Before I ever started writing about God online, I knew I’d have to grow a thicker skin, and I was not wrong. The internet has a way of pulling out the worst in people. Keyboard warriors, you know. When I write about Jesus…especially when I tell the truth about the messy places where faith and politics collide…the loudest responses often come from those who don’t want me to exist at all. Strangers have told me I’m stupid, worthless, or that the world would be better off without me. Others sling slurs or drip venom just because I dared to say that grace is bigger than their categories.
And the truth is: it hurts. No matter how many times it happens, my heart still stings when I read those words. However, for the first and only time in my life…I put myself in situations where I’ll be ridiculed, mocked, and dragged. Thankfully, I’ve learned that the sting doesn’t have the final word. Jesus told us to expect this: “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first” (John 15:18). Paul reminds us, “Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? … If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ” (Galatians 1:10). Those verses steady me when the noise gets loud.
But what steadies me even more is remembering that faith itself is not simple, not binary. I wrestle all the time with Scripture, with prayer, with the state of the world, with God himself. I think of Jacob, who wrestled through the night and came out limping but blessed (Genesis 32:24–30). Or Job, who refused to stop questioning even as his friends begged him to keep quiet. Even Jesus cried out in Gethsemane, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow” (Matthew 26:38). Faith isn’t about never struggling; it’s about clinging to God through the struggle.
That’s why I write about the messy middle where politics and religion clash, where grace feels scandalous, where questions outnumber answers. That’s exactly what draws the harshest ridicule. People want faith to be tidy, partisan, certain. Alas, the Kingdom isn’t tidy. It’s full of paradoxes: strength in weakness, life through death, joy born from sorrow. The psalms themselves are filled with both praise and lament, side by side.
So yes, the naysayers show up. They’ll keep showing up, but every hateful comment has become a reminder that my calling isn’t to erase the struggle. My call is to tell the truth about it. To write honestly about the wrestling, the not-knowing, the hope that somehow survives in the tension. As the psalmist says, “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me” (Psalm 28:7). That shield covers me when the boos come. I poke the wound, press at the bruise, and walk through the pain.
If ridicule is the cost of telling the messy, complicated truth about faith—a faith that wrestles, questions, and still clings—then I’ll keep carrying it, trusting that someone else who is limping along might find hope in knowing they’re not alone.
Rowdy and Redeemed 