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I Denied Him to Survive – But He Never Denied Me

22nd July, 2026 I Larah Heinrich

I grew up learning early that survival often meant staying quiet about faith. When my dad, a philosophy professor, fell seriously ill while I was in high school, our family was already stretched thin. My eldest sister, an academic genius, also had special needs and was going back and forth to the hospital. My mum was the only one bringing in any income, working part-time as a nurse. I remember coming home one day, full of excitement, to tell my parents I had earned a full scholarship to a selective school. Instead of celebration, my teacher had already called them. “Unfortunately,” they said, “we still can’t afford the miscellaneous expenses.” It was one of the most demoralising moments of my high school years. No matter how hard I worked or how much I achieved, I felt completely stuck. There seemed to be no way out. My dream of a normal life felt threatened.

Life became about surviving. My primary motivation was to take responsibility as a provider for my family — to secure the medical attention my dad needed, and to earn enough so my siblings could remain in school. That became my driving force. I worked hard and I did not stop. When basic needs are under threat, the nervous system prioritises survival. There is little capacity left for long-term thinking or for asking life’s deeper questions. It is simply surviving.

So, I took a gap year to work and save for my own tuition. Those were hard years. During the day I worked an internship with an import-export company that supplied major UK retailers including Pier One and Marks & Spencer. At night I juggled band gigs and tours. Those tours exposed me to harm and abuse from my talent manager — someone who treated me more as a means of generating income than as a person (a story I will write more fully in another piece).

When I eventually returned to my studies, I barely passed my subjects. Lack of sleep and the inability to afford substantial food for my basic needs took their toll. Because of the discipline and work ethics my parents had trained into me, using Christian principles, I eventually earned a work scholarship and sponsorship to study business, consumer psychology, executive marketing and management.

With that came the opportunity to travel. I flew business class, stayed in good hotels, and eventually started my own business supplying merchandising to companies in mostly developing countries. At its peak I was supplying to over seven hundred and sixty-eight retail shops.

Just as the business was finally gathering real momentum, another heavy challenge arrived. One day I was served with a letter summoning me to a tax evasion hearing. The merchants had failed to provide proper debit memos, which made it appear as though I was not paying the correct taxes. What followed was a draining two-year process of hearings, paperwork and uncertainty. I joined a tax alliance, studied the tax code, and eventually won the case. But the victory brought no relief. I could see that remaining in that world would only mean more compromised deals and under-the-table payments. If I continued, I would lose all self-respect — consumed by a system that required me to act without integrity. Who would I even be anymore?

The situation became unbearable. During those same two years of tax hearings I began asking God, “Is there any other way?” In 2010 I realised my relationship with God was effectively zero. I was the kind of person who treated church like a drive-through Starbucks. I would arrive on a Sunday morning, receive a quick spiritual caffeine fix, sit and consume whatever was offered, write a cheque for tithes and offerings, and leave it all behind the moment I walked out the door. Faith was something I visited once a week — not something that shaped the other six days.

My circumstances pushed me to look for more evidence. I began researching the history and stories of Christians who had lived in earlier centuries and still held firmly to their faith — people like the mathematician and physicist Isaac Newton, known for discovering the laws of motion and gravity and for inventing calculus; the novelist Jane Austen, known for Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility; C.S. Lewis, known for the Narnia series, Mere Christianity and The Screwtape Letters; and the composer Johann Sebastian Bach, whose music remains one of the clearest artistic expressions of Christian faith, often marked with the letters “S.D.G.” — Soli Deo Gloria, to the glory of God alone. Through books and careful research, I tried to understand their thinking, their beliefs, and the principles that guided them. That was when the deconstruction of my own faith began.

The change in my heart and mind did not happen overnight. It was a slow process. Mid-2011 was the year I finally opened my Bible and began reading it from cover to cover. That longing for a different path led me to a local church. I sold the business and decided to study culinary arts, which brought me — coming from Southeast Asia — to Sydney, Australia. There the process of deep deconstruction continued. I audited subjects in theology, apologetics and Biblical literacy, and was later led into a church plant in Sydney where my younger sister was involved in missions. It was a season of unlearning and rebuilding. I surrendered everything to God.

I am writing this from my room at New College in Oxford University. Several days ago, after a 26-hour journey from Sydney to Heathrow, jet lag began waking me at 3am. In the quiet of those early hours, with the spires still dark outside my window, I found space to pray, read my Bible, and reflect. This is where this piece started taking shape — a quiet, focused time that allowed me to return to a particular part of my life. It is the part where God began shaping my heart to make room for people: to hear them first without false assumptions, and to see the person beneath their fears and doubts.

