Under His Desk
From Legalism to Love
​
By Karon Ruiz
Is God’s love for you something you truly feel? If so, you are indeed fortunate. When I first came to faith in 1974, I found it difficult to feel that certainty. Over time, my closeness with God has often felt like fleeting moments—short connections rather than lasting, profound encounters with the Father.
A thick, impenetrable wall of fear hid God’s face from me. Like the veil in ancient Jerusalem that concealed His presence from an unholy people, a barrier of unbelief kept me separated from Him.
In the Jewish temple, this sacred curtain was no ordinary fabric. Woven from embroidered linen, it was four inches thick and rose sixty feet high, standing as an unyielding guard before the Holy of Holies, barring access to all but a select few.
It required three hundred priests to hang it, and no human could tear it. Only the High Priest could pass through it, and even then, only once a year. Behind it dwelt the awe-inspiring presence of God.
In His final moments on the cross, Jesus cried out, "It is finished!" As He took His last breath, the temple veil was torn from top to bottom, revealing the Holy of Holies.
The Holy of Holies, the sacred place where God resided, symbolized His presence. Just as a judge’s gavel signals the end of a trial, this divine act was the Father’s proclamation: “The separation is over!”
Many of us come into the Kingdom carrying wounds from tough beginnings. Our parents, in their own brokenness, might unintentionally shape our view of Father God’s true heart toward us. My sister Beth once said, “Some people are given a Rolls Royce to navigate life, while others get a jalopy.” I got the latter. Like an old relic from The Beverly Hillbillies, my jalopy sputtered, leaked oil, and rattled down life’s road. But I wouldn’t trade it for a sleek, luxurious because that beat-up “car” led me straight to Christ! Growing up in the Conkle family left me with a deep hunger to be fathered, and what the enemy meant for harm, God turned into something good.
Brokenness opens the door to God's grace. Throughout my life, brief but profound glimpses of that grace have shown me the way to His love—a love I might not have recognized otherwise. My journey with God has been shaped by these moments, each one peeling back the layers of unbelief that once hid His presence. For so long, I clung to false ideas about who He was.
Growing up in the chaotic sixties, a time of social upheaval reflected the turmoil in my own home. Alcoholism, anger, and neglect defined my world, warping my understanding of love. Affection and affirmation were scarce, and the nurturing voice that helps children find their worth was heartbreakingly absent.
For the three Conkle kids, survival meant staying invisible—hiding in our rooms or escaping to the backyard, far from earshot. When Dad came home, affectionate greetings gave way to angry commands. "Hit the cave!" became our cue, and we complied without question, retreating as the clash of children and cocktails created an unforgiving storm.
Dad’s constant criticism left deep marks on all of us. My older brother, Steve, was repeatedly called stupid. My younger sister grew up believing she needed a nose job. And I was only eight when my father bluntly told me I was fat.
Looking back at old family photos, the reality was quite different. I wasn’t fat at all. Sure, I looked bigger next to my skinny siblings, but I was a healthy weight for my age and height. Still, those words stayed with me, shaping my relationship with food in harmful ways and leading to years of yo-yo dieting and a self-image I still wrestle with today.
My parents raised us the best way they knew how. Their own challenging childhoods left them unable to give much beyond material comforts—a nice house, enough clothes, and plenty of toys. They signed me up for Girl Scouts, ice skating, and summer camp. From the outside, our Scottsdale ranch at the foot of Camelback Mountain might have appeared to be a loving and nurturing home for five people who cared for one another.
​
But that illusion didn’t last. My father’s constant infidelity finally broke my parents’ marriage in 1968. My mom, sister, and I moved to California, leaving my troubled fourteen-year-old brother, Steve, behind in Phoenix with my dad.
In California, my sister and I became latch-key kids, free from the tension of our old home. Gradually, life got better. Mom tried to bond with us while embracing her newfound independence as a divorcee. Men came and went, but eventually, the thrill faded, and her loneliness grew.
Then, in the summer of 1974, I packed up my car and drove eight hours back to Phoenix. Dad had offered me a job and a full ride to Arizona State University. Excited to leave home at last, I returned to the Valley of the Sun, ready to start fresh as a business student at ASU.
​
After moving into my new off-campus apartment, I caught up with an old elementary school friend for a night of barhopping. After hours of dancing and drinking, our conversation surprisingly turned to apocalyptic predictions. Holding a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Michelle passionately claimed that Jesus would return soon. She urged me to read The Late Great Planet Earth by Hal Lindsey, describing it as "fantastic."
SSettling into my new off-campus apartment, I reconnected with an old elementary school friend for a night of barhopping. After hours of dancing and drinking, our conversation unexpectedly turned to prophetic end-times. With a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Michelle passionately claimed that Jesus was coming back soon. If I was curious, she urged me to read The Late Great Planet Earth by Hal Lindsey—a book she described as fantastic.
The next morning, while shopping for textbooks at the A.S.U. bookstore, I stumbled across a display featuring that very book. Without hesitation, I bought it and devoured most of it that night. It was compelling—convincing, even. In that moment, I realized I wasn’t a Christian and, according to its message, I needed Christ or I would be lost. A sense of urgency took hold of me as I searched for a church that could tell me what I needed to do to be saved. I wasn’t seeking a relationship with Jesus—I was looking for a quick escape, a get-out-of-hell-free card.
Finding a structured, rule-based faith seemed like the logical next step. As long as I upheld my side of the contract, surely God would do the same. It felt familiar, almost like childhood—just be good, and Dad wouldn’t yell too much or, worse yet, hit. Religion became a refuge, much like escaping into books in my room when my father came home. It was safe. Predictable.
​
That weekend, in a small church in Tempe, Arizona, I became a Christian. God met me there, in my fragile and misguided understanding, where His Son's light was still clouded by my own flawed beliefs. That night, after being baptized, I left with a clear mental checklist—tithing and church attendance were required; premarital sex and alcohol were strictly forbidden. For months, my passion for God dimmed under the weight of shame for every mistake.
After returning to California, I didn’t stay away from Christianity for long. Before I knew it, I was drawn into The Jesus Movement, an extraordinary revival that swept across the West Coast of the United States.
God was moving in the hearts of young people across the nation. While I was in Arizona, my sister and mother found Christ in California. Unlike me, they were on fire with passion for God. We started attending Calvary Chapel Costa Mesa together, which was at the center of a powerful revival, recently portrayed in the film Jesus Revolution.
Pastor Chuck Smith’s teaching rooted me in scripture and deepened my faith. I was inspired by the stories of believers like Corrie ten Boom and Brother Andrew, whose dedication to God sparked a desire in me to serve. That desire led me to a ten-month mission with YWAM (Youth With A Mission).
​
Despite the profound teachings and transformative experiences, the mission field couldn’t free me from the grip of performance-based Christianity. Self-imposed legalism silenced the cry of my heart—a longing to truly know God as my Father. That’s the danger of deception: you start to believe that God reflects your earthly father—harsh, critical, unrelenting. No matter how many scriptures spoke of His love and forgiveness, I remained chained to the belief that His nature bore the same flaws and disappointments. I resigned myself to this reality, thinking it was the best I could hope for in this life.
But then, one evening, everything changed.
In a moment I’ll never forget, He broke through the darkness.
​
