The Unmooring, Vol 2, Issue 1

The Unmooring

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The Unmooring

www.theunmooring.org

Volume 2, Issue 1

issuu.com/theunmooring

Cover Art: “Broken Breaths”

Emily A. Pastor, 9”x12”

Ink and Gold Leaf on Paper, 2022

PO Box 2835 Ventura, CA 93001

We acknowledge that we are on the traditional land of the Chumash People.

editors@theunmooring.org

Editors

Bonnie Rubrecht | Kylie Riley

Art Editor | R. Sawan White

Reader & Interviewer

Karly Noelle Abreu White

Published February 2023

under Creative Commons

License CC-BY-NC-ND 4.0

United States of America

The Unmooring Journal takes First North American Serial Rights in print and digital format as well as non-exclusive rights to utilize work promotionally in perpetuity.

The Unmooring is a 501(c)(3) organization, tax ID# 85-4078021

Additional Credits: Photography featured in this issue was sourced from Pexels & iStock.

This issue came together unexpectedly, but we believe it was all brought together by God. It portrays different faith experiences and church communities, offering insight about the current Christian climate from women’s viewpoints. The collective Church, which we include here as both Catholic and Orthodox Christian traditions, as well as Protestant and Evangelical denominations, is experiencing a notable downturn in attendance in many communities. The intent behind church communities—places of worship, reverence, solace, comfort and community—is beautiful; yet in reality, we are human, deeply flawed as individuals and together, capable of systemic sin that mars the intended beauty of church community. So, we ask ourselves, can we be Christian outside of community? What if the churches we call home, fray—struggle—break under the strain of our own human nature? What if the structures put in place for decades, for centuries, buckle and become something we no longer recognize or even want to claim affiliation with? What if the Gospel we’re centering our lives around is manipulated, weaponized or rendered unrecognizable through the lens of culture or politics or even just plain hate?

Alongside others, we believe that today Christianity is in a moment of reformation. We agree, and we embrace the painful process of pulling back the curtain to reveal whatever wounds and scarring exist so that healing might begin. We must be willing to reckon with our brokenness in order to truly create and hold community with one another, whether new to the faith or wounded by the faithful or marginalized by the followers of Christ whom we love and trust. There is no perfect church, and there is no perfect community, not here in this world.

This issue brings together stories and experience and prayers and art that echo our brokenness, our need for a savior and our need for community. Though we are never alone, we need one another—and we need the collective that is a community of faith. This issue highlights the pain caused by the Church, it allows us to move towards healing and resiliency, and it dares us to imagine what’s next for our faith journey as individuals and as the community of believers.

Kylie Riley & Bonnie Rubrecht

Kara Angus

Kara Angus is a writer living in West Virginia with her husband and four children. She enjoys reading, playing piano, and spending time outdoors running, hiking, and gardening. Her work has appeared in Mutuality Magazine and she writes regularly on Instagram (kanguswrites).

Bonnie Demerjian

Bonnie Demerjian writes from Southeast Alaska where she has lived since migrating as a young woman. She has written as journalist and then as the author of four books about Alaska’s history, human and natural. Her emerging poetry has appeared in a number of literary journals.

Stephanie Buck

Stephanie Buck grew up in mainline churches, attended an evangelical church in college, and a little bit after, before joining the Anglican church in her 20s when she first moved to Washington, D.C. Her faith has fueled a passion for social justice. And as a writer, faith has often fueled her writing.

Cara Howard

Cara Howard wrestles with the complexities of life and faith by exploring her questions and experiences on the page. Her work has previously been published in The Windhover, MUTHA Magazine, and the anthology The Order of Us. She and her family live in central Indiana.

Emily A. Pastor

Emily A. Pastor is an award-winning fine artist, specializing in representational oil painting. Her thoughtful work combines traditional art techniques with contemplative themes. Emily and her husband live in Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge with their three children.

Katie Rouse

Katie (she/her) Rouse is a marketing manager and freelance writer. She writes on faith, doubt, and deconstruction. She has one published book of poetry, Psalms of Deconstruction, and is working on her first memoir, which will recount her journey of deconstructing faith while serving as a missionary in India.

Michelle Steiner

Michelle Steiner has been published

The Mighty, The Non-Verbal Learning Project, “Imagine the World as One Magazine Dyscalculia” Blog, and The Reluctant Spoonie. She has a learning disability and advocates for others disabilities. She works with children disabilities as a para-educator. She in Pennsylvania with her husband.

April Bumgardner

April Bumgardner is a homeschooler and author of Immanuel: When God Was One of Us, and the editor of an anthology entitled Emboldened by Christ: Women Writers on Discipleship and Spiritual Formation. With a master’s in Slavic Studies, April loves languages and the intersection of faith and literature.

Krystal Leedy

Rev. Dr. Krystal Leedy an ordained Minister in the PC (USA) from Texas and has worked as a campus minister and in faith-based social justice and advocacy. Krystal’s dissertation is “O Christ Surround Me: A Study in Mundane Liturgy.” She loves spending time with family and writing her own everyday liturgies.

Rose Hayden-Smith

Rose Hayden-Smith, PhD, is a writer and digital strategist. A U.S. historian, she has written extensively about victory gardens, the American home front in wartime, and contemporary topics relating to gardens, agriculture, and food policy. She lives in Southern California.

Hannah Comerford

Hannah Comerford serves as the Program Assistant for the Rainier Writing Workshop, where she earned her MFA in 2019. She is the Associate Poetry Editor for Fathom, and her work has appeared in Ekstasis, Fathom, and Soundings. She currently lives in Tacoma, WA.

Erica Moulton

Erica Moulton, visual artist, graduated from University of the Arts, traveled the world, came to faith, had a family then turned her attention to painted photography in 2020. This form of art expresses a complex spiritual message. Erica has showed her art this year with big plans for the future!

Elizabeth Wickland

Elizabeth Wickland lives in Bozeman, Montana. She has a love for words and their stories and has responded to life through poetry and art for as long as she can remember. She also enjoys gardening (during the few months her garden isn’t covered in snow) and cultivating beauty in her small corner of the world.

Canticle –

Glorify your Maker, you works of our God!

You sun and moon and clouds and winds, constellations, robes of shimmering light, winter and summer, autumn and spring: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

All mountains and valleys, muskeg and shores, snowdrift, avalanche, drizzle and ice, coastland, estuary, glacier and berg: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

You cedar and alder, hemlock and spruce, blueberry, salmonberry, skunk cabbage too, mountain ash, strawberry and rose: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

Bonnie Demerjian

Benedicte Tongass

Fireweed and paintbrush, wildflowers, herbs, mosses and lichen, mushroom and fern, yard flower, pondflower, seedpod and bud: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

You deer and moose, porcupine, mink, black bear, brown bear, land otter sleek, carnivore, herbivore, omnivore, all: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

Newt and frog and boreal toad, black fly, bumblebee, mosquito and wasp, algae and lichen, beetle and worm: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

Eagle and raven, kingfisher, wren, barred owl, robin, sparrow and finch, gosling and trumpeter, mallard and loon: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

Orca and dolphin, humpback and seal, salmon and halibut, herring and crab, scallop and sea star, bull kelp and clam: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise.

You Native, immigrant, refugee, guest, worker and student, people of God, home dweller, traveler, seeker of life: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise!

Pioneers, elders, ancestors, youth, martyrs and saints of years gone away, angels at watch over homeland and sea: proclaim to our God your thanks and praise!

For all is good. It is very, very good.

Erica Moulton

I love connecting to people through new perspectives, art and ideas. Art should speak to you, be a conversation piece, a source of inspiration and serve as a visual reminder to guide your way. I believe everyone can see the Holy Spirit. It is my mission to show you my experience, to give you a look from a new perspective at God through art. As I go through life I feel that connection or message through the Holy Spirit and snap a photo. Capturing some of God’s light in the dark and attaching his message as the pictures title. I like to print and then paint the photo, most of the time using water and watercolor paint. The process is using light from God to make an image, then physically including water from God to amplify the message, making each piece as unique and special as you are. I include God’s natural resources and our signs of faith to express God’s message. I use the ability to hand modify each piece to emphasize its intrinsic meaning. The process I go through for all my work is a way of connecting to the world a little differently, to create an intellectual and spiritual experience. I hope it helps you look at the world from a new perspective.

“Faith,” 8” x 10”, Photography

and Watercolor, 2022

“Uncertain,” 10” x 8”, Photography and Watercolor, 2020

BENEATH THE SURFACE

the work of God. Instead, it’s important to listen to God corporately in prayer.

What needs to happen in churches to bring people back to church?

I’m not sure that God wants to bring people back to what has existed before. There is a reason that the church in North America is declining. The future of the church needs to be more about the first church, it needs to look like the first church— community and care of the poor and oppressed. What it will look like will be different than what it has looked like in the past.

But I do think people are looking for meaning or purposes. The best thing we can do as the church is to get back to the basics of our faith—caring for people and community; teaching the word of God, but it can occur in small groups; and be actively involved in serving others, locally and globally. That would end up looking different in different places but those elements should exist.

What reasons do you see new people coming into church today?

What do you think is the biggest challenge facing the church today?

From my perspective, we have bought into the cultural church vision and made it the primary focus instead of having our focus on the Kingdom and God’s calling for us. When we lose sight of that [God’s calling] we become inwardly focused and there is a focus to preserve the institution and we don’t think about what God wants. We think, “Of course, we have to have all these things,” and get away from what is the kingdom work. We need to let go of what we think of as church— preserving things the way we have known. The church has become an institution instead of a place that does

People are coming for community, not to discount community that can be built online. But our bodies crave human connection—to be in community to sit together and hold hands and share lives in the same room. (Different people have this need in different degrees.) It is about having a safe space. Community will always drive this [retrun to church].

