Welcome to my inaugural Sunday morning coffee, where I take a spiritual lesson I’m learning and share it for everyone. I’m not going to pretend I’m this enlightened guru or pastor — I’m just a random weirdo with a blog who likes to write about this kind of stuff. But I feel like I can bring an interesting perspective to the metaphorical table when it comes to scripture, spirituality, and the like, being a queer eclectic Christian married to a mostly agnostic Jewish woman.
So I was doomscrolling through my Facebook updates when I noticed a friend posted this:
I don’t even have a witty caption for this.
To say I was livid would be an understatement. My blood is still boiling as I type this, and anyone who knows me will tell you I don’t anger easily. To compare my right and my loved ones’ rights to simply exist as ourselves to the most heinous crime against humanity is fucking disgusting and nearly irredeemable in my eyes. And then I clicked on this so-called friend’s profile. He was a Christian?! This man is claiming the name of Christ while posting shit like this? Nothing short of sickening.
What does the heart of God say about anger? It’s easy to fall back on the “seven deadly sins” as a measure of what’s right and what’s wrong, and wrath is right there in that list. But anger isn’t necessarily wrath. When our rage is directed toward something totally justified, we call it righteous anger. In Matthew 21, Jesus Himself demonstrates this.
Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. “It is written,” he said to them, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it ‘a den of robbers.
Matthew 21: 12-13
Maybe we need to start flipping some tables. Maybe we need to start using this anger at how our supposed brothers and sisters in Christ are treating people and cheating people. Maybe we should be calling out posts like the one above when we see them pop up on our timelines. Silence never changed anything. Righteous anger makes us want to speak out for the oppressed and the downtrodden, the “least of these.”
I made the mistake of deleting the person who made that post, because I knew I was going to tear them a new one if I didn’t. But what I should have done was use my anger to call them out, gently but firmly. Anger when unchecked turns into wrath, and things can be said that legitimately hurt others (and hurt our own case in the process). On the other hand, righteous anger, when channeled by a spiritually mature person, can be used for good. Open discussions, engage in debates, and let people see the light of Christ through you. If you have to flip some tables, flip those tables, but remember the person behind them. They’re broken too.
I’ve largely disconnected from Facebook because I’m trying to love myself. Still, the primal urge to check in on that hellhole creeps in every now and then. It’s like how some folks enjoy watching pimple popping. It’s often disgusting, but fascinating all the same. I don’t know, maybe I’m following the wrong people.
Anyways, this is what I opened that God-forsaken app to:
Do you know how tempted I am to NOT hide these losers’ identities?
Basically, Jess Hilarious is a comedian (you gotta be with a last name like Hilarious). Recently, she said some pretty TERF-y things, which is what the status above is referring to. Here’s the direct quote, for anyone too lazy to click on the link:
What is the difference between you and someone who has been diagnosed to be mentally insane? The only difference is you don’t have a straitjacket on. Stop talking out your (bleep). Wake up. How are you projecting your anger on real women? Because we are the gatekeepers. We are the gatekeepers for periods. We are the only one that (bleep) bleed, honey.
Jess Hilarious, being decidedly unhilarious
The tirade was in response to a TikTok video of a trans woman who claimed cis women don’t “own” womanhood or periods. The second point is decidedly true — (almost) all AFAB people of a certain age have periods, which includes some trans men and non-binary individuals. And the first point, well, that’s also true, but it’s worth noting that the two aren’t synonymous. Read that again — womanhood and periods are not synonymous. One can exist without the other. Lots of cis women don’t have periods, too, for a number of reasons.
The TERF agenda seems to revolve around the idea that womanhood is this finite resource, and if non-AFAB people get a slice of the pie, there’s less available for what they’d consider “real women.” It’s a silly argument. Someone with a penis wearing a sundress or makeup and going by she/her doesn’t make you, a cis woman, any less of a woman. She’s just out here minding her own business, and you should too. (And everyone should experience the unbridled joy of wearing a sundress on a pretty spring day, I don’t care what gender you are.)
Womanhood should not be gatekept. After all, it is a concept, above all other things. It’s a societal construct that shifts and changes depending on time and culture. 200 years ago, womanhood looked like wearing a corset; in Muslim-majority areas, it might look like wearing a hijab. Heck, pink used to be a masculine color until we decided as a culture to code it as feminine. These are all arbitrary things — we could decide as a society that women need to wear saucepans on their heads and if enough people went along with it, that would be the new normal.
