- 13 mins
Unclear Rules
Imagine a father who left his young child unsupervised at home. Before leaving, he placed a small journal somewhere in the house, tucked away in an obscure spot. The journal contained what he considered essential rules about caring for the house and keeping it in order.
One afternoon, while the child was busy playing with toys, the father casually mentioned the journal in passing. "It’s important," the father said, without explaining where to find it or why it mattered. Distracted by a tower of blocks he was building, the child only half-heard his father’s words. It didn’t seem urgent, so the child quickly forgot about it.
Eternal Separation
Months later, the child invited friends over for a sleepover. They played games, built forts, and laughed late into the night. The next morning, after the friends had gone home, the father asked his child a peculiar question.
"Did your friends read the journal?"
The child blinked, confused. "No, they didn’t."
The father’s expression darkened. He scolded his child, his voice sharp and cutting. "How could you not share the journal with them? Don’t you realize how important it is?"
The child felt small under his father’s stern gaze.
"If they don’t read the journal," the father continued, "you may never see them again. They’ll be lost forever. And you..." He paused for effect, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "You might have to leave too—move to another house in a faraway city."
Tears welled up in the child’s eyes. The thought of never seeing his friends—the ones he laughed with, shared secrets with, and cherished—filled him with dread.
Promises
Determined to make things right, the child rummaged through the house until he found the journal, dusty and hidden on a high shelf. Eager to understand its contents, he opened it. The journal’s pages were filled with messages about the child’s home, written in bold, commanding words.
“This house is the only safe place,” one passage declared. “Other homes are broken, dangerous, and filled with harm. Only here will you find true comfort, peace, and endless joy.”
The words felt heavy but comforting. They promised infinite food, toys, and love—everything a child could ever want. The father’s home wasn’t just better; it was perfect.
At the next sleepover, clutching the journal tightly, the child gathered their friends and shared its contents. He read aloud about the dangers of their own homes and the importance of moving into his.
"You need to come live here," he urged. "If you don’t, we might never see each other again. But if you do, you’ll have everything you could ever want—forever."
Fear
The room fell silent. The friends, who had moments ago been laughing over snacks, were now wide-eyed with worry.
"Leave my house?" one of them whispered, her voice trembling.
"My parents love me," another said, clutching a stuffed animal tightly.
Tears began to flow. The thought of leaving their families and everything they had ever known was terrifying.
"But do we have to?" one child pleaded.
The journal’s words were absolute, and the child repeated them with growing conviction. "It says that all other homes are broken and need fixing. If you stay where you are, bad things will happen."
The father entered the room, his presence heavy and commanding. His stern gaze swept over the frightened children. "If you leave this house in the morning," he warned, "terrible things will happen to you. Only here will you be safe."
The words sent shivers through the group. Some of the children, overwhelmed by fear, decided to stay another night. They clung to the promises of safety and endless joy, afraid to risk leaving.
But not all of them stayed. A few, trembling but resolute, left that night. They slipped out the door, tears streaming down their faces. Those who stayed watched them go, hearts heavy with a mix of sadness and judgment.
In the days that followed, the children who left never returned. They blocked the child’s attempts to reach out, cutting off all contact. For the child who remained, the world outside the house felt smaller, lonelier, and more uncertain than ever before.
Isolation
During the day, the father provided only one meal to each child, including his own. The portions were meager, leaving the children hungry long before the next day. One evening, the child mustered the courage to ask, “Why can’t we have an extra meal?”
The father’s face hardened. “You should be grateful for what you’re given,” he snapped. His tone left no room for further questions. Then, as if to soften the blow, he added, “This hurts me more than it hurts you.”
The words felt hollow, but the children didn’t dare press him further.
Gaslighting
When mealtime came, the father imposed a new rule. “From now on, meals must be eaten in complete silence. It’s the only way to keep the house in order,” he announced.
One of the children hesitated before asking, “Why do we have to be silent?”
The father’s eyes narrowed. “Because I said so, and that should be enough for you.” His voice carried a finality that silenced any further questions.
For an entire week, the children ate in tense silence, exchanging only glances as they chewed their food. Despite their obedience, the father seemed to grow suspicious. “I sense disobedience in this house,” he said one day. “You’re too young to understand now, but you’ll thank me later.”
As the days passed, the father’s behavior grew more erratic. He began giving his own child an extra meal, while the others continued to subsist on a single portion a day. At first, the main child tried to share the extra food with their friends, but the father caught wind of this and forbade it.
“They’re not obedient or faithful enough,” he explained when the child asked why. “They need to earn more.”
Gratitude
The children’s nights were as difficult as their days. While some were given a thin mat to sleep on, others were left to lie on the hard floor with no pillow for comfort. A few received soft pillows, which quickly became a source of tension among the group.