The other is service and mission. We have had a lot people come to our church to participate in food distribution. People want to help and needed an opportunity. Most of us are wired where we—there is something that happens internally when we put others first. There is a strong desire to lay down your self for someone else. God meets us in those places.

Kristin Jones, Director of Ministry & Missions, (right) First Methodist Church of Houston

What would you say to someone who is “deconstructing” their faith or who has experienced spiritual trauma in a church setting?

Oh wow, it happens a lot doesn’t it? What I have said in the past has just been to try to help them separate the church, and the people in church, from God—lean into getting to know God through Christ. I will usually encourage some kind of counseling depending on the level of hurt. I have a lot of gay friends who have been really hurt by the church, and probably my participation in that as well, and trying to separate this [hurt] from the church and people—who are all sinful. Instead I encourage getting to know God on Jesus terms. I find it is very hard for people who have been hurt, if they haven’t already had deep personal experience with the Lord. It is a big leap, but it is the only thing I really have to offer.

You know, I have hurt people, and I don’t want people to associate God’s actions with my actions in those situations. That’s the hard part about leadership—we are going to mess up. So getting to know God personally, and knowing that there is hope and unconditional love there and then come back to the church with a different lens. If we get hurt, especially when we are young, we think that God did that, or this person and their perspective is what God thinks. The only way to mitigate that is to get to know God for one self and lean into what God thinks.

What’s a criticism frequently leveled at the church that you would contest?

I can think of several, but I think I would say that generally speaking it is not true that church people don’t care about social issue and justice. I say that as someone who is mostly critical on the church’s stance on social justice. The church gets labeled that way, but what I find is that most individuals in church are really compassionate and really care about how other feel and what they need. There is sometimes a disconnect that is largely forged out of politics. At my church, we did a lot with refugees. I know people in church that have a political stance to close borders but then when I work with them

one on one, they give up personal belongings and teach ESL to refugees. There is a lot of brokenness in the church, but I do take hope that one on one individuals that make up the church are more compassionate than how it is labeled.

What does the church add to the Christian faith?

I think the places where the church is doing that successfully is where people are loving people into the Gospel. It’s not about thinking in numbers, but its about engaging in relationships and loving someone enough to pray for them and, at the right time, introduce people to Christ. Like we would do with a friend, in a way that does make them feel use or like we are throwing something sacred at them, like a dart.

The other thing I would say is the work I have been a part of on the mission side. I think is important for the western church, with our resources, to share across other regions where the church is really growing and where many are struggling with resources. There is really a great marriage that strengths the Church when the western church with resources partners with churches where the gospel is really moving. We learn from each other and gain kingdom focus and perspective.

What spiritual practice has made the greatest impact on your faith?

Meditation and listening. Over 20 years ago, I started going to the Ruah Center [run by Congregation of the Sisters of Charity of the INCARNATE WORD] for silent retreats and it has had a huge impact on my spiritual life. Learning the practice of active listening and being comfortable with more of a listening position.

Who are some contemporary Christian writers or speakers that you read/listen to?

Martin Schleske, The Sound of Life’s Unspeakable Beauty

Richard Foster

Lisa Sharon Harper, The Very Good Gospel

A responsive reading of Psalm 80:5 and John 6:32-35

To focus our thoughts on the elements and the family of God, as the spiritual and the physical, and to recognize we do not hold them at odds with one another.

Almighty God, we are famished even in the abundance of our lives. We search for the bread only you can provide. We thirst even with running water at arm’s reach. Open our eyes to see and our hearts to crave your food and your drink. Help us to rightly love the wheat of the field, the friend at our side, and your Son at the table that we may not divide them in our thoughts, but taste your goodness and be nourished by his body. Through the body of Christ we are filled and satisfied. Amen.

A Eucharist Prayer

April Bumgardner

Pious

Sweat gathered behind my knees and pooled in my elbow creases while I slumped in my favorite blue chair, writing the email I’d been dreading the whole summer. Since childhood, I’d believed church leaders had access to a greater understanding of what is true and good and holy. Their advice was to be sought in difficult situations and they were to be revered. Always. Yet there I was, drafting an email I feared would unleash the full fury of the Anglican clergy.

It was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend in the first year of the pandemic. I thought the holiday would give me at least two or three days, and that my email would fall to the bottom of an overflowing queue. The pastors were notorious for leaving emails unanswered for weeks, or even months. In the past, I had found this endearing, if annoying, but this time I was desperate for it to work to my advantage. Maybe I could leave quietly, perhaps unnoticed, sharing my decision with them while escaping any conflict.

I wrote the first draft to the head pastor, edited it, walked away, came back, hyperventilated, and made more edits. I felt guilty for what I was about to do, and guilty for putting it off this long. Over the years, church had been a constant in my life, not just because I attended one every Sunday with my

family since birth. At age twelve, while touring a European cathedral with my family, I felt so overwhelmed by the beauty of the place that I fell to my knees at the altar as a sense of warmth and what I assumed had to be the Holy Spirit filled me. That feeling of love, combined with messages about forgiveness, justice, caring for the poor and oppressed, and promises of hope and renewal defined church for me, drawing me back after the inevitable rebellious phases.

Throughout my young adulthood, church was where I found community and connected with a sense of purpose. I left my home in the Chicago suburbs to attend college in Texas, moved to Washington, D.C. (the first time), attended grad school in London, and then settled back in D.C. Even with so much transition, being a church person meant I never worried about finding friends. I had also shaped my life around church teachings, believing they were right and true.

The Anglican church I joined in D.C. valued science and reason, made space for a variety of political viewpoints and didn’t make me feel like an outcast for being a Democrat and career-motivated woman with a master’s degree. I had felt so grateful to find it. And sure, as any thoughtful person might, I occasionally questioned the existence of God and some of the teachings of the church, but I understood

Stephanie Buck

obedience amid doubt as holy, and church membership as a covenant relationship, like a marriage. You stuck with it, even when it hurt.

On a warm golden evening in May 2019, more than a year before my email-induced anxiety attack, I walked under a stone archway into the sanctuary on what was meant to be a day of celebration. One of the assistant pastors was officially being ordained into the priesthood. A priesthood that, in this case, was male, bearded, and white.

As the service got underway, my spirit grew as stiff as my back, both pressed into the hard wood of the pew where I sat. Hazy late-afternoon light streamed through the dark stained-glass windows, disconnecting me from time and space. Incense rose to meet my nostrils.

What came next clashed with the reserve I’d come to expect from leaders who joked about Anglicans being a part of the “frozen chosen.” The crew of white male leaders in the church whooped and hollered as they marched to the front of the sanctuary in a display that reminded me of the frat parties I’d made every effort to avoid in college. But instead of beer held overhead, it was the Bible. And instead of polos and sunglasses, these men wore white robes and holy shawls. As these clergymen stood tall with their chests puffed out, I shrank. I wished I could melt into the pew beneath me.

I remembered how just one year before, the head pastor had sent out an email about a decision to ordain a woman—as a deacon, not to the pastoral leadership. A deacon who would play a supporting role, somewhere halfway between a layperson and a pastor. A middle ground. In my time as a member of this church, I’d seen women in operations, children’s ministry, and volunteer roles, but never preaching.

Regarding her preaching, the pastor wrote, “It is important for [her] growth as a deacon and for our congregation that it be carefully discerned whether or not this is a role for which she is gifted by the Holy Spirit.” He explained that she would need to demonstrate gifts of preaching and teaching—that she would not get special treatment “because of her gender.” She taught one of the church

membership classes, but then she and her family moved away. I don’t remember her being given the chance to preach.

I had never seen an email disclaimer about any man’s ordination into a teaching or preaching role. The fact that men would teach and preach was never publicly questioned. Yet I—and the rest of

the congregation—had listened patiently as male pastors and deacons delivered their share of wandering, incoherent sermons when they first started out.

One of the most common scripture verses churches use to keep women out of leadership or speaking roles comes from 1 Timothy 2:12, where Paul writes: “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet.” I heard this while attending an evangelical church during my college years in Texas, and across other evangelical churches in other parts of the country. But the Presbyterian church I grew up in had a female pastor, so I always assumed there would be room for change in other denominations. To me, it was clear that passages like the one from 1 Timothy were from specific letters written to specific churches about specific circumstances. They were not universal truths.

I couldn’t understand why this ordination day in May 2019 gripped me more than other moments like it. But as the crew of male deacons, pastors, and other leaders from the diocese strutted at the front of the church, the scene was a tipping point in a series of events that seemed to say that people like me—female, passionate about justice and equality, with a desire to see change in the church—would never really belong, at least not in this diocese. As I reflected on the verse in 1 Timothy, I began to wonder what other passages were being exploited, and what else had been lost in translation or pulled out of context.

Still, I stayed.

In my email to church leadership, I didn’t detail the concerns I had about a lack of women in preaching roles. I didn’t write about how something in me shifted during that ordination service that might have been shifting for a while. I didn’t share my doubts about how the Bible was being interpreted to uphold a certain set of power structures I wasn’t sure it was ever meant to sustain. How I wondered whether the “Biblical worldview” I believed I was supposed to build my life around was rooted in patriarchy, paternalism, and imperialism rather than seeking to love our neighbors, as Jesus demonstrated. The entire foundation of my belief

in western Christian institutions had begun to shake, even as I’d seen other churches practice a radical form of love that fought for equality, justice, and freedom. And I didn’t think what I was looking for could exist under these pastors’ leadership. I didn’t write any of that.

Instead, I settled on self-protection: “I hope you’re all doing well. I’m reaching out to share some news that might come as a surprise, but that I hope will be received with respect and grace.” I expressed gratitude for the church. Then I got to the point: “After lots of prayer and discernment, I believe it is time for me to move on to a church that is further along in its journey toward a transformational form of Gospel-centered justice.”

