting beside you. Watching. Waiting. Loving.
What If He Just… Enjoys You?
Friends… what if—just what if—He actually enjoys you?
Not your Bible reading. Not your discipline.
Not your church attendance or ministry output.
You.
What if He sees you the way I see my son Jack when he plays with his toys? Joyful. Present. Not accomplishing anything productive, just being—and that being is enough to fill my heart.
You think God doesn’t feel that way about you?
You think Jesus didn’t have a belly laugh? Didn't enjoy watching kids run through fields? Didn’t take in the beauty of the world He made?
He loves when you rest. When you enjoy music. When you lose yourself in a film or book or a story or a song.
He is not threatened by your humanity.
He became human so He could love you right here in it.
When we realize how deep and unearned His love truly is, we become vastly more free to pray, read scripture, and serve in ministry… not from a place of earning, but from a place of love.
The Chains Are Breaking
My friend told me he felt “lukewarm.”
But what I see is a young man who is deeply concerned about his relationship with God. Someone Jesus deeply loves right in the middle of the wilderness.
Not after he finds his way out.
Right there. Mid-struggle. Mid-doubt. Mid-failure.
And I believe with everything in me: God is breaking the chains.
The chain of legalism.
The chain of performance-based faith.
The chain of spiritual exhaustion.
The chain of lies whispered by the father of abuse and accusation.
And the chain you didn’t even know you were wearing.
For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work among you will complete it by the day of Christ Jesus.
Philippians 1:6
He’s not waiting for you to earn your way back. He’s not holding His breath until you behave better. He’s not pacing in disappointment.
He’s standing right in front of you. Eyes full of love.
Arms open. Voice steady and sure.
And… He’s saying it. Over and over, until it sinks past your shame, past your panic, past your theological defenses, and into the deepest parts of your soul:
“It’s not your fault.”
Now... I need to pause and clarify something.
Yes, each of us is responsible for our own sin.
We’ve all rebelled. (Romans 3:23).
We must not reduce Jesus’ work down to a cheap grace.
Our sin cost Him everything.
And yet… we must also be clear:
The reason this world is such a wreck, the reason we’re gasping for air in this present darkness...
...is because the father of lies planted us in cursed soil long ago.
We were born child soldiers in a war we didn’t start.
The Enemy, the original rebel, is the one who started all of this.
He poisoned the well. He broke the family.
You are not the author of your corrupted nature.
You need to hear that.
It’s not your fault.
We are the wounded in a war that began long before we were born.
A war not of flesh and blood, but of cosmic betrayal and divine rescue.
A war that left us carrying burdens we never chose.
A war that twisted truth and dressed it up in religion.
A war that whispered, “You’re only loved when you perform.”
But here’s the truth the Enemy can’t stand:
The battle is already won!
Listen.
Jesus didn’t bleed out on a cross so that you could spend your life doubting His love for you.
He didn’t rise from the tomb to offer you a conditional welcome.
He came to make dead hearts beat again.
To rip the curtain.
To silence the accuser.
To bring you home.
You don’t have to strive for love that’s already yours.
You don’t have to chase affection that’s already been nailed into your reality.
You don’t have to perform for a God who already called you “beloved.”
This is the scandal of grace:
Abiding isn’t achieving. It’s awakening.
My heart… my deepest passion… is to help people wake up to the love they already have and learn to live within it.
To see God not as a boss keeping score, but as a Father sprinting toward the child who’s given up trying.
So hear it again, one more time, and maybe even say it out loud:
It’s not your fault.
And hear this too:
He loves you. He’s not leaving. And He’s not disappointed.
He’s simply inviting you…
To come home.
To rest.
To abide.
Not in shame.
Not in fear.
But in a love that has no expiration date.
A love that was always there.
A love that is here now.
And a love that will never, ever let go.
Footnotes: The Scriptures That Save Me Again and Again
These are the verses I come back to when the voices of shame and legalism get loud again. These are the Scriptures that remind me who God actually is—not the abusive caricature the Enemy paints, but the Father of mercy, the Friend of sinners, the Shepherd of strays.
Romans 5:8 – “But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
→ He didn’t wait for you to clean up. He came while you were a mess.1 John 4:10 – “This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.”
→ You weren’t the initiator. He was. He still is.Ephesians 2:4–5 – “But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved.”
→ Dead people don’t earn things. They get resurrected.Zephaniah 3:17 – “The Lord your God is with you… He will take great delight in you… He will rejoice over you with singing.”
→ Read that again. He sings over you.Luke 15:20 – “While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son…”
→ Before the apology. Before the explanation. He ran.John 15:9 – “As the Father has loved Me, so have I loved you. Abide in My love.”
→ Not achieve. Not perform. Abide.Romans 8:1 – “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
→ Zero. None. Condemnation has left the building.Philippians 1:6 – “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion…”
→ You don’t have to finish yourself. He’s not done with you.
These verses save me from drowning in religious guilt.
I pray they meet you the same way they met me: not as distant theology, but as a lifeline in the flood.
What haunts me about this is that Robin, who spoke those lines so convincingly, couldn't hear them.
😭 The speaks right to the HEART of EVERY human being, no matter where they find themselves on their journey. 🙏✝️💞 What a beautifully timed reminder that we are enough and deeply loved, JUST as we are, by the ONE who created us. ✝️