One night, a child who had been sleeping on the hard floor stole a pillow from another while they were away. Exhausted and desperate, he clung to the small comfort, hoping it would help him sleep through the night.
When the father discovered the theft, he gathered the children and scolded them harshly. “You’re all so ungrateful and selfish,” he said, his voice dripping with disappointment. “I’ve given you so much, and this is how you repay me?”
The children hung their heads, the guilt weighing heavily on them, even though they felt they had little to be grateful for.
Favouritism
The father assigned the children a long list of chores and responsibilities to maintain the house. The tasks required tools, but the tools were stored on a high shelf that only the taller children could reach.
The children who were given only one meal a day struggled the most. Weak from hunger, they moved slowly, their bodies barely able to keep up with the demands. Tasks were left incomplete, and the father noticed.
“Why can’t you be more like them?” he said, pointing to the taller, well-fed children who had finished their chores. “They’re always more obedient and grateful.”
The comparison stung. The weaker children felt not only ashamed but also resentful of the others. They began to believe the father’s words—that their struggles were their own fault, a result of their lack of gratitude and obedience.
Fear and Guilt
Some of the children felt discouraged, but their fear of being disowned or kicked out grew stronger. They had been away from their own homes for so long that they couldn’t imagine where they would go if the father cast them out.
One day, a violent hailstorm battered the house, leaving dents and cracks on the siding. When the children saw the damage, they hoped their father would reassure them. Instead, he stood before them, his expression dark with anger.
“This happened because you weren’t good enough,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. The words crushed them, filling their hearts with guilt. Even nature, it seemed, had turned against them because of their shortcomings.
Tests of Loyalty
Another day, the father gathered the children and made a new demand. “To prove your love for me, I need you to give up your favorite toy,” he said. For many of the children, their toy was the only possession that brought them comfort. Giving it up felt like tearing away a piece of themselves.
On some nights, the father pushed the test further, asking the children to skip a meal entirely. Their stomachs growled in protest, but they complied, hoping their sacrifices would earn his approval.
To soothe their growing despair, the father dangled a promise before them. “One day, I’ll take you to a wonderful place—better than Disneyland,” he said, his tone filled with grandeur. But when pressed for details, he offered none. “It’s in the future,” he added vaguely, leaving the children to dream of a paradise that always felt just out of reach.
Mixed Messages
Years passed, stretching endlessly for the children. Their hope began to fade, and the father noticed their despondency. One day, he tried to lift their spirits. “Draw what you imagine our vacation will look like,” he said. “Be yourselves. There’s no wrong answer.”
Excited by the rare chance for creativity, the children poured their hopes onto paper. Some sketched bouncing castles, while others drew elaborate waterslide parks. The room buzzed with energy as they eagerly shared their visions.
But the father’s smile faltered when he saw the waterslide drawings. His tone turned cold. “This is not how I envisioned the vacation,” he said sharply. “You’ve misunderstood everything.”
The children were confused and disheartened. Hadn’t he told them to be themselves?
Forgiveness with Strings
The father demanded that the children who drew waterslides apologize. Embarrassed and desperate to please, they did so immediately.
Days passed, but the father kept bringing up the incident. “Remember those flawed drawings?” he would say, his words laced with disappointment.
Although he claimed to forgive them, he never let them forget. The children felt as though their mistakes were etched into the walls of the house, an ever-present reminder of their supposed inadequacy.
Lack of Communication
As the weeks dragged on, the father began leaving cryptic notes around the house. Scrawled hastily, they were riddled with metaphors and vague instructions. “Polish the countertop,” one note read. The children, eager to please, scrubbed the kitchen counter until it gleamed.
But when the father saw their work, he grew angry. “You didn’t understand the message!” he shouted. “That wasn’t about the counter. It was a metaphor! I meant for you to keep the kitchen table free of dirty dishes!”
The children were bewildered. “Why didn’t you just say that?” one dared to ask.
“You should know what I mean without me having to spell it out,” the father retorted, leaving them feeling more lost than ever.
Garden of Eden
One day, the father learned that a nearby prison had released individuals convicted of predatory and harmful behavior. Despite this, he left the house wide open, neglecting any measures to protect the children.
That evening, a group of these predators wandered into the home. Smiling deceptively, they offered the children candy in exchange for promises of tickets to Disneyland. The children, having been warned about strangers but enticed by the innocent-seeming offer, hesitated. Yet the allure of candy and the hope of a magical trip overcame their doubts, and they accepted the treats.
The predators burst into laughter and fled, leaving the children confused and empty-handed.
When the father “discovered” what had happened, he was furious. His anger burned brightest at the children who had taken the candy. Without a word of explanation, he forced them outside, stripping them of their clothes as an act of public humiliation. “You are not welcome in this house anymore,” he declared, his voice icy. The children pounded on the door, sobbing and begging for forgiveness, but he ignored their cries.