I added some placations and acknowledgments about the justice-oriented steps they had taken, like organizing a discussion group about race. I shrouded the wrenching internal upheaval I felt in a spiritual lingo some call “Christianese” (words like “prayer and discernment”). I wrote that I felt the “Spirit leading me in another direction.” These things weren’t untrue, they just weren’t the full truth. And besides, how could they argue with the Holy Spirit? Better to be seen as a misguided bleeding-heart liberal Christian than a heretic or apostate.

Despite my doubts over the years, I had made meaningful friendships in this church. In the teaching, I appreciated the consistent calls to serve others as fully human image-bearers of God and to examine myself humbly and honestly. I loved that the pastors reminded us regularly that our worth did not come from achievement. I valued

the practices of contemplation and the structure of liturgies in The Book of Common Prayer, which felt like a connection to something greater than a single church. For these reasons, I was slow to leave. I had already invested so much. I knew if I left, some who stayed might consider me less of a Christian. Less able to power through. Less committed. Less than.

The Jesus I saw cared as much about people’s physical circumstances as he did about their spiritual well-being. He moved through the world in ways that challenged people in power.

I hit “send.” Immediately, pains stretched into my chest. Was God already punishing me?

Then I realized I had just been holding my breath. I closed my laptop and went for a walk while reminding my body to perform its most basic functions. As I stepped over cracked sidewalks, I

several weeks of classes about the core beliefs of the church and this was the last step in the process. After attending a variety of churches and denominations throughout my life, Anglicanism, with its long view of history, intellectual interrogation of scripture, and emphasis on liturgy felt like a denomination I could find a home in. I was also already co-leading a weekly small group, although technically I wasn’t supposed to as a non-member. If I failed the membership process, I’d have to step down from that. With all this at stake, I worried my answers wouldn’t be Christian enough and my periods of doubt would bubble to the surface and I’d be “found out,” as if I were the only person in the history of the world who had doubted parts of their faith.

The office was small with tall windows on one side of the room and an overflowing bookshelf lining the opposite wall. The floorboards creaked under the carpet as I walked to one of the chairs in the room. The assistant pastor sat opposite me, leaning back, smiling to put me at ease.

He asked me to describe my beliefs about Christianity. I stumbled over my answers, trying to remember the correct phrasing and terminology

was convinced no members of this church would ever want to see or speak to me again.

In the fall of 2015, I entered the church office to speak with one of the pastors as part of my membership interview. I had just completed

I’d learned over the years. Strangely, in the moment I don’t remember feeling like it was a place where I could be fully honest. I felt like I had to “get it right.” He nodded and smiled, then told me about the Anglican focus on the via media, or the middle way. He explained it as a way of understanding theology

that looks across a range of historical theologies and chooses the middle path. It seemed to be a method to ensure Anglican theology didn’t move too far to the right or the left, implying that the middle way was the truer way.

It sounded beautiful at the time, but a couple of years in, I began to notice how the via media also shaped social and political viewpoints. How maybe it created a middling sense of right and wrong. The pastors criticized social and political views on both sides of the aisle, pointing always to moderation.

political and economic systems we shape, in turn, shape us?

But still, I stayed.

Maybe I assumed this church was open to change because the theology was packaged in thoughtful intellectual musings, or because other Anglican churches did ordain women. Maybe I stayed because I had seen glimpses of hope when church leadership brought in Black pastors to preach Biblical conversations about race. Or maybe I had

Once, during a sermon, the head pastor denounced churches that ignored the existence of societal, systemic challenges. In the next breath, he suggested social justice and equality-oriented churches risked losing sight of the gospel.

“True social equality…it’s a byproduct of the renewing power of the gospel in the human heart,” he declared. Later in the sermon, he said, “The primary focus of the church should not be social equality, it should be gospel ministry…. we can’t make the mistake of offering political solutions to spiritual problems.”

But this contradicted what I saw when I read the Bible. The Jesus I saw cared as much about people’s physical circumstances as he did about their spiritual well-being. He moved through the world in ways that challenged people in power. While I believed in the importance of individual renewal, healing, and redemption, haven’t the “spiritual problems” the pastor spoke about often been enshrined in law, codified, and then further justified through religious and moral rhetoric? Doesn’t our history of enslavement, eugenics, colonialism and the ongoing struggle for civil rights demonstrate that? Haven’t white Christians often been some of the staunchest resistors to equality? And don’t the

just gotten too good at spinning problematic things the pastors said into more palatable interpretations. There were the offhand comments about how social justice-oriented folks are usually motivated by guilt, that anyone going through a period of religious deconstruction was probably only doing so because they wanted to sin freely, and so on.

While these types of remarks didn’t happen every Sunday, the pastors and some lay leaders made them often enough that I had to wrestle my indignation into the ground with thoughts like, Okay, this thing he said sounded wrong/sexist/racist, but I think what he actually meant to say was…

Less than 48 hours after I sent my email, the head pastor’s response popped into my inbox. My heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I thought I’d have more time before the chastisement began, but at least now I could stop the handwringing. “Thank you for your email letting us know of your decision,” he began. He said I had his respect, but also wrote that I should have sought pastoral help in the “discernment process,” and that if the Holy Spirit was really leading me in a different direction, God would have made this clear to the pastors as well.

Maybe I assumed this church was open to change because the theology was packaged in thoughtful intellectual musings, or because other Anglican churches did ordain women.

He wrote, “at some point you will have to decide if you are willing to commit yourself in a costly and long-term way to an imperfect church that will regularly frustrate you,” as if I had not already spent five years doing just that. As if it wasn’t costing me to leave.

After I read his response, I again found myself having a hard time performing the basic bodily function of breathing. I had to get out. But in a pandemic, with no car, I couldn’t go very far. So I roamed the leafy uneven sidewalks of my neighborhood on foot, sweating, holding back tears, and wondering if I had made a mistake. Was I abandoning them? Was I abandoning responsibility? Should I have done the hard work of, as the pastor wrote, “staying put and working toward change from the inside of the church where God has planted (me)”? But had God really “planted” me there? Yes, I was a member, had served in volunteer leadership positions, and had dedicated countless hours of time to the community, but it’s not like I had no say in the matter. Was this divine direction, or had I found my way to this church simply because other college-educated white folks in their 20s and 30s recommended it?

The pastor wrote about “working toward change from the inside.” But was there even room for change in a church whose leadership had criticized

social justice-oriented churches from the pulpit? Who shut down one of my friend’s attempts to lead a discussion group about a book written by a prominent Christian author who affirmed the LGBTQ+ community? Or whose diocese had so far not let women preach? Could a denomination whose theology was shaped over hundreds of years mostly by white men truly allow for anything beyond a white patriarchal version of Christianity?

I read the pastor’s response over, and over, and over until one sentence caught my attention. In it, he described how it is common to want to find a church that is further along its justice journey to find relief: “It’s the easiest way to feel like you are ‘doing something,’ when much of what we need to be doing involves self-reflection, lament, and repentance.”

That line brought me back to the first time I read “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” by Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. —the moment when I realized, in horror, that I was the white moderate King warned about: the kind of person who agreed with the goal of racial justice, but disagreed with the timeline and methods. I remembered how it was a starting point that taught me that it is the luxury of whiteness that allows us to focus on the inner, spiritual life while disregarding the physical, material concerns of those who are marching for liberation.

After George Floyd was murdered and protests swept the country, I dove even deeper into anti-racist books and podcasts. I learned more about the history that portrayed whiteness as akin to holiness, ideas echoing much of the teaching I had heard in my more than 30 years of attending mostly white churches in America. Blinders I didn’t know I had on, slipped, and eventually fluttered to the ground.

gathered in person. Most people were at least partially vaccinated and on their way to full vaccination. The once-hazy idea of regular in-person gatherings was growing clearer and brighter. And, of course, it was Easter.

Most Christians celebrate Easter with jubilation. It’s a day of renewal. A reminder that “sin” doesn’t have power over humanity anymore. The day speaks to a promise for redemption.

In my email, I hadn’t written about all this. I hadn’t detailed the long, arduous explorations into history and perspectives from people on the margins of Christianity that led me to my breaking point. I didn’t write about how I longed for the church to put into action the kind of love Jesus emanated in the gospels: standing up for the oppressed, advocating for women and minorities, calling out systems that dehumanized people. How instead, the only calls I heard from the pulpit were ones to turn inward. How I saw piety and contemplation elevated above a need for action to repair tangible communal harms. How, despite these things, I stayed.

After I left, a series of unfortunate events occurred: I was laid off from my nonprofit job, my grandfather died, then I sprained my ankle so severely I couldn’t walk on it for months. Intellectually, I knew these events were unrelated to my departure from the Anglican church. But underneath it all, a real fear lingered: was God punishing me for leaving?

The following spring, I attended a Sunday picnic with a new church whose online services I had occasionally attended during the pandemic, even as I wrestled with what church meant to me and would mean going forward. It was a warm, sunny, hope-filled day for many reasons. It was the first time in over a year this many congregants were

It used to be like that for me, too. But that day, I showed up with a darker understanding of the same theology. Penal substitutionary atonement, or the idea that Jesus’s death on the cross was a substitute for what we humans deserve, had been the gold standard of the theology I was taught. But after my recent unblinding to history, and after being scolded by a leader I had held in such high esteem, that theology no longer felt hopeful or redemptive. It now seemed less about love and forgiveness and more about control.

