I Met a Demon in Church. We Shared a Pew for Years.

The Subtle Trauma of Growing Up Trying to Please an Angry God

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He first showed up when I was eight.

I was sitting in church, legs dangling off the edge of the pew, doing my best to look serious while the communion tray made its way down the row. It was the kind of church where everything felt weighty — the hymns, the hush, the look you got if you whispered too loudly. When the tray reached me, I took a dry square of cracker and a tiny plastic cup filled with warm grape juice. I held them carefully in both hands, like they were something sacred and slightly dangerous.

Before we ate, the pastor read from the Bible — the same verse he always read. “Whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord… they eat and drink judgment on themselves.”

I’d heard those words before, but that morning they landed differently. Maybe I was old enough to understand them. Or maybe I was just old enough to be afraid.

I bowed my head and tried to remember all my sins. I knew I was supposed to confess them before I took communion, but I couldn’t remember everything. I’d lied to my parents that week. I’d definitely called my sister a name under my breath. I’d had…