My point here is that if the norms of what your culture considers “womanly” fits how you feel, then womanhood is open to you, and that’s regardless of your naughty bits. It’s the Shania Twain Principle. If you wake up in the morning thinking man, I feel like a woman, I have news for you.
Let’s go, girls.
Sure, pregnancy and childbirth (and periods, by extension) are traditionally associated with womanhood, but like everything that depends on societal norms, there will always be exceptions. Look at women who cannot conceive or carry a child. Do we revoke their woman-card? Absolutely not, and the very idea of doing such a thing is wildly offensive.
There’s room at the table for all of us: cis, trans, or non-binary, able to bear children or unable to bear children, sundress-lovers and pantsuit connoisseurs alike. When addressing important issues like bodily autonomy, such as abortion and birth control rights and the right to receive gender affirming care, it’s more important than ever that all women band together against our common enemy — the greedy, misogynistic old guys in power.
Cue Rage Against the Machine.
Like most people I don’t agree with, I don’t think Jess Hilarious is necessarily a bad person — just misguided. I hope she, too, someday comes to realize that womanhood is for anyone who dares claim it.
Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?
The platform I use to publish this website gives me little daily writing prompts as inspiration. Sometimes I use them immediately, sometimes I save them to write about later (and in all actuality, leave them to languish in my “drafts” for eternity). When this one popped up on my screen, I knew exactly what I needed to write about, because as much as I try to live without regrets, this is one of the few that I still cling to for some reason.
I cut my teeth as a musician and performer in the worship team of the church of my youth. Normally I’d leave it unnamed, but honestly, Metro City Church doesn’t deserve that dignity. Not after the events of this story, at least. I will be honest — my time on the team was an amazing once-in-a-lifetime experience. I had the honor of playing with some of the best musicians I’ve ever met, and on the largest stage I’ve ever played. Imagine a slightly scaled-down version of whatever comes to mind when I say “megachurch,” and that’s basically what we were. A mini Hillsong in the heart of Downriver, with one of the largest congregations in the entire area.
OPEN UP THAT PIT
Every week or so, I’d stand up on that stage and play my heart out for the Lord, which is still one of my favorite ways to connect with the divine. Giving credit where credit is due, I think Metro lit a fire for music and worship in me that still burns to this day. In fact, I still play in my current church’s worship band every now and then. But playing on Metro’s stage was nothing short of amazing. We had all the lights, fog machines, a state-of-the-art audio system, we had in-ear monitors for Christ’s sake (literally!). My point is, for all the smack I’m about to talk when it comes to this church, they did do something right, and that something was music.
The downside was that the church’s politics leaned a bit further right than I would have liked, but in the pre-Trump days, this was easy enough to ignore. Like, I’d get the occasional unprompted “ew, you like Bernie Sanders?” from the pastor or his kid, along with a lecture on why Bernie Sanders sucks. Again, this was entirely unprompted — it’s not like I was wearing a Bernie Sanders shirt, or had a Bernie Sanders sticker on my guitar case, or even brought up Bernie Sanders in conversation, ever. They just knew I was one of the small tribe of progressives, mostly fellow musicians who’d giggle irreverently at the post-worship breakfast about sappy “pro-life” messages or whatever subtle jab the lead pastor decided to throw at the libs that day.
For the most part, though, I could look past it. Sure, the church supported anti-choice measures and preached the dreaded “love the sinner, hate the sin” message when it came to the queer community, but these topics came up so rarely that I didn’t mind. Metro was one of those insidious religious institutions that disguised itself as a “come as you are” church, welcoming everyone and trying to cast as broad a net as possible, as to not alienate anyone. But beneath the surface, those ideologies still lurked. I know way too many gay/trans folks who were duped into feeling safe at Metro, only to get hit with a nonchalant homophobic or transphobic quip from a member of the congregation.
“Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!”
I wasn’t out at the time, and I was married to a male member of the church, so I was marked safe from most of these comments. As far as anyone knew, I was a regular, God-fearing, heterosexual woman. But I knew in my heart I wasn’t straight, not entirely, or even mostly. I had to push down a lot of my gay fee-fees to fit in with the rest of the church, which is why I came out as late in life as I did.