On that breezy Easter Sunday, the female co-pastors (who were married to each other), welcomed us with socially distant open arms. They turned the punitive narrative about Easter I’d been taught into one about justice for the marginalized and oppressed. Faces I’d seen on Zoom became three-dimensional human beings. Here, at this in-person picnic, when I hinted at how I’d been reckoning with white supremacy, patriarchy, and homophobia in the church, I received knowing nods. I sensed this was a place full of people who had also been ready to give up on church until they found each other, until they found a new expression of faith that didn’t claim superiority. This church provided sanctuary for immigrants. It gave food and water to protestors in the sweltering heat of summer. It advocated for more affordable housing. It celebrated and ordained women and the LGBTQ+ community. It brought Black, Latinx, Asian American, and white folks together.

Here, at this in-person picnic, when I hinted at how I’d been reckoning with white supremacy, patriarchy, and homophobia in the church, I received knowing nods.

It’s a wonderful place, yet I’ve barely been back since that picnic. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how to be a part of a church unless I’m overcommitted and overextended. Or maybe it’s that I’m still learning and unlearning, still pulling out the threads of hope and truth from the tapestry of pain and misrepresentations. I still struggle to remember the things I loved about the Church—the love, grace, humility, healing, and forgiveness. I’m embracing the idea that maybe God/the Universe/ the Divine is bigger than I was taught—bigger than a single religion.

Sometimes I miss the certainty and assurance I felt before the foundations of everything I once believed crumbled. I’m grateful that my closest friends from that church have stuck by my side. Some have even shared their own doubts and frustrations with me and have also left. Still, even as I lean into the chance to build something new, I am mourning. I have felt unmoored. Listless. Hopeful. And wide awake.

“It’s Complicated,” 9” x 12”, Ink and Gold Leaf on Paper, 2022

“In Grief” is a series created to honor the sacred places of loss, trauma, and grief in our lives. As a primarily representational painter, I felt that abstraction was the needed deviation for this sensitive project. In these pieces the black ink seems to take on a life of its own as it spreads and stains the paper. This process reminded me of grieving. We are uncomfortable by the unruliness of our grief. We would like grief to follow rules and reduce its flow and spread. But grief is not like that, it’s complicated, and does not follow a neat linear path.

“Neural Kintsugi no. IV,” 9” x 12”, Ink and Gold Leaf on Paper, 2022

Emily A. Pastor

The 24k gold in these pieces represents the Holy Spirit communing with us in our losses. The Holy Spirit does not diminish, cover up, or rush our grief, but like the Japanese art of Kintsugi, redeems that which we believed was hopelessly broken. Depending on the light, this gold looks dim or it is brilliant, reminding me of the Holy Spirit’s presence in our grief: sometimes hidden and sometimes profoundly obvious.

My mom’s brother and sister-in-law moved to the Pacific Northwest in the 1980s. Soon afterward they lured my parents out of their Midwest hometown, promising the beauty of Minnesotan lakes and trees with a fraction of the winter.

My uncle and aunt were right—it was beautiful, but it was also a lonely new territory. And they would soon move to Colorado, leaving my parents without siblings or parents or cousins within a few days’ drive.

Perhaps that’s why my mom and dad were drawn to the Church in South Colby: they yearned for family. And maybe that’s why many of us push away warning bells as we immerse ourselves in a community. What will we give up to feel we’re safely cocooned in a loving environment—to be given a new family?

Two or more times a week, my parents and I visited a warehouse-like building in the woods for a church service. We sat toward the back of the five or six rows of folding chairs, facing the one-step altar where Sister Chris played eerie music from an

electric keyboard in the corner—no singing. About fifty members surrounded us. Brother Rob stood centerstage, his black hair combed back, his wireframed glasses embracing eyes that calmly bored into every soul as he spoke passionately and quietly about the end of the world.

Brother Rob spoke of separating from the surrounding culture. He meant it in a godly way, like

Separate & Holy

Hannah Comerford

the Pilgrims desiring to practice their religion in peace. Since my parents were already separated from those they’d loved, it would be simple to let this church home swallow them whole. They had so few friends or family ties to unknot—they’d only need to follow Brother Rob’s commands.

And Brother Rob seemed to always know God’s will: Sell your possessions and give the money to the church. Let Brother Rob guide your parenting decisions, from forcing Sunday school attendance without parents’ presence to banning any Disney movies with a hint of witchcraft. Let the elders discipline your children for disobedience onstage as

an example. Listen to Sister Chris’s beratement for raising a Christmas tree in your house. Follow your brothers and sisters in their holiness, from homeschooling your children to shaving your husbands’ heads . If you follow the rules, we will all be a united family.

Family was rules, obligations, and perpetual penance. In return, every congregant earned salvation from the damnation the rest of the world would surely suffer.

So my parents would drive forty-five minutes through Tacoma, over the Narrows Bridge, through the woods and wilderness of the Kitsap Peninsula. They sacrificed their evenings and weekends for the cause. It started with a seemingly tender, compassionate leader. They thought they’d found someone they could trust, devote their lives to. And they could dive into this community as much as necessary, serve wherever and whenever possible. Did they find it strange that no one returned the efforts?

Neither church leader nor congregant ever visited us. Perhaps it was because we had nothing to offer, no comfortable split-level with a dining room for shared meals or a large yard for children to play. We lived in a mobile home complex down the street from an Arco gas station. While Brother Rob drove a new sports car, my parents couldn’t keep up on their car payment.

Were Brother Rob and his flock ashamed of our poverty? Did they look the other way, keep us at a distance, so they were not faced with the lack of God’s blessing? After all, Brother Rob said we were God’s chosen, and wouldn’t God’s chosen be successful? Or were my parents embarrassed by the manufactured home they would never pay off?

Everyone called every other member Brother So-and-So and Sister So-and-So. The church leader himself insisted members call him Brother Rob, not Pastor. Everyone was family—just not the kind who enjoyed each other’s company.

My mom believed God spoke to her. I doubt it was a thunderous voice from Heaven or a word like lightning hitting her spirit. Yet it was a persistent

calling, an impression that refused to go away: she needed to leave.

Perhaps she had a premonition of what went on beyond Brother Rob’s closed office doors, the abuse that would come to light too many years later. If she had suspicions, she never told me. All I know is she chose to follow the voice she heard.

When my mom chose to leave the cult in the woods, every lie about family came crashing down. Every church friend stopped answering her calls. Brother Rob convinced my dad to abandon his Jezebel wife and their daughter.

My mom would spend the next decade holding friends and family at arm’s length. We lived with

new church friends for a season, celebrated holiday meals with friends, and learned to accept the charity offered to a single mom. Yet my mom rarely went out with adults her age, invited her friends over for a meal at our place, or spent time on the phone with a loved one. She saw her parents and siblings just twice more before she passed away.

While she encouraged me to have sleepovers and spend late nights at diners with friends, she had given up on finding close friends or family for herself.

was holy and set apart from the rest. Negativity or doubt about the church and its unique calling was quickly denounced for lack of faith. When we decided it was time to leave, the members forgot us.

Today I raise a child in a home much larger than the one my mother raised me in. A high-risk mother of a toddler during COVID, this house has felt like a prison some days. With the loss of community after community ringing through my memories, it’s hard to believe that any will remain. On the worst days it feels like I will follow my mother in her lonely passing.

And yet.

I can’t help but wonder how much of my mom’s life I’m destined to repeat. Since her death, my relationships with my Midwestern relatives have disappeared into mirages. Like my mom, I married young and had a child years later. And in our dating years, my husband and I were immersed in a church community we thought would be our family.

They were not the cult my parents joined. In some ways, they were loving: members housed us as single young adults, regularly affirmed our strengths, and invited us to take part in their prayer ministries. And yet echoes of my parents’ church are hard to ignore upon retrospect: We were told our church leaders had an unmatched vision and that this ministry

We’ve stayed at our current church for ten years now. A couple from here invites us into their home every week to watch BBC shows and eat snacks; sometimes friends stay late around our dining room table, playing board games and laughing and discussing both the toxic and the good traits of our church community; our pastor delivered my favorite coffee to my door as I struggled through depression. As much as I feel alone as a pandemic-era stay-at-home mom, I realize I have so much more than my mother had in her new parenting days. Perhaps my mom longed for something like this little community I have. Maybe that’s what led her to the Church in South Colby, and maybe that’s what drove her away.

I can’t go back and give my mom the family she wanted, erase the mistakes she made, or warn her about the cult. But I can look out for the warning signs she missed and learn from her courage in leaving dangerous environments.

For her sake, I can make the most of what I have.

Perhaps my mom longed for something like this little community I have. Maybe that’s what led her to the Church in South Colby, and maybe that’s what drove her away.

BENEATH THE SURFACE

Interview by Karly Noelle Abreu White

What do you think is the biggest challenge facing the church today?

One of the biggest challenges facing the church today, at least the church in the United States, is worshiping at the altar of nationalism. Jesus tells us we can’t serve two masters and we have seen that play out in “America” overshadowing the cross. With the idol of nationalism comes patriarchy, white supremacy, capitalism and greed, and the military-industrial complex. The fact that people think they are worshiping the God of Love, the Prince of Peace, and the Spirit of Reconciliation when they are worshiping country, war, and status-quo shows how pervasive and deeply ingrained this idol is in the life of the American church. Moreover, those churches who wish to speak against this idol often struggle with severe backlash or they start to define themselves by what they are not rather than by what they are. We say, “I am not that kind of Christian who [insert bigotry, hatred, and discrimination here]” or even question keeping the name Christian, instead of saying, “I am a Christian because of profound love and deep peace.”

What needs to happen in churches to bring people back to church?

I think we need to entirely stop thinking in terms of “bringing people back to the church.” Instead we need to focus on being the Church, that is: sharing the good news of the Gospel (that God loves you, yes, YOU, so deeply that God became human to intimately share this experience with us, enter fully into our suffering, and then break the cycle of that suffering and death with a resurrection that will be shared with all of this). And the good news of the Gospel isn’t good news to someone else you meet them where they are and come alongside them there. Instead of “bring people back” we need to “go to people” and build relationships and show them love where they are, as they are.

