From Mockery to Mercy

I didn’t always quote Scripture.

In fact, I used to laugh at it.

Not because I had some deep intellectual critique. Not because I’d studied ancient Hebrew or uncovered some shocking contradiction. No—I laughed because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. That’s what I saw modeled. That’s what got me into rooms filled with people that didn’t believe.

I remember one Sunday growing up—we’d just gotten home from church. I was still in my Sunday shoes, uncomfortable and squeaky on the tile floor. My dad looked up from the paper and said, chuckling to himself, “Can you believe some people actually think God is real?”

And I laughed. I said, “I know, right?”
Not because I meant it.
But because I didn’t know what else to say.

And that’s the moment that gets me still.
I didn’t laugh because I was bold in unbelief.
I laughed because I was afraid of believing alone.

And that’s the kind of lie that sticks.

That verse used to offend me. Until I understood that the “fool” isn’t someone lacking intelligence. The fool is someone who suppresses the truth—who sees the fingerprints of Christ on creation, who feels the ache in their own soul, and still denies it. Not because they can’t believe… but because they won’t.

I believed in the Lord as a child. But then I got told it was a fairytale. And when you hear that long enough, you start building your life on that lie.

As I got older, I started noticing something strange. The very people who mocked Christ the loudest were also the most quietly miserable. People who’d rather be “right” than be at peace. People who scoffed at faith but lived hollow, disconnected lives. I looked around my family, my community, and saw the pattern everywhere.

The ones who rejected the Father seemed the most lost.
The ones who prided themselves on their intelligence were often the most confused.
The ones who claimed to be “above belief”… lived lives devoid of joy.

That’s when I realized—maybe the “smart” ones weren’t so smart after all.

It’s funny, isn’t it? The greatest minds in history—scientists, philosophers, explorers—most of them, when they reached the outer edges of reality, concluded there had to be a Creator. That all of this couldn’t just happen by accident. That beauty, order, and purpose don’t come from chaos.

But it’s often the everyday skeptic, the proudly casual atheist, who dismisses it all like they’ve cracked the code.

And I was one of them.

Not in name—but in spirit.
Not with arguments—but with avoidance.
I didn’t argue against Christ. I just avoided Him. Mocked Him. Hid from Him.

Until one day, I had a conversation that set me down a path that would lead to Christ.

Over a decade ago, I was volunteering at a Salvation Army church. I needed the community hours. They needed the help. That was the deal. I was stacking chairs, wiping down tables, playing the part.

There was this older pastor there. Major Bill. Nothing flashy about him. Quiet. Gentle. Kind of like one of those guys you can tell has been through a lot and doesn’t need to prove anything.

We ended up sitting down one day at a little kitchen table in the basement of the Church. I could smell the old burnt coffee leftover from the service. I don’t remember what led to it, but I started talking. About how I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore. About how I used to believe, but now it all felt like smoke and mirrors.

I said, “I don’t even know if I believe anymore… but I’m tired of being right and miserable.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull out a theological debate. He just listened.

And I’ll never forget what he said:
“You don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to be open.”

That was a turning point for me. A moment that cracked the door of belief open.

I didn’t have to come to Christ with perfect belief. I didn’t have to have all the questions answered. I didn’t have to walk in with polished faith. I came with doubt. With baggage. With a broken heart and a fractured history.

And I was told He would meet me anyway. He would have been the only One in my whole life who would have taken me as I was. Broken and alone. That was the shred of hope I needed.

Over a decade later that verse has become real to me. Because I came. And He didn’t cast me out.

But following Jesus came with a cost. A real one.

I had to leave behind abusers I once called friends.
I had to walk away from oppressors I once called family.
I had to face the pain of being misunderstood, mocked, even hated—sometimes by the very people who raised me.

And Christ warned us this would happen.

We don’t talk about that verse enough.

Yes, Christ brings peace—but not the kind that keeps fake families together. Not the kind that lets abuse go unchecked. Not the kind that lets you be half in, half out. He came to separate light from darkness. Truth from deception. Sheep from wolves.

He said “Follow me,” not “agree with me.”
He doesn’t want fans. He wants followers.
He doesn’t need your applause. He wants your life.

This is not a casual calling.
This is a holy summons.

And I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you’re someone who still mocks Christ—or rolls your eyes at Scripture—or believes you’ve outgrown faith—maybe it’s time to get off the high horse.

If the greatest thinkers in history, staring into galaxies and DNA strands and moral law, came to the conclusion that there must be a Creator… maybe you’re not as smart as you think.

Maybe you’re not actually being bold. Maybe you’re just scared.
Scared to surrender. Scared to lose control. Scared to admit you were wrong.

But friend…
What if the truth you’ve mocked is the only thing that’s real?
What if the joy you’ve never felt is on the other side of humility?

That was me once.
Too smart for my own good.
But too broken to keep pretending.

And in that surrender… I found life.

In that humility… I found peace.

In the ashes of my pride… I found the King.

And He was not angry. He was not ashamed. He was waiting.

You can stop running.
You can stop mocking what your soul actually longs for.
You can stop pretending you’re fine.

He’s still calling.
And if He could welcome someone like me—He can welcome you too.

What lie about faith are you still carrying just to fit in?