Revelations and False Prophets

Growing up Protestant, I was taught that revelations were sacred moments — divine messages directly from God. They were celebrated in sermons, testimonies, and small group discussions as proof of His presence in our lives. But my revelation wasn’t met with celebration. It was met with doubt, resistance, and eventually, my questioning of the very faith I’d grown up with.

It started when I was a teenager on a church trip to an orphanage. The place was filled with chaos — hundreds of children ran, laughed, and tugged at the sleeves of the dozen or so volunteers, desperate for attention.

Except me.

The kids seemed to bypass me entirely, running instead to the others for games and playtime. I sat alone, trying not to take it personally when a quiet, withdrawn boy caught my eye. He sat nearby, his knees pulled up to his chest. I decided to approach him.

He didn’t seem interested in talking or playing, but I noticed he was trying to count, unsuccessfully. I sat crisscross beside him and started teaching him — one finger, two fingers, three. His eyes lit up as he began to understand. For the first time that day, he smiled.

Soon after, a girl shuffled over, watching us closely. She asked if I could teach her to spell her name. I tested her reading ability first by holding up a picture book, but she couldn’t read yet. So I taught her.

The pattern continued all day. While the other volunteers were surrounded by laughter and games, children came to me to learn. I didn’t seek them out — they sought me. By the end of the day, it was clear: I was not meant to have children. I am meant to teach them.

Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

This revelation felt profound, like a divine directive. But when I shared it with my family and church community, their responses mirrored the metaphor of wolves in sheep’s clothing. What appeared to be guidance was laced with judgment and dismissal.

"Revelations can be tricky," my mom said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "You’re young. You’ll understand a woman’s real purpose when you’re older."

The elders echoed similar sentiments. A woman’s role, they insisted, was to bear children. Anything outside that script was seen as misguided at best, and sinful at worst. Their words seemed to question not just my revelation but also my worth.

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.” — Matthew 7:15

Their words hung heavy on me, as though they were cloaked in righteousness but masked an unwillingness to understand. The more I pondered their reactions, the more I saw the parallel to wolves disguised as sheep, offering only surface-level empathy while tearing away at the authenticity of my calling.

Thorn Among the Wheat

I clung to my belief in the revelation for years, but their doubts planted seeds in my mind. Like the parable of the wheat and tares, I began to question whether my understanding of faith was as pure as I once thought.

Was my calling genuine? Or was it a mistake growing among the truth? These questions haunted me, even as I continued to hold on to the clarity I’d felt during that church trip. Each doubt felt like a thorn, pricking at my conviction and entangling me in a web of uncertainty.

I began to see how faith communities could sometimes sow doubt instead of nurturing growth. Their insistence on conformity cast shadows over what I believed to be divine light. Was I wheat, growing with purpose, or merely a tare, sown to be discarded?

At 23, I got my answer.

Broken Cisterns That Hold No Water

A routine doctor’s appointment turned into a life-changing conversation. After years of unexplained pain and irregularities, I was diagnosed with infertility. Decades of malnutrition, caused by the eating disorder I developed under my mother’s emotional control, had left my fallopian tubes irreparably damaged.

I couldn’t have children.

The news didn’t devastate me. Instead, it felt like confirmation — a divine exclamation point on the calling I’d felt years earlier. Yet, when I told my mom, her reaction wasn’t one of understanding. She mourned what she saw as a lost legacy, not realizing that this diagnosis aligned perfectly with the life I had already embraced.

The church’s teachings, once my source of spiritual nourishment, now felt like broken cisterns. They held no space for the truth of my experience. Their rigid framework left no room for someone like me, whose path diverged from their expectations.

I began to see the cracks in what I’d once believed was unshakable. The cisterns I had relied upon for meaning and validation were empty, unable to hold the complex reality of my existence.

Clouds Without Rain

The church taught me to trust God’s voice, but only when it fits into their framework. My revelation, though deeply personal and aligned with my experiences, was dismissed because it didn’t conform to tradition.

This wasn’t the only time I’d seen this pattern. The church selectively accepted what it deemed divine. It felt like a cloud without rain — promising nourishment but offering none. I realized their guidance often lacked the substance to nurture or sustain someone who didn’t fit their mold.

Over time, this selective acceptance of truth and revelation led me to question everything I’d been taught. How much of my faith was rooted in genuine belief, and how much was just adherence to tradition? Their clouds promised downpours of wisdom but left me parched in my search for understanding.

The Stone the Builders Rejected

My calling to teach became a cornerstone of my identity. But the church, my family, and even my mother rejected it. They couldn’t see how a woman without children could still fulfill God’s plan.

“The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” — Psalm 118:22

Their rejection didn’t diminish my purpose; it strengthened it. Like the stone cast aside by builders, my revelation stood firm, even when others refused to see its value.

Over time, I saw the irony: the very thing they dismissed became the foundation for my life. Their rejection, while painful, solidified my resolve to follow my calling. Their doubts were like chisels, carving the cornerstone of who I am.

Streams in the Desert

In the wilderness of doubt and rejection, I found my way. Though the church dismissed my revelation, God’s voice remained clear. I started to deconstruct my faith. I peeled back the layers of sermons, doctrine, and cultural expectations to find what I truly believed. What I found was this: I still believe in God. But I don’t believe in the church.

This truth became my stream in the desert, a source of life and direction when everything else felt barren. It was as if God had carved an oasis out of the harsh sands of judgment and expectation, offering me sustenance when every other path seemed desolate. Each moment of clarity, each child who came to me for guidance, was a drop of water in that stream, reinforcing the truth of my calling.

It nourished me when the institutions and traditions I had once relied upon failed to do so. Their structures demanded conformity and placed tradition above truth. It felt like a mirage — promising support but disappearing when I needed it most. Yet, God’s voice rang out with unmistakable clarity. The small, unassuming moments — a child learning to count, another spelling her name — that I found purpose and peace.

I’ve learned that faith is personal, not institutional. Revelation isn’t something that needs to be approved or validated by others. And God’s voice? It doesn’t always fit the mold we’re taught to expect.

Sometimes, it calls us to break the mold entirely.