Can you be a Christian outside of a church community?

Yes and no. I think it’s more complicated than a straightforward answer. Yes, you can love God and find God outside of a church community. And, we weren’t created to be solitary creatures and that extends to our inner spiritual life. As Christians we worship a Triune God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the three-in-one God who is in God’s self, perfect relationship. Having been made in the image of God, we could say that we were created for relationship. Relationship with the Triune God and relationship with others. We can be Christian outside a church community, yes, but we will be missing out on a core piece of what it means to be Christian: to

The Rev. Allison LeBrun is a United Methodist pastor, perpetually exhausted mom, and wife from Ohio. She is LGBTQ+ affirming and her favorite part of her job is telling everyone that they are beloved children of God.

be in relationship with others. Also, it’s hard to do faith and religion without the support of friends. It is difficult to keep our hearts open and our minds directed to God when we try and go about this faith journey by ourselves. It’s even harder to walk the path of sanctification, that is, every day getting a little better at loving God and loving our neighbor, by ourselves. Without Christian or church community (however broadly we define those things—and I do believe we have to start defining them more broadly than the traditional sense), we will not get far on this journey.

Where do you see authentic community taking place today, in our faith and personally?

There has been an institutional shift in my denomination to promote and encourage “faith spaces” outside of the church building. This is taking place in bowling alleys and coffee shops and playgrounds - and I think that’s awesome. I have also been surprised, personally, how much I am finding authentic faith communities online. Twitter has actually been an amazing tool for connecting with other young clergy and laity in my denomination and others. The community built there has spilled over and been able to deepen on Discord. I also know one of the central support systems in my life is a group chat on messenger!

How do you think we create more connection and less division? – how can our faith or churches bring people back together in a divisive time?

The Church has really been doing a very poor job at modeling how to have healthy conversations and disagreements. …. One small step we’ve taken at my local congregation is instituting a conflict management process that follows Matthew 18. In this process, gossip and talking about people behind their backs isn’t accepted. Complaints that start with “People have been saying…” aren’t entertained. If someone comes to me and says, “Sue is really mad at Bob,” the conversation is immediately stopped—Sue needs to go directly to Bob. If it is a matter of power dynamics then a mediator can be present for the conversation. (And of course if it was a matter of abuse, things would be different.) The basic idea is, as a culture, we are really really bad at dealing with conflict and disagreements head on and that includes in the Church. We have a better

way and we can do better.

Through this process I have sat down with people I vehemently disagree with and we’ve talked about where we are coming from and how we see things—we aren’t there to change each other’s minds but to understand the other better. This has been a game changer in my relationships with people I disagree with. If you disagree with me and only talk behind my back—well, that will only cause further harm in our relationship. But if you sit down and talk with me? That’s where we begin to love each other better and bring about more connection and less division.

How is the church today a force for good in the world?

Henri Nouwen wrote this in his book Letters to Marc About Jesus: “It’s very important for you to realize that perhaps the greater part of God’s work in this world may go unnoticed.” What makes headlines is all the times we get it wrong, all the idols that have taken over the church, when pastors and congregations are totally wedded to nationalism, when maliciousness is more present than love… And, as a whole, Christians need to be called out and held accountable for that. And, when we’re talking about the good that God does through the church for the world there is so much that we don’t see. In my community, on any given day, I may know that a friend calls a grieving widow. A meal is made for someone who is sick. Money is sent to an orphanage. A city park is cleaned. A survivor of domestic violence is given safe shelter. A flood bucket is put together. And so much more that I don’t know about. All of this is being done because these people are members of a faith community and are striving to love as God loves. There are faithful Christians, all over the world, doing the quiet, hidden work of loving God and loving neighbor—and striving to do it a little better with each and every day. We may not see it, we will never see it all, and it is happening—a force of good for the world, doing the work of God, sharing the love of God, all over the world.

“Lovely Lilacs,” 8” x 10”, Digital Photograph, 2020

Digital Photography, 2019

“Moth on Main Street,” 8” x 10”,

Michelle Steiner

Nature is something that motivates me. I love to go on long walks and take pictures of flowers. I try to bring out details in the flowers that other people miss. I have the chance to see how things in the natural world can explain having a disability. For example, when I plant flowers, some of them need more sun and others need more shade. I wouldn’t plant begonias in the blazing sun and impatiens in the shade. Each flower needs something different to grow and thrive. The same is true for people with disabilities.

Katie Rouse

Where were you in Uvalde? Sandy Hook? Pulse? Striding in, on, over, against the coattails of the rubberneckers, the ones who watch and pray, but who stop short of meaningful actions.

You aren’t with their empty words; you are with the weeping, the mothers jumping fences, the lovers, the ones yelling and screaming for someone to move, to do something, anything.

You are there, taking charge in all the ways we cannot see.

But once we see you, we cannot look away. We cannot stand with those empty words or hollow prayers any longer.

So, like you, we stride against them; we yell in their ears.

Our demands are hallelujahs; our relentlessness a wonder in the wide array of praise that cannot be contained by our theology or interpretations anymore.

Instead, it is found in the bloody footprints and holy hands of active redemption and resurrection, happening here and now, in the last, last, last days.

Responding in Faith

Rose Hayden-Smith

We are made to exist in a delicate network of interdependence. We are sisters and brothers, whether we like it or not. To treat anyone as if they were less than human, less than a brother or a sister, no matter what they have done, is to contravene the very laws of our humanity. And those who shred the web of interconnectedness cannot escape the consequences of their actions.

—Archbishop Desmond Tutu

In the last several years, I’ve grown increasingly concerned about polarization in America and how Christians are contributing to the rising tide of anger and intolerance in our civic life. This is particularly evident on social media. I see the faith that animates my life being used to justify things I regard as antithetical to that faith: discrimination towards members of the LBGTQ community, immigrants, those of different religions and political ideologies, anti-science rhetoric, and misogyny towards women. I see my faith distorted in ways that render it nearly unrecognizable. This angry rhetoric belies the hope, light, and inclusive message our faith should bring.

I’m disturbed by the growing insistence of some Christians that we should blur the lines between church and state, trying to convince the rest of us that their counterfactual version of American history is correct. They would have us believe that they alone have managed to intuit what the founding fathers intended. The America First movement is grafting with some Christian groups to create a form of Christonationalism. This truly frightens me (and should frighten us all.)

I’ve been reluctant to write publicly about this for many reasons. My family believed religious and political beliefs should be held privately and discussed at home. I’ve also questioned my qualifications to weigh in: I’m not a theologian or a religious scholar. I am Episcopal and do not have the lived experience of my Evangelical friends. As a result of all these things, I tend to shy away from actions that might offend people. There’s also this: as a deeply flawed person, who am I to cast stones?

And finally, I’ve been fearful about speaking out after seeing how women are often savaged on social media. We’ve all seen that trolling, ranging from being dismissed to receiving violent threats. No one is exempt. Not even American evangelist and teacher Beth Moore, whose wildly popular bible studies have been used in my Episcopal women’s group.

I follow Mrs. Moore on social media. I admire her immensely. I recently logged on to Twitter and saw a self-proclaimed Christian woman issue a series of tweets attacking Mrs. Moore. The tweet author discredited Mrs. Moore’s life experiences, questioned her faith, and asked this, which I imagined hearing in the meanest middle school girl whisper: “Is she even saved?”

The messages I see on social media from those claiming to be Christian are often racist, condemning, prescriptive, and exclusionary. The experience of faith in my life is the opposite: inclusive, expansive, full of light and love. I try to consider these things:

We have wildly divergent views of the Christian faith but are interconnected; what we do impacts one another. What, then, should my response be?

These messages frighten me. Others regard us as being monolithic: Christian. So even the worst messages stick to all of us. How can I counter these messages?

Should I engage? If so, how?

How my faith is informing my response

I am a cradle Episcopalian, a lifelong member of The Episcopal Church (TEC). I’ve tended to identify as an Episcopalian first and Christian second. In some ways, I’ve used that primary and secondary identification to “distance” myself from “those other Christians.” (I’m not proud of this.)

In my early years, my family attended church regularly. My sense of faith as a child was God, the Father. Jesus, the Son, was discussed more frequently in

I’m disturbed by the growing insistence of some Christians that we should blur the lines between church and state, trying to convince the rest of us that their counterfactual version of American history is correct.

Sunday School. I was raised in the Episcopal Church when evangelism was not emphasized and, in fact, was suspect. When my parents divorced, my mother remarried and converted to Judaism. My parents’ divorce also precipitated a move to a rural community with many churches—Evangelical, Catholic, congregational—but no Episcopal church.

As a teen, I was interested in the faith communities surrounding me. I attended church with friends. I attended some Women’s Aglow meetings with my friend’s mother. A favorite high school teacher took us to Christian rock concerts in the summer months. I learned about Mormonism from friends and a couple of really terrific missionaries. In deference to my step-father, my family observed Friday sabbath as frequently as high school activities would permit. There were religious celebrations with extended family that showed me so many different and beautiful ways to practice faith.

When I was in my late 20s, my husband and I bought our first/forever home. It is three blocks from a lovely Episcopal church. I returned as an adult confirmand1, infused with a passion and excitement about my faith that has continued to grow.

TEC has a thoughtful approach that informs nearly every aspect of my life: the via media, the middle way. I’ve seen this approach criticized. To some, it appears we are too willing to compromise or unwilling to take firm positions. But this is not the case. Lacking the philosophical grounding to explain this concept in theory, I can only tell you how it feels: like a path that can accommodate many kinds of travelers.