I am currently staying in one of the oldest universities in the world. Teaching at Oxford began as early as 1096 AD. To put that in perspective, the Aztec capital Tenochtitlán was founded around 1325, and Machu Picchu was built around 1450 — more than three centuries after Oxford’s classrooms first opened. This place carries a deep Christian history.

Not far from where I am staying stands the Martyrs’ Memorial, which commemorates three men — Thomas Cranmer, Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley — who were burned at the stake in Oxford for their Protestant faith. Under intense pressure Cranmer signed written recantations, yet he later withdrew them and was still executed. Latimer and Ridley stood firm. Their deaths are recorded in detail in John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments (1563) and remain a significant part of English Reformation history. Below is a photo I took of the Martyrs’ Memorial. It is about a 12–15-minute walk from the New College quadrangle on Mansfield Street, where I am staying.

Being surrounded by people from different places around the world who love Jesus and had come together created a space I had not felt in a long time. Many of them, or people they knew, came from cultures where openly saying “I follow Jesus” could quietly close doors — making it harder to secure good jobs, promotions, or professional respect. Hearing their stories in that safe environment helped me see my own journey more clearly. I realised I was not alone in having carried the weight of needing to stay silent in order to survive.

This is only the beginning of my OCCA journey. I plan to keep writing about the discoveries I am making and the friendships I am building. I would love for you to journey with me as we continue forward together in the body of Christ — with brothers and sisters from every corner of the world.

This encounter reinforced my conviction that loving people begins with not insisting my core values upon them. More often than not, that approach feels like pushing something they do not yet have the capacity to hold. If I can first understand what they feel they must fight for, or what they are surviving for — just as I once felt my dream of a normal life was under threat — then I can meet them where they actually are.

I know how it feels when basic needs are not secure. In that place there is little room for higher thinking or for pondering the meaning of life. It is simply surviving. That is why I continue to learn and equip myself to serve people better — not by forcing what I believe, but by walking with them from the ground they are standing on.

People come from widely different stories and backgrounds. Each one requires a unique approach when being introduced to the gospel and to Christianity. And the heart of Christianity is not a promise of tangible or material success in this life. There is no such guarantee. The hope we carry is the hope of being with Jesus in the life to come.

My father and my eldest sister were both followers of Jesus. My father passed away in 2016. My eldest sister passed away last year, in 2025. Watching them slowly taken by sickness was one of the deepest pains of my life. And yet the hope that held me — and still holds me — is this: they are now with the Lord Jesus. One day I will be with Him too. That is the beginning and the end of our story. Communion with Jesus. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

If you are standing on the edge, afraid that looking into Jesus will place you in an unsafe space, I understand that fear. I carried it for years. But the truly unsafe place was the one I was already in — bound to self-reliance and the constant need to protect myself from every possible pain. Jesus did not add to my suffering. He met me in it and set me free.

If your heart is quietly prompting you to know more, begin simply. Open the Gospel of John. Find a local church and visit a few times. Mature Christians who truly love the Lord and maintain a consistent relationship with Jesus through reading His word will be loving and welcoming. They will allow you to observe and see for yourself what it is like to be among ordinary people who are also imperfect, people who simply long for communion with their Creator and their Lord Jesus Christ. Come with an open mind. Set aside the biases and assumptions you may have collected along the way. Be respectful and kind and look with fresh eyes. You may be surprised by what you find.

This next part is, for the most part, a rebuke to myself. I often notice myself failing to see the new or unsure person walking through the church doors. With Jesus’s grace, I invite you to take this challenge with me. When we enter church, let us come with a loving heart. Be ready to notice the person who looks new or uncertain. Set your own concerns aside for a moment, remain present, and be prepared to offer the quiet witness of kindness and welcome. You never know whom God is inviting through those doors.

And here is a further quiet encouragement for those of us already walking with the Lord. During this Summer School, I encountered a writing that both challenged and strengthened me — accounts of someone who has consistently and gently made his Christian faith known in everyday conversations and workplaces. It reminded me that speaking of Jesus does not always require volume or drama. It can be steady, clear and kind. You can read more here: https://baejoseph.com/name-of-jesus/

There is no need for exhaustion. There is rest. There is peace. There is trust in God’s timing when Jesus meets you — because He is patient and kind. Just as He met Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb, weeping and believing she had lost everything, and gently called her by name (John 20:11-18), He meets us in our fear and our searching. And He speaks the same words: “I am the resurrection and the life.”