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.

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 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 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.

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 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.

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.

“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.”

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 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.

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 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 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 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,”

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.