Here’s another thing I love about this tradition: the concept of the three-legged stool. Faith is organized around three highly-interdependent sources: scripture, reason, and tradition. These sources interplay in dynamic ways to uphold and critique one another. There’s a certain tension in all of this, of course, but the tension is informative.

This lead to one of the most important life lessons I’ve gained from my years as a member of TEC: learning to hold things in tension. It’s been a process, learning to become comfortable with ambiguity and differences, learning to “love the questions,” as Rainer Maria Rilke urged. Becoming whole through the process of holding opposites in tension. English theologian Richard Hooker wrote,

God hath created nothing simply for itself, but each thing in all things, and of every thing each part in other have such interest, that in the whole world nothing is found whereunto any thing created can say, ‘I need thee not.’

I think of these words often.

I was elated when Bishop Michael Curry was elected Presiding Bishop of TEC in 2015. I went to hear him preach. It was transformational. He identified our church as being squarely in the “Jesus Movement,” emulating His “loving, liberating, life-giving way.” Bishop Curry’s focus on centering Jesus and that model of radical and sacrificial love has inspired me and energized my faith. Bishop Curry often tells us, “If it’s not about love, it’s not about God.” His message has sometimes left me giddy, breathless with hope and possibility, possessing a new and profoundly simple understanding of my faith: “If it’s not about love, it’s not about God.”

That message is the lens through which I view the cruelty and hate espoused by some of my fellow Christians, especially those who use elected power to attempt to legislate extremism. Legislation to further isolate trans youth? Limiting people’s access to healthcare because of political ideology? That’s not about love. “Othering” the immigrant and anyone different? Criminalizing

“...each thing in all things…”

“If it’s not about love, it’s not about God.”

This lead to one of the most important life lessons I’ve gained from my years as a member of [The Episcopal Church]: learning to hold things in tension.

homelessness? Harming the environment? None of this is about love.

Love is not limiting food assistance in the most food-abundant nation on earth. Instead, love is a gaggle of joyful young children at Sunday coffee hour packing lunches for the unhoused in our community.

Love is not villainizing the poor and unhoused for social and economic conditions beyond their control. Instead, love provides a place for volunteers to do laundry for these individuals and feed them.

The Reverend Dr. Dick Swanson is a member of the clergy team at my church. Ordained 58 years ago, he has a lifetime of experiences as a priest, military chaplain, and scholar. Several years ago, he said something that realigned my understanding of our purpose in the world.

The Gospel reading that day was Mark (10:35-45). In reflecting on that scripture, Dick said this:

When all is said and done, the Kingdom of God is what you can do for someone else.

Trends impacting American churches

Some current trends—the ugly anti-democratic, Christonationalistic, anti-science, anti-woman, anti-other impulses—represent a real threat to American democracy. They also represent a serious threat to Christianity because their messages about our faith are false and turn many people off. People won’t see what we have to offer, or they will go away.

Years ago, many Catholic friends in Southern California were disheartened and discouraged by the abuse scandals that rocked the Diocese of Los Angeles. They were angry about the damage wrought on victims’ lives. They resented the hypocrisy

of church leadership and thought it all profoundly wrong. Over the years, I noticed that many of those friends quietly quit attending church.

There’s been a great deal written in recent years about declining church membership and changes in denominational affiliation. In particular, Pew Research Center has published a wealth of research about religion in America. A recent Pew report—”Modeling the Future of Religion in America”—provides demographic projections using several different scenarios. The upshot is that fewer Americans are identifying as Christians, and that number is likely to decline.

A recent Atlantic article by Wendy Cadge and Elan Babchuck—”American Religion is Not Dead Yet”— caught my attention in a good way. While the piece affirms that participation in traditional church is declining, the authors describe a “swell of spiritual creativity” in our country. People are finding—and making—spiritual meaning. Cadge and Babchuck write:

So rather than asking how many people went to church last Sunday morning, we should ask, ‘Where are Americans finding meaning in their lives? How are they marking the passing of sacred time? Where are they building pockets of vibrant communities? And what are they doing to answer the prophetic call, however it is that they hear it?’

A study commissioned by The Episcopal Church and Ipsos, “Jesus in America,” published in March 2022, is worth reading. It’s full of insightful information, including the impact of the pandemic on churches. Some survey responses are very hopeful, others not so much.

Some of the key takeaways that resonated with me:

▪ Most individuals polled “believe Jesus was an important spiritual figure and want equality in society.”

▪ Religion is losing influence in America, especially among young people.”

▪ “...Christians are not necessarily practicing what Jesus taught, and Americans feel judged when talking about their beliefs.”

▪ “Non-believers” say Christians don’t represent Jesus well. There is a variance between how Christians perceive other Christians and how non-believers perceive us.

There’s hard work ahead for Christians, but opportunity, too. For one thing, we can represent Jesus and Christianity in more positive ways through our online presence.

How do we respond?

It is a challenging time for Christianity, our nation, and the world, but I am finding some answers to my

questions about engagement. We are called to be an inclusive body. Jesus was always out of step with his day’s social, political, and religious constructs. What an excellent model His life is for this situation. And perhaps in this matter, a (loving) revolution of sorts begins/continues in America.

We are also called to “hold fast to the good, and be urgent for the right.” We are called to action. How we choose to respond is a personal decision. I’m rolling my need to respond into my Lenten practice. My goal is to hold space gently on social media platforms.

Here’s what I plan to do:

▪ Embrace my membership in the Jesus Movement. Remember His sacrificial love, His willingness to act and to challenge. Refute negative messages by living a good life demonstrating love for self, others, creation, God, and Jesus. We are all invited to the table. All of us.

▪ Develop a habit of “good trolling.” (Thank you, John Lewis, for the “good trouble” reminder.) Rather than banging my head on my desk when I see a Christian not acting in love, I’m going to drop a link to “Life-Transformed: The Way of Love In Lent” study guide into the comments.

▪ Because I am a U.S. historian, I understand the history of the separation of church and state. I am committing to correct misinformation on this

topic by sharing links.

▪ If the objectionable content is connected to a product I use (e.g. company advertising) I will reach out to the company to register my displeasure.

▪ Pray. I’m going to pray every day to respond in love.

Conclusion

Presiding Bishop Curry spent the rainy Martin Luther King Jr. holiday weekend in the Episcopal Diocese of Los Angeles, ordaining priests, preaching, and meeting with clergy and laity, rousing audiences at each appearance. At a keynote address offered at the Bishop’s Dinner, Pat McCaughan reports that Bishop Curry shared this:

It is an opportunity in the midst of difficulty, and it may well be hard times for democracy, hard times for Christianity that seeks to live authentically something close to the face of Jesus. And yet, if we engage this moment, this may be our finest hour.

For additional reading, on these issues, please see the author’s recommendations here.

God,

I don’t have time to pray.

I don’t have time to think.

I don’t have time.

Can you just tell me what I need to pray so I can do it and move on? Because I’m just too tired to think.

Can I just pray my grocery list instead of all the “thee”s and “thou”s?

What do I need today?

Bananas

Milk

Mac & cheese

The fruit juice that my 6-year-old loves

Toothpaste for my partner’s smile that knocks me off my feet

Oh yeah, and a tray of cookies for the potluck

A can of chicken noodle soup for the cold-nosed days

A loaf of bread that my family will transform into sandwiches at school, toast on a bleary-eyed morning, and a spoon for the last bit of spaghetti sauce.

Daily bread.

(Take a breath)

Thank you that each table that I sit at is the Table. Thank you that each meal is the Meal.

Thank you that the mundane can be infused with your Spirit, so I can hear you in my grocery list

And thank you that I recognize your voice

Because I hear it in the gathered assembly on Sundays, In the choir, In the hymns and proclamations that enchant me. And I can hear you even now, while I run in and out of the grocery store, breathless but grateful.

Fill me with pause for just a moment, At the cash register, So that I may offer the compassion you give me To the person who bags my deconstructed meals, Even if we only catch eyes for a moment. And so I may also receive your Word meant for me In the grocery bagger’s eyes.

Because at every stage, This is joyful feast of your people, And you are in the host in the stranger’s guise.

Keep speaking, Lord, your servants are listening. Amen.

Prayer for the Hurried

Krystal Leedy

“The Seed is in the Ground” is acrylic on canvas and took shape over Lent in the spring of 2022. It grew out of prayers asking what was being planted in a wilderness season of my own life. As happens in the garden, it began with the seed in the ground, and it wasn’t until after Easter that the flower itself took shape. The snowdrop was the last element added, after the work tending to everything else had been done. The image depicts flourishing in the wasteland, what might grow from the barren soil if we are patient and tend to it gently and slowly, at the speed of a seed in the ground. Its title is a reference to Wendell Berry’s poem by the same name.

“The Seed is in the Ground,” 8” x 10”, Acrylic on Canvas, Lent 2022

Elizabeth Wickland

Each piece emerged from the exploration of the life of prayer as a garden in the wilderness. We live in the complex junction of the already and the not-yet, of living in the garden in the wilderness, and of expanding the garden here, where the soil seems unlikely to support such life.

“Portal to Paradise” is a relief print in ink on tissue embedded in encaustic medium on wood from September 2022. It is a closer glimpse at the flourishing found through a life of prayer, even in the midst of days that feel more wilderness than wonder. The linocut portal was inspired by the college gates in Oxford, reminders that we are grown most beautifully in community; distinct and united in Christ.

“Portal to Paradise,” 9” x 12”, Relief Print on Tissue Embedded in Encaustic Medium on Wood, September 2022

This is My Body,

Broken

Cara Howard

We sat on plastic chairs arranged in a circle: ten middle-aged, suburban, female disciples. Our small group leader stood in the center and led us in communion. After reading from the guide provided for her, she moved down the line, stopping to offer the elements to each person. When she reached my seat and lowered the small woven basket, I expected to find a wafer or a loaf of bread from which to tear off a chunk.

