Afraid of Being Wrong

Evangelical salvation anxiety and the politics of supremacy

Six years ago, I unknowingly stepped into our church home for the last time.

If I had known, I might have approached it differently. I might have lingered in the lobby instead of slipping out quickly. I might have said a deliberate goodbye to people I believed were my family, my community, my spiritual authority. I might have felt the pull of regret before it ever had a chance to form, or I might have stayed a few weeks longer just to soften the landing. Instead, it was ordinary. And maybe that ordinariness saved me.

I grew up in a world with no margin for being wrong. Differences were not tolerated, and being seen as wrong was sinful. The warning was always there, sometimes delivered gently, other times it was accusing: You don’t want to die and find out you were wrong. This echoed inside my mind constantly.

Salvation was framed as a one-time decision you couldn't revisit—choose wisely or face eternity. Even after making that choice, a second layer of fear lingered: were you truly saved? Did you mean it enough? Had you believed sincerely? The familiar passage everyone knew was from the believer who stands before Jesus and says, “Lord, Lord, I prophesied in your name,” only to be told, “I never knew you.” It was often cited as a warning against hypocrisy, but it also felt like a threat of misjudgment. Rather than fostering unity with God, these words often generated anxiety.

I structured my interior world around avoiding the devastating error of being wrong. This obsession influenced what I questioned and what I repressed. It guided my decisions on when to speak and when to hold back my objections. It impacted my relationship choices, how I dressed, and how I raised my children. It was more than just theology; it was a pervasive atmosphere. Throughout my life, I lived immersed in it. What I lacked the words to express at the time was that the fear of being wrong was not merely about heaven; it was rooted in a desire for supremacy.

Teaching a child that eternity depends on a single, narrow interpretation of God not only shapes their faith but also establishes their hierarchy. It implies they are aligned with the ultimate truth, while others are, at best, mistaken or, at worst, condemned. This approach teaches them to see deviation as dangerous.

White evangelical culture in America has evolved into a structured social system. It not only asserts that Jesus is the way but also promotes its interpretation as the “right” way to organize family, gender roles, nation, and authority. Questioning this system isn't seen as personal growth but as rebellion. Curiosity is viewed as compromise, empathy as weakness, and doubt as sin.

We are witnessing the result of that formation now: a political environment where being right outweighs responsibility. A movement that prefers to break institutions rather than admit mistakes. Democracy is being attacked by individuals taught from childhood that moral compromise amounts to spiritual betrayal. If you believe that working together to collectively make things better for everyone in society, not just those who share the same beliefs, equates to denying God, you will be unlikely to concede—whether in church meetings, school board votes, or Congress.

I spent decades afraid of making mistakes. However, errors drive growth. Being wrong means recognizing your knowledge gaps. It's the start of learning and is essential for offering apologies. It also fosters empathy. Banning wrongness doesn't lead to righteousness; it results in rigidity.

What if we honestly confronted the mistakes our nation has made? Imagine teaching that after the Civil War, our failure to hold Confederates accountable left formerly enslaved people without resources. This negligence also implicitly permitted continued enslavement through socioeconomic policies and anti-human rights laws. What if we acknowledged that Indigenous lands were stolen through violence and deception, not divine right? Additionally, what if school curricula explicitly stated that the pilgrims or colonists were colonizers who exploited land and heritage to establish a capitalist system benefiting the king? Viewing these not just as unfortunate past events but as moral failings that must be addressed could transform our understanding and actions.

Instead, many of us grew up within a theology that couldn't acknowledge error without collapsing. This led to a sense of paralysis. I confused fear with faith, and I believed that as long as I kept my doubts suppressed and my certainty intact, I would remain safe. Leaving that behind didn't give me certainty about everything else; instead, it was more disruptive. It freed me from the pressure to be certain all the time.

When I finally accepted that I might be wrong, my perspective broadened. I stopped blindly defending a rigid system. I could listen openly without immediately searching for flaws. I could learn genuinely without preparing counterarguments. I could apologize sincerely without feeling like I was betraying my faith. For most of my life, I believed that being wrong would ruin me. In reality, it was the fear of being wrong that almost caused my downfall.

The last Sunday I sat in that church, I did not know I was stepping into a different kind of life. I thought I was risking everything. In reality, I was recovering the part of myself that had never been allowed to breathe.

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