In Whom Does Your Confidence Lies?

As a little girl, I remember the excitement that filled my heart whenever our parents took us to the countryside to visit our grandmother. Those visits felt rare and precious, almost like a small celebration, because we didn’t get to see her often. The long journey was always worth it; Grannie was always waiting.

One particular Sunday remains vivid in my memory because instead of spending the day at her home, we went to her workplace. She worked as a domestic maid for the priest in her community, and at the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant for her to work, only that she wore her “work clothes” and carried herself with a quiet sense of purpose. 

The moment we arrived, her face lit up and her smile wrapped around us before her arms did. She eagerly introduced us to her friends - her voice full of warmth as she spoke our names, almost as if saying them out loud made her heart fuller. We were her only grandchildren, and she certainly carried that role with pride. That day felt special in a way I didn’t yet know how to explain. Grannie had someone important to introduce us to—the priest himself. As each of us was presented to him, he offered a blessing. It felt so grand that, even now, more than fifty years later, I can still picture the scene vividly in my mind.

Since we arrived early that morning, we were invited to sit and eat with him. It might have been breakfast, or perhaps brunch—I can’t quite remember—but I do remember how wonderful it felt. We sat around a long table that, to my young eyes, looked just like the one in the pictures of Jesus and His disciples at the Last Supper. For me, it wasn’t just about the meal, it was about where we were and who we were with. We were sitting so close to a priest. I remember thinking that this must be the closest I would ever get to God!

Eventually, the day that had felt so full and perfect came to an end. We said our goodbyes and began the journey back home, which felt so long, almost endless. Weeks later, I overheard my parents talking and mentioned that the priest  was being transferred to the city. I remember feeling a sudden rush of excitement when I learned that his new home would be right next to my school. That meant I would be able to see him often. I truly admired him and visited with him on a few occasions. To me, he was respectable and kind, and because I believed he was someone very close to God, in some quiet, unspoken way, that belief brought me comfort.

Fast forward to 1979, most of my family became born again christians, and we left the Catholic Church - the church we all grew up in. Since my dad was close to the local church, I once again found myself in close proximity to a priest. This one was much older, and more like a father figure to us. One memory that stands out clearly is that Christmas when he took my sisters and me into the city to see the Christmas lights in the park. It felt magical. Those moments were innocent and joyful, and I cherished them in my heart.

After being saved, our family’s understanding of faith began to shift and my parents believed God was calling us to walk a different path, one rooted in a personal relationship with Jesus rather than tradition alone, and because of that conviction, boundaries were drawn. With us no longer attending the Catholic Church, the closeness we once had with priests slowly faded.

I didn’t fully understand the theology behind those decisions, and what I felt more than anything was the quiet confusion of change. Familiar faces were no longer part of our lives, neighbors we once shared simple joys with - like evening moonlight walks - were no longer present and people who had once felt safe and important were suddenly distant. Looking back, I can see that those boundaries were meant to protect our growing faith. My parents were trying to be obedient to what they believed God was asking of them. Still, for me, obedience often felt like loss before it felt like wisdom.

So we found a new faith — what next? Everything felt unfamiliar to me and up to that point, I had never been told that in order to gain eternal life, I needed to accept the free gift of salvation offered through Jesus Christ. I was so accustomed to living in sin that the idea of living a different life felt foreign and even uncomfortable.

I can honestly say that I was not fully embracing this new faith. Instead, I found myself becoming attached to some of the spiritual leaders within the new denomination, much like I had once done with the priest. I viewed them as the closest thing to God, and that belief – once again – brought me deep comfort.

I thought the closer I rubbed shoulders with “these men of the cloth,” the closer I would be to God Himself. Looking back, I know how untrue that was. Priests, pastors, and leaders are human, just like the rest of us and each of us must have our own personal relationship with the Lord.

As I reflected on my encounters with these ministers, I realized that my heart longed to be close to God, but I was trying to access Him through mere, mortal men. In the midst of that quest to draw near to these God workers, one of them crossed the line when he tried making sexual advances toward me. Something that impacted me drastically and left a deep wound. It eventually caused me to mistrust spiritual leaders for many years. I struggled with anger, confusion, and fear –  unsure of who I could trust. Although It took me a long time to process what occurred, I eventually discovered an important truth: my access to God was never meant to come from mere men – no matter how spiritual they seemed.

I began learning that God alone was the true satisfier of my soul and the intimacy I sought in others could only be found in Him. My healing began the day I decided to redirect my heart, my prayers, and my devotion straight to God, without any links to Him – without any human mediators. I ultimately learned that God is trustworthy, even when people are not. Spiritual leaders are human, imperfect, and fallible. God alone is unchanging, loving, and always faithful.

Through this experience, I began developing a personal relationship with Christ, a relationship that was satisfying, abundant and life-giving. It was in the midst of this painful journey that I discovered where true intimacy with the Father resided: not in people, but in Christ. Sadly, many times we pursue pastors, leaders, ministers, and priests more than we pursue God. We look to men to meet all our needs instead of looking to God. Others are more loyal to their denomination rather than directing their loyalty toward the Lord Jesus Christ. I encourage us to take our eyes off people and fix them firmly on Christ.

Our hope, our help, and our salvation are found in Christ alone.

Ultimately, this has been one of the greatest lessons of my journey: faith is not about who we stand closest to, but about whom we trust with our whole heart. It’s discovering God outside of tradition.

Although people guide us, teach us, and even inspire us, they were never meant to take the place of God. My prayer is that we would each pause and honestly examine where our trust lies and choose daily to fix our eyes not on people, but on Christ alone—the only One who is truly able to save, heal, and lead us home.