Instead, I lifted out what looked like a single-serve coffee creamer or a pod for a Keurig machine. A disposable cup held both body and blood in two sealed sections: individual portions in an all-in-one package. The Bible verse in cursive script on the top of the peel-away lid read: “This is My body, broken for you.” At least I think it did. The paper had gotten wet, causing the red ink to bleed.

I scanned the faces of my fellow Bible study members. If others were surprised by this prepackaged communion, they didn’t show it.

Once everyone had been served, we were invited to “take and eat” the bread, but I couldn’t figure out how to free the circular wafer. I inserted the end of my just-clipped fingernail between the layers but couldn’t get them to separate. Looking down at my boots, I crossed my arms and bit the inside of my cheek until the moment passed.

I thought about how many times I’d been a part of this ritual, how sacred it had felt to reenact the Last Supper, reflecting on the magnitude of Christ’s loving sacrifice for us. My mind flashed to other forms of bread I’d been given over the years: bakery loaves, Matzah pieces, grocery-store saltines, cross-imprinted crackers. Now, I held in my hand the embodiment of my growing disillusionment

and cynicism. This sealed cup was a mass-produced product for megachurch consumption.

“Jesus said, ‘This is My blood, shed for you,’” said our leader, snapping me back to the moment and prompting us to drink the grape juice. I struggled with the pod a second time until I finally got it open. Tipping back the tiny cup, I drank in remembrance of Christ as instructed, but on the inside, my soul rattled and raged. Instead of making me feel connected to God and these women, the ritual confirmed that I no longer felt at home in my own church body.

~~~

I used to be proud to be a part of my church. On our first visit to this nondenominational community, back in 2005, my husband Bill and I were impressed by its lively atmosphere and the senior pastor’s intelligent, authentic sermon. We quickly got involved in activities beyond the Sunday morning service. What seemed like a huge congregation shrank to a manageable size once we got to know people and looked forward to seeing them. Before long, we were volunteering weekly: serving in the children’s ministry, greeting visitors, and leading a couples’ small group. Bill began teaching an English class the church offered to immigrants and refugees. I joined the women’s ministry, which soon became my focus. I co-led a women’s small group and spent hours each week preparing and facilitating discussions for our Bible studies. The church became the hub of our everyday lives. It remained this way for over a decade.

campuses, planting new churches in five state college towns, and co-planting international churches in five cities around the world. The plan, which he called Multiply1, also included the expansion and replication of our outreach center, which served a large number of people in the area through a wide range of social services.

“We believe that God’s doing something really special among us,” he explained, “and that He wants us to expand, so that many others may experience our unique, vibrant community. This plan will require more faith and more sacrifice by more people than ever before in the life of our church.” He paused for effect, then tossed what he called the “holy hand grenade”: this vision was given to him by God. “This is a God-sized goal,” he said, “not something we can accomplish on our own.”

His vision came with a price tag of $55 million dollars. Looking out over the auditorium, our pastor raised his open hands and extended them, turning

I remember the day I started to doubt. At a quarterly membership meeting in January 2015, our charismatic senior pastor outlined a new vision for the church: to expand our mission by adding five local

the dream over to us. “Please huddle up with others seated near you. Right here, right now, let’s pray for this to be fulfilled.”

My stomach clenched and my heart started racing. I turned toward Bill. Avoiding the eyes of those around us, we held each other’s unblinking gaze, wordlessly communicating our discomfort while the white noise of mumbled prayer filled the air. I swallowed hard and kept my mouth shut, silently stewing about being bullied to support a plan I hadn’t had time to digest. I could hardly wait for the meeting to end so Bill and I could escape and discuss this privately.

1. The name of the program has been changed for the purpose of anonymity.

Instead of making me feel connected to God and these women, the ritual confirmed that I no longer felt at home in my own church body.

This announcement I hadn’t seen coming hit me like a stray pebble on a gravel road. It struck the glass through which I saw the world and nicked the surface on impact. A small but significant crack formed. Broken trust would evolve into a spider web fracture, blurring my view of the church I thought I knew. But at first, and for too long, it made me question myself. Was I the problem? Did I not have enough faith? That part of the damage would be hard to repair.

Bill and I introduced ourselves and thanked him for coming. “Nice to meet you both,” he said.

Leading him into the living room, it occurred to me that after attending this church for ten years, this was the first time we had officially met our senior pastor. It’s a really big church, I reminded myself. It would be impossible for him to know everybody.

Bill and I sat next to one another on the sectional. Our pastor settled into the armchair across from us, crossed his long legs at the knee, and folded his hands atop his lap.

Bill and I left the meeting dazed and wary, unsure if we could get behind such an ambitious mission. We didn’t feel like we could pledge a large financial contribution—above and beyond our normal tithe—without a conversation, so we reached out to the senior pastor via email. His administrative assistant responded and worked with us to find a time for us to meet with him in person.

When I saw the headlights of his car entering our driveway two weeks later, I hurried to open the front door so he wouldn’t need to ring the doorbell. It was shortly after eight in the evening, and we’d just put our young kids to bed. I stood in the doorframe while he walked up the sidewalk in the midwinter darkness. “Come on in,” I said, ushering him out of the frigid air and into the warm house.

“I appreciate you inviting me over to talk about our vision,” he began. “I’d like to get to know a little about you before we get into the details. Tell me about yourselves. How long have you been attending, and which ministries have you been a part of?”

We took turns answering his question, listing the places we’d served and how we’d grown through our involvement over the years. My eyes grew misty when I gushed about how the women’s ministry had been so transformational for me. I shared how the combination of deep Bible study and personal relationships made me come alive.

He locked eyes with us as we talked, listening closely. “It sounds like you’ve really been impacted and found a home here. That makes me so happy. I think you’d agree that we’d like as many people as possible to experience this same type

of life-changing community.” We nodded. “Now what questions can I answer for you about the plan we’re proposing?”

Bill looked down at the list we’d made. “I guess, first of all, we want to understand the emphasis on multiplying into so many venues,” he said. “Why the drive to start new churches?”

“Let me begin by saying that we don’t want to steal members from other churches,” he said. “Our interest is in reaching people who are unchurched. Statistics show that new churches attract many more people in this category than existing ones. The intimidation factor goes away when everyone is new.”

succeed, He’ll have to make it happen,” he said. “Start-up costs and buildings account for a big chunk of the number, but we think that over time, the church plants will be self-sustaining and the campuses will contribute to the budget. We want to offer the same quality programs at each of these sites, and in doing so, to expand the reach of the kingdom of God.”

We nodded, although his answer didn’t tell us anything we hadn’t heard him say before. Our “what if” went unaddressed, but at that moment, I felt like asking for a detailed contingency plan would display our lack of faith.

As the conversation continued, he praised us for our due diligence. “You’re asking good questions,” he said. “I wish more young people showed that kind of wisdom in managing their finances.”

Our pastor said a prayer for us toward the end of our evening together. I felt honored that he had spent almost two hours of his time addressing our concerns. In person, up close, we saw that his passion was tempered with humility. His quiet confidence and steadfast commitment to this vision calmed my fears and inspired me to reconsider my initial hesitation.

That logic made sense to us, having ourselves been through the process of church shopping in the past.

“But the price tag, $55 million, is so high,” Bill said. “Why the push to do so much so fast? Have you outlined the priorities for our next steps if we aren’t able to raise the whole amount?”

The pastor shifted in his chair, then leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. The warm, yellow light from the living room lamp bathed him in its soft glow. “I believe that God is the one who gave me this vision, and it’s so ambitious that for it to

Bill and I told him that we would give our decision prayerful consideration. Though we weren’t able to shake all of our doubt, we mustered enough faith to pledge what was, to us, a sizable contribution beyond our usual tithe, trusting that we were giving back to God.

The fundraising drive felt like it went on forever, but in reality it lasted about two years. The messaging found its way into every part of our ministries so there was no way to miss it. Informational videos played during the announcements, speakers mentioned it in sermons, and even the children were encouraged to contribute through their weekly offerings. The numbers were crunched midway

...[A]t first, and for too tong, it made me question myserlf. Was I the problem? Did I not have enough faith? That part of the damage would be hard to repair.

through the campaign, and a second “ask” was made. We felt pressured to give more, so we gave an additional one-time gift. It took a while after the official end date for the leadership to communicate the results. In the end, around $33 million was pledged, falling about $22 million short of the original goal.

To Bill and me, it seemed like this might be a message from God to reevaluate and adjust the plans. For one thing, this was pledged money, not funds that had already been collected. But instead of prioritizing and proceeding cautiously, the leadership moved forward on several fronts at the same time. The church purchased land to build a second campus in another suburb. It bought an existing building to renovate for a third site in a nearby city. Some families were sent from our congregation to help plant a church in England. Another pastor was hired to launch a church in a college town.

Committed volunteers answered the call to serve. As they did, resources were stretched thin. More and more people were hired to fill equivalent positions across the new campuses. All the while, Bill and I kept serving. We showed up faithfully to greet and orient newcomers, teach classes, and lead groups—whatever was needed.

We told ourselves that the church was in a season of transition. We would hang in there and do our part to help. After all, this was our church family. Our contributions were noticed and appreciated by the leaders of the ministries we served in. We

felt connected to the whole, even as the numbers dwindled at our main campus. But the whole was about to be broken.

About a year into our church’s expansion, rumors about impending cutbacks started. Information leaked to some ministry groups and not others, confusing everyone, so the pastoral team started holding meetings to clarify what was happening. On a cold winter evening in early 2018, I attended a meeting of more than a hundred women’s ministry leaders—staff, teachers, committee members, and small group leaders—led by two of the male pastors.

