Is it Hashem (G-d) speaking... or just me?

The other day, I heard a line from a poet that stopped me in my tracks:

 “You know what, Dad? Sometimes G-d sounds a lot like you.”

 Oof. That one hit hard.

 In that poem, the father was someone who often said things like, “I’m the boss.” “Don't speak to me that way.” “You don’t know what’s best for you.” And he backed it up with, “Because G-d said so.”

 And I couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it is to do that—to take my own very human feelings, my own frustrations, my own desperation for power in powerless parenting moments, and dress them up as something bigger.

 To say, “This is what Hashem wants” when really, it’s what I want.

To say, “This is right and holy” when really, it’s what makes me feel comfortable.

To say, “This is the way it has to be” when really, it’s just the way I was raised, and it’s hard for me to imagine another way.

And the tricky thing is, in my understanding, some of it is true. I do believe certain things are what Hashem wants and they are, in fact, holy.

I believe Hashem wants children to respect their parents. And I do believe there are ways G-d wants us to speak.

But when my child talks back or says something that really gets to me, I don’t think my first reaction comes from a place of calmly wanting to teach G-d’s values.

What’s coming up for me is my feelings. My triggers. My needs.

And I’ve been thinking about how helpful it might be to separate those two things.

Because, to me, there’s a difference between teaching my kids about what I believe Hashem wants in a thoughtful, meaningful way—and using G-d as a tool in the moment to try to get them to do what I want.

And I have compassion for why parents do it. Sometimes, it feels easier to lean on something bigger than myself—especially when I’m exhausted, overwhelmed, or unsure. It can feel easier to say, “Hashem says you have to respect your parents” than to say, “I’m feeling frustrated right now because I yearn for respect." 

Or to say, “Hashem wants you to listen” rather than, “I want cooperation so we can get out the door on time.”

Or even, “God doesn’t like when kids talk like that” instead of, “That language really worries me because it can deeply hurt people and I want us to care for others."

But when I do that—when I use Hashem to back up my own personal limits, needs, or even triggers—I worry that I’m blurring the lines between what is truly divine and what is human.

And I have the thought that my kids might take that in.

I don’t know for sure, but I imagine that if I’m not careful, they could grow up thinking that Hashem is just another way of saying, “Because I said so.”

And that’s not what I want.

So I wonder what it would be like if I didn’t do that.

If, instead of turning Hashem into a justification for my actions, I was simply honest.

If I said, “I don’t like when you do that.” “I need a break right now.” “I’m not okay with this.”

If I owned my limits as mine—not as divine truth, but as human ones.

I don’t want my own fears, my own triggers, my own discomforts to become the voice they hear when they think about G-d. I want their image of Hashem to be free from my very human flaws. I want them to come to their own understanding, to their own relationship to Him.

I want to teach them about what the Torah says Hashem wants when it's not connected to a desperate or triggering moment for me. I trust that way so much more.