Exploring sacrifice, salvation and starting again—without the shame
Let’s start with the obvious: Easter hits different after faith deconstruction.
For some, it’s just another long weekend with hot cross buns and family catch-ups. For others, it can be a confusing, emotional time—especially if you’re holding the weight of religious trauma while walking past “He is risen!” posters or social media posts about the “greatest love story ever told.” Even the word resurrection might spark something in your body that you can’t quite name. Hope? Grief? Revulsion?
I used to have a love/hate relationship with Easter. The guilt of Good Friday. The reverence of communion. The way the music swelled on Sunday morning, proclaiming a triumphant resurrection. I clung to the idea of redemption, of being made whole – whilst struggling with the immense weight of the guilt. But when I look back now, I see how often those themes—resurrection, sacrifice, and redemption—were used to keep me small. To keep me grateful for pain. To keep me compliant in the face of harm.
So let’s talk about it. Let’s look at these themes through a deconstruction lens. What have they meant? How have they been used? And what, if anything, is worth keeping?
Resurrection: Starting again… but only if you die first?
At the heart of Easter is the story of resurrection: Jesus dies, and three days later, he rises from the grave. It’s a story of hope and renewal. A fresh start. A divine mic drop. But it comes only after death.
In so many churches, this narrative becomes a metaphor for the Christian life: Die to yourself. Kill your flesh. Lay down your life. Only when you have nothing left—when you’ve fully surrendered—are you “raised with Christ.”
It sounds poetic. But for a lot of us, especially those who were already marginalised, traumatised, or made to feel less-than, this message was deeply harmful.
If you were socialised as a woman or assigned female at birth in high-control religious spaces, chances are you heard that dying to yourself meant silencing your needs. Being submissive. Prioritising others. Accepting suffering with a smile. If you were queer, it often meant denying your identity altogether—because your very existence was the thing that needed to die.
Resurrection, we were told, was possible. But only if we died first. And not just metaphorically. We were asked to abandon parts of ourselves—our sexuality, our boundaries, our sense of justice or rage or grief—all in the name of being “raised to new life.”
But what if the most radical act isn’t dying to yourself… but returning to yourself?
What if we flip the script?
Resurrection doesn’t have to be about enduring death in order to be worthy. It can be about reclaiming life after loss. It can be about coming home to the parts of you that were buried—by doctrine, by shame, by fear—and letting them breathe again.
Sacrifice: Who benefits from your suffering?
The idea of sacrifice is central to Christian theology. Jesus’ death is described as “the ultimate sacrifice,” offered in place of humanity so we could be forgiven and made right with God.
And again, the message might seem beautiful on the surface: Someone loved us enough to give everything. But in practice, that message has often been weaponised to demand our own suffering. To make sacrifice not just a virtue, but an expectation.
In purity culture, girls were taught to “guard their hearts” and suppress their desires—for the sake of future husbands, for the sake of being a good witness. Prosperity gospel spaces, people were told to give money they didn’t have, trusting God to bless them later. In churches that focused heavily on missions or service, members were encouraged to burn out for the gospel—to “leave it all on the altar.”
And in every corner of conservative theology, people were taught to stay in harmful relationships, churches, or even families, because “Jesus didn’t give up on you.”
Sacrifice becomes a way to normalise suffering. It becomes a tool of control.
So many of my clients, especially those with religious trauma, carry guilt for choosing themselves. For saying no. For walking away. Because somewhere deep in their psyche, they still believe that to be good is to suffer—and that suffering will somehow lead to redemption.
But what if that’s not true? What if your pain isn’t proof of your holiness?
When we look at who benefits from our sacrifices, things get clearer. If your suffering is serving a system, an institution, or a theology that disempowers you… that’s not sacrifice. That’s exploitation.
Redemption: When is it yours, and when is it just for others?
Redemption is one of those feel-good Christian words. The idea that something broken can be made whole again. That your mistakes don’t define you. That healing is possible.
And I still find something powerful in that.
But the way redemption is framed in many religious spaces? It’s not about personal healing—it’s about fitting back into the system. You’re not redeemed when you reclaim your life on your terms; you’re redeemed when you repent and return to the fold. Redemption is often tied to behaviour: You once were lost, now you follow the rules. You once were queer, now you’re celibate. You once had doubts, now you’ve found “the truth.”
There’s very little space for ongoing redemption. For the messy, nonlinear process of healing. Or for stories that don’t tie up neatly in the end.
Redemption, too, becomes conditional. You’re loved and accepted only if you subscribe to the right beliefs. If you stay soft and palatable. If your story can be used as a testimony to bring others in.
But I believe in a different kind of redemption now.
- Not the kind that demands your silence, but the kind that lets your voice grow louder.
- Not the kind that erases your past, but the kind that lets it belong to you again.
- Not the kind that says “you’re only redeemed if you return,” but the kind that says you never needed redemption to be worthy in the first place.
Reclaiming the story—or leaving it behind
So what do we do with these themes—resurrection, sacrifice, redemption—when we’ve been harmed by the institutions that taught them to us?
Honestly? It depends.
Some people find deep healing in reclaiming the language. They see resurrection as a symbol of starting again, of rebuilding a life beyond the rubble. Sacrifice not as something demanded by God, but as something meaningful when freely chosen—like the sacrifices we make for community, justice, or parenting. They see redemption as an ongoing journey of returning to the self.
Others feel the need to leave the whole framework behind. The language feels too loaded, too tainted. And that’s totally valid. You don’t have to force a connection to a story that harmed you. You don’t have to look for meaning in the same places where you were shamed or silenced.
Some of us float somewhere in the middle, depending on the day and that’s okay.
Whatever your relationship to these themes—whether you’re reinterpreting, rejecting, or tentatively revisiting them—you’re not alone.
What if the sacred still belongs to you?
If Easter is hard for you, I get it. If you want nothing to do with it, that’s completely fair. But if there’s even a small part of you that wants to reclaim it—not the theology, necessarily, but the feeling—it’s yours to take.
Light a candle. Plant something. Write your own resurrection story. Make art from your grief. Scream at the sky. Walk barefoot in the grass. Kiss someone with passion. Laugh at something wildly inappropriate. Claim your joy.
- You don’t have to suffer to be worthy.
- You don’t have to be “redeemed” to be whole.
- You are allowed to start again—on your own terms.
And that, to me, is holy.
If this stirred something tender or heavy in you, you’re not alone. Deconstructing these deep, sacred stories can bring up a lot—and you deserve support as you make sense of it all. If you’re looking for a therapist who gets it, someone who can sit with the complexity and honour your journey, please reach out.
You can also find support via The Religious Trauma Collective