The administrative pastor stroked his short, gray goatee while watching the room fill with people. Dressed casually in a flannel shirt and jeans, he nodded occasionally to acknowledge new arrivals and kept glancing at the clock on the wall. The pastor of community life sat beside him on a tall stool, staring down at the carpet. I’d known him for several years and liked him a lot. When he finally looked up and saw me, he smiled weakly.

Once everyone was seated, our administrative pastor thanked us for coming and got down to business. He announced upcoming program changes that involved a significant percentage of the staff being let go, and told us that others would be reassigned to different roles. He claimed that we were moving toward a larger vision, but the

We told ourselves that the church was in a season of transition. We would hang in there and do our part to help. After all, this was our church family.

reductions made it clear that financial problems had prompted the cuts. Finally, he dropped the bombshell: affinity groups were being eliminated. Women’s ministry would no longer be a part of the church’s mission.

The packed room crackled with tension. A low murmur started to build as the women turned to whisper to their neighbors. “I’m sure you all have a lot of questions,” he said, “and we want to answer as many of them as we can tonight.”

Over the next couple of hours, women asked questions and attempted to advocate for the ministry by sharing how important it had been to them over the years. Voices were raised and tears flowed while they pleaded their case. I willed myself not to cry when I spoke about how this group had helped me invest in my spiritual growth and find community during the isolating years of early motherhood. “I don’t know what I would have done without it,” I said, my voice finally breaking. My arm shook as I handed back the microphone.

I watched the two men listen to the women’s testimonies, their awkward demeanor revealing their discomfort. Nodding sympathetically, the administrative pastor offered brief replies to the questions lobbed at them, trying to deflect the emotions expressed. “Thank you for sharing,” he said, his face solemn. “I understand.” No, I wanted to say, I don’t think you do. Toward the end of the meeting, a brave soul raised her hand.

“I know we no longer have the funding for staff positions,” she said, “but would the church support a volunteer effort to keep our current programs going?” Heads nodded enthusiastically all around her. Our eyes lit up with hope in the pause that followed.

The pastor I knew cleared his throat before answering. “We understand what a valuable resource this ministry has been to so many women,” he said, “and how hard this change will be. While we won’t be able to continue with the same format, we certainly want to build on what you all have already established.”

The other pastor piped up, “That’s why we’re hoping that this group of leaders will be an instrumental part of helping our new, church-wide discipleship program get off the ground.” He went on to describe the plan to funnel everyone into the same pipeline, forming a clear pathway of discipleship. “It begins with a ten-week experience that promises to really dig deep into the fundamentals of the faith. This program will create intergenerational communities through which people can really be transformed. We’ll be launching this new curriculum called Thrive2 this summer with a focus group and we’d love for you to join us.”

The language he used was—on the surface—appropriate and gentle, but his tone was condescending. His pitch fell flat. Our spirits deflated as we realized our efforts would be fruitless. Despite our logic

2. The name of the program has been changed for the purpose of anonymity.

and fervor, the decisions had already been made. I picked up on his unspoken message: this megachurch was too big to be a democracy.

Over the next two months, we finished the current semester of programming, wrapping up our study on the parables of Jesus. When our last meeting was over, I felt sad and disillusioned.

That summer, three different staff members approached me to ask if I’d consider leading a discussion group for the new curriculum. I politely declined. My spirit was bruised and my anger was still raw. But in the fall, an acquaintance asked me to join the group she was leading. Tired of feeling lonely and disconnected, I decided to give it a chance.

The women in my new group welcomed me warmly. They felt like they already knew me from the roles I’d held within the women’s ministry, but

I didn’t really know them. I struggled through our meetings, hyperaware of the disconnect between their image of me and my current discontent.

For me, participation in this small group’s conversations required a precarious balance beam walk: I didn’t feel safe and yet I didn’t want to pretend. My cautious, selective vulnerability prevented me from forming real connections. I didn’t want to sabotage the experience for others, especially those new to faith, so I bundled my words in bubble wrap to soften the blow.

Every week my body tried to tell me what I wouldn’t let my brain admit: I didn’t want to go. I caved to all available distractions, dooming myself to being late. At first, I chalked up my inner resistance to introversion and the challenge of being new to the group, but over time, I realized my deeper issue was disappointment with the church.

On the day I was offered the prepackaged communion, I left the room before anyone in my new small group could talk to me. Drunk on a cocktail of both righteous and self-righteous indignation, I walked out the door toward the sanctuary of my car, thinking: This one-size-fits-all discipleship program doesn’t fit me.

The sacramental elements, neatly compartmentalized into sections, reminded me of Lunchables. When it was launched back in the 1980’s, the factory-made, ready-to-eat novelty was all the rage with picky kids like me. I loved the idea of assembling my own combinations of bite-sized bologna, American cheese, and buttery crackers. My parents, however, saw through the advertising and refused to buy them.

The cup I’d been handed was a product of the same marketing strategy. American evangelicalism had neatly packaged itself to make following Jesus more convenient. I’d been attracted to its promises of certainty and belonging, but after years of consuming its fare, I had to acknowledge the negative effects on our collective health.

My church’s aggressive plan to save thousands of hypothetical people ended up wounding the people it already served. The leaders continued moving forward with the expansion plans until they were forced to tighten belts once again. They quickly

reframed the failed campaign and rebranded their focus, but my reluctance to get on board with their latest program left me with no container for the hurt I carried.

My wavering trust made me more discerning. Just believe, I’d been told. Trust God. I started to unwrap the messages I could no longer swallow.

During this time, our senior pastor preached a sermon criticizing one of Jesus’s disciples: Thomas, the one reluctant to immediately believe that Jesus had risen from the dead. I fidgeted in my seat, exhaling in audible sighs. Bill put his hand on my knee to calm me. I left the service with a pounding headache, fired-up and angry, as though someone had bullied one of my friends, and went home to study the passage myself.

Thomas was a faithful disciple throughout Jesus’ earthly ministry. He was the one who rallied and convinced the disciples to accompany Jesus to Jerusalem, despite the danger. “Let’s go, too,” he said, “and die with Jesus.”3 He spoke up when Jesus used vague language to warn of his imminent departure. “We have no idea where you’re going,”

3. John11:16, NLT

4. John 14:5, NLT

My church’s aggressive plan to save thousands of hypothetical people ended up wounding the people it already served.

Thomas admitted, “so how can we know the way?”4 To me, he came across as loyal and trusting, humble and honest.

When Jesus was crucified, Thomas’ world turned upside down. He must have had so many questions. What had been the purpose of it all? What were they supposed to do now? How could he ever trust the other disciples again? Thomas balked when his friends came to him with the outlandish story that Jesus was alive, insisting, “I won’t believe it unless I see the nail wounds in his hands, put my fingers into them, and place my hand into the wound in his side.”5

I thought about how my pastor had condemned Thomas’ demand for proof. Now, on a gut level, I understood: it wasn’t that Thomas refused to believe; his broken heart couldn’t. His skepticism wasn’t a failure of discipleship; it was evidence of grief, proof of love.

I noticed that Jesus didn’t shame Thomas. Instead, he sought out his hurting friend and invited him to see and touch his wounds. By this vulnerable gesture, Thomas instantly recognized his Lord and Teacher and found new strength to believe.

Thomas held up a mirror to my own complicated grief. In the wake of all that had happened, I lost my sense of identity, purpose, and belonging. I had failed to heed my own discernment and now questioned the theology and motivation behind our unsuccessful campaign. Unsure that my values and beliefs still aligned with those of evangelicalism,

I would have to reevaluate the tenets of my faith and decide what I believed.

For so long, I’d been clinging to what was left of the community I loved, but participation had become painful. Our pastoral team preferred not to dwell on the past. Their band-aid solutions blocked the very light, air, and attention my wounds required in order to heal. I needed care that I wouldn’t be able to find within the same organization that caused my hurt. Bill and I spent countless hours weighing our options before finally acknowledging that we could no longer receive the communion offered there.

After sixteen years of membership, we quietly slipped out the door, trusting Jesus would find us too.

Note: The author and her family are now finding hope and healing in a small, Episcopal community.

5. John 20:25, NLT

A Liturgy for the Hopeful

Speak Lord for your servants are listening

Quiet our anxious hearts stir in us a deeper awareness of your presence with us

It is often in the moments of gritty faith and holy trust that you draw us close and tuck us under your wings like a mother hen

Your servants are listening

Meet us oh God when our bones are creaking and our soul is weary

It is often in the place of discarded dreams and broken spirits that you make a way for hope and healing to collide

Meet us oh God

Holy Spirit groan for us when we don’t have words left to pray

Kara Angus

When grief takes us to the edge and holds us there for many long seasons remind us whose we are

We are beloved always and forever beloved called out by name we are yours oh God

Holy Spirit groan for us

Jesus we rest in what you have done for us

We put our ‘amen’ on the end of our day because you have already gone behind us before us and in the days to come You remain with us

Oh Christ how beautiful we are in the cascading shadow of your mercy where the mere touch of the hem of your garment transforms our story of indignity and rejection to honored and cherished saint

Jesus, give us rest.

Speak Lord we want to hear from you

A cloud of witnesses testify that you are faithful You will hold us now You will hold us forever AMEN

The Lord is a stronghold for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. And those who know your name put their trust in you, for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.

Psalm 9:9-10

If you’re reading magazines and theological commentary, online or in print, or browsing social media, you’ll notice the prolific number of opinions and writing offered by men in the Christian tradition. Whether it stems from complementarian interpretations of scripture or simply the patriarchal legacy of the Christian church, women’s voices on Christian theology and experience are scarce and often overlooked or ignored.

The Unmooring is remedying this. Our hope is to amplify women’s voices on serious issues of faith, grappling with the complexities of the Christian tradition in our present moment, distilling female reflection and contemplation about what our beliefs mean in an increasingly inequitable world and culture.

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