Violence is Love
The remaining children, shaken and heartbroken, dared to ask why their father had been so harsh. “If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t bother disciplining you,” he said sternly, as though his cruelty was an act of love.
One of the braver children spoke up, “We’ve done everything you’ve asked of us. Why haven’t you taken us on the vacation you promised?”
“You’re not ready,” the father replied vaguely, offering no further explanation.
The children, still mourning the loss of their expelled friends, expressed their sadness. The father responded coldly, “I’m the only one who truly loves you. If you leave me, no one else will care about you. Remember that.”
Tests Without Explanation
In the days that followed, the father’s strictness grew unbearable. He devised grueling challenges, claiming they were necessary to “build character.” The children were made to endure discomfort and hardship without any clear reason why.
When one child dared to act out, the father berated them in front of the others. “This is for your own good,” he declared. “You need to learn humility.”
The children who struggled to finish their chores were also scolded. “Your laziness is unacceptable,” the father snapped. “You’re a disappointment to this house.”
Blame Natural Instincts
After completing their chores, the children longed for a moment of play or a small snack to ease their hunger. But when they expressed these desires, the father belittled them.
“So selfish,” he sneered. “All you ever think about is yourselves. You should be ashamed.”
Eventually, he relented and provided them with a box of clay to play with. For a fleeting moment, the children were overjoyed, molding animals and shapes that brought some light into their dreary days.
But their relief was short-lived. The father soon began requiring the children to praise him daily for the clay. “Without me, you’d have nothing,” he reminded them at every opportunity. The simple joy of play became a burden, weighed down by the constant need to express gratitude for the crumbs of kindness they were given.
Self-Sacrifice
One day, one of the children, exhausted and broken by the relentless demands and contradictions, finally reached their breaking point. They mustered the courage to reach out for help. Trembling, they managed to find a phone and call someone outside the house.
When the father discovered this, his fury was unlike anything the children had ever seen. His face darkened, and his voice grew eerily calm as he told the child, “You’ve left me no choice.”
That night, he gathered all the children in the living room. With tears in his eyes and a heavy sigh, he declared, “I’ve done everything for you. Sacrificed everything. And yet, you still betray me.”
Before any of the children could react, the father left the room. Moments later, a horrifying sound echoed through the house. The children ran to find him—his lifeless body hanging from the ceiling.
Beside him was a pre-recorded voice message, carefully placed to play as they stumbled upon the scene. His voice crackled through the speaker:
“I had no other choice. My love for you was too much to bear your disobedience any longer. Remember me always. Honor my memory by creating homes of your own just like this one. Follow the rules I gave you, and you’ll never go astray. Live freely, but don’t forget my sacrifices—or your mistakes. Don’t repeat them. For your own good.”
The children were left in stunned silence. Some collapsed in tears, overcome with guilt. Others stood frozen, grappling with the terror of what had unfolded. The father’s final act had etched his control deep into their hearts, even in death, chaining them to his legacy of fear, guilt, and contradiction.
Ending
A child should never be made to feel broken or unworthy, yet this is the narrative that unfolds in the story above. If a parent were to act as God is often described—demanding blind loyalty, punishing perceived disobedience, and withholding love unless conditions are met—they would rightly face scrutiny and intervention by child protective services. Behavior like this is never acceptable, and framing it as “love” is a distortion.
Love that comes with strings attached is not true love. To those trapped in such dynamics, it may feel like love—just as victims of domestic abuse often rationalize their abuser’s actions. But to an outsider, it becomes clear: this is conditional love, rooted in control and fear, not compassion or care.
For those who argue that justice requires punishment, I invite you to reflect on the concept of retributive justice and its flaws. Retribution framed as divine love is toxic; it demands suffering to balance perceived wrongs and perpetuates cycles of fear and guilt rather than healing and restoration.
God is often likened to a loving parent, but this analogy falls apart under scrutiny. Unlike human parents, who are fallible and limited in their understanding, a deity is said to be omniscient and omnipotent. A human parent may be excused for mistakes due to their lack of knowledge, but an all-knowing, all-powerful being does not have this excuse. If such a being allows suffering, permits evil, or places impossible burdens on their followers, it is not an act of love—it is negligence, plain and simple.
Free will is often used to justify this indifference, but even if free will exists, it does not absolve a god who watches suffering unfold while fully understanding its causes and effects. To stand by, knowing how to prevent pain and choosing not to, is not just negligent—it is cruel.
The story above is an analogy, but it reflects the reality of how many interpret divine relationships. If you find such a parental dynamic abhorrent in the human context, why would it be acceptable when ascribed to a god? The answer is simple: it isn’t. True love is unconditional, restorative, and liberating—not coercive, punitive, or controlling.
