I Hate God (But I met Jesus)

It was raining.

Sideways rain.

Hard, mean,

Leeds rain.

The kind that says:

You’re not welcome anywhere.

She stood outside,

soaked,

smoking the last of her rollies,

muttering curses

like liturgies for the lost.

Then she saw the collar—

white,

stupid,

clean.

And that was it.

“You lot make me sick.”

She shouted through the wind.

“All God’s ever done is ruin me.

Took my kids.

Took my home.

Took my f***ing dignity.

If he’s in charge,

what the hell is he playing at?

He’s sending me to hell,

that’s what.”

No one argued.

We just waited.

When she calmed down a bit,

we let her in.

She came in

because it was dry.

Not for God.

Not for prayer.

Just a chair

and a break from the storm.

We made her tea.

Milk first.

Four sugars.

Gave her one of those

Aldi knock-off Penguins,

the kind with no joke on the wrapper.

She took it like it mattered.

(It did.)

And she matters,

not a knock-off,

but an image-bearer.

Loved.

Life may not have given her dignity,

but we will.

And that day—

we told the story.

Jesus stepping ashore,

meeting the man

cut and chained,

rage in his throat

and demons in his bones.

And she watched.

Didn’t blink.

Eyes narrowing

like she recognised the script.

“That’s me,”

she whispered,

half-defiant.

“I’ve been the tombs.

I’ve been the scream.

I’ve been the cut-up mess.”

But Jesus didn’t flinch.

Didn’t preach.

Didn’t condemn.

He moved towards.

“The Son is the radiance of God’s glory,

and the exact representation of his being.”

(Hebrews 1:3)

“Anyone who has seen me

has seen the Father.”

(John 14:9)

She’d worshipped a monster God.

A sky-fist with a big stick.

But this Jesus—

he came close.

He bore the scars.

He told the storm to shut up.

And something in her shifted.

No altar call.

No glowing hands.

Just weeks later,

mid-cuppa—

Milk,

four sugars,

she prayed:

“Jesus… thank you that you love me.”

That was it.

No fireworks.

Just an image bearer,

A wounded soul,

soaked in grace

and drying out

slowly.

She still swears.

Still smokes.

Still slips out

when it gets too much.

But she follows now—

not the God she hated,

but Jesus:

Compassionate &

Kind.

Scarred like her.

And she’s changing.

Not all at once,

but like spring

after a long,

a very long ,

angry winter.

- Rev’d Jon Swales