Everything changed in one moment, though.
I still remember the burn of the stage lights and the eyes of the congregation as I stood on the stage, guitar in hand, while the pastor rattled off a list of upcoming events. It wasn’t unusual for him to come up and make announcements between songs like this. But one of the upcoming events he named this time shook me to the core: a conversion therapy class for young women.
Here’s where I should have done everything differently. I should have thrown my guitar down and walked off that stage. Screw subtlety — I absolutely should have made a scene. Instead, I froze. I stood there complacent in my own oppression and complicit in the abuse of these girls.
Thankfully, this was the beginning of the end of my time at Metro. As controversy swept over the church throughout the local (and even national) queer community, I found myself torn between the church I loved, who I thought loved me, and my own gut instinct that this was not fucking okay. I even posted a tone-deaf defense of the church, claiming not all of us were raging homophobes, and my ally friends (rightfully) called me out for trying to defend them at all. I knew I had to do something.
So I came out. In front of everyone. I’m queer. I’m one of those girls. I’m on your side. And I’m so glad I did, because the act of finally admitting it to myself led me to leave a marriage my heart wasn’t in and marry my best friend instead. I left the Metro and never looked back, settling on a truly inclusive Methodist church that practiced what Christ actually taught, instead of the Americanized evangelical crap propagated by hipster megachurches.
But I still wonder what would have happened if I’d walked off the stage that morning. It still eats at me that I was silent in the face of oppression and hate. What does that say about my integrity? I’d like to think I’ve grown exponentially since then. I’d like to think that should I be placed in that situation now, I’d stand up for myself and for those girls. The Bible teaches that real love is laying down one’s life for their friends; the least I could do is lay down my pride (and probably get excommunicated, but as they say, que será será).
I don’t hate Metro, at least not the people there. They’re lost in the sauce just like I was. Love the sinner, hate the sin, as those circles always say, and while I hate what Metro stands for, I know there’s still some decent people there fighting the good fight to make it the loving, affirming safe haven it could be.
Well, maybe if the lead pastor would stop doing this.
Yeah, I’m being too optimistic.
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Hi! Did you know I’m a big ol’ gay? If you’ve followed my blog for any amount of time, you’ll know I’ve got a wife and a girlfriend who I love very much (yay for polyamory!). I also identify as nonbinary, as in I like they/them, but I’m still cool with she/her. Basically, I’m queer as all heck.
That being said, Pride Month is kind of a bittersweet time for me.
It’s not that I hate being pandered to by huge corporations. Like, please pander to me; I like the attention. In fact, it’s actually kind of dope that we live in a society where it’s more profitable to be progressive than regressive, even if it’s ultimately all for show. Like, I love Target and I love what they’re doing for Pride, but if they pulled their Pride collection from stores in more conservative areas, it’s clear they’re a fairweather ally. If violence broke out at a Pride parade, Target’s not going to take a bullet for me or my friends, which does suck, but it’s probably too much to ask of even the most queer-friendly corporations. Business is business, after all, and corporations aren’t your friends.
No matter how cute their mascot is.
You see, Pride Month is the time of year when I get constant reminders of how much the world still hates me.
Sure, people are loud and proud about their identities and who they love during the month of June, but it’s also the time of year when the assholes feel the need to shout even louder about how much they “don’t approve of our lifestyles” (at best) or want us to die (at worst). Here are some examples from some of my so-called “friends” on Facebook:
These are some of the more tame ones. I’d post some of the darker ones I’ve seen, but I don’t feel like dwelling on this shit even more than I already have to. I’m talking straight-up genocidal statements and “41 percent” quips. These people want my friends to die. These people want my family to die. These people want me to die. And it’s fucking exhausting. There’s a reason I bought a gun and started working out. It’s dangerous to be queer in this climate.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want the homophobes and transphobes to die, because I’m not like them. I believe in taking the higher ground. Rather, I wish they’d get to know actual queer folks, not just the caricatures and straw men presented by right-wing media. Because to be honest, we’re mostly pretty cool! Like, all we want is to be ourselves with the people we love. We’re not “coming for your kids.” We just want to make sure that, should your kids end up gay or trans, you don’t throw them out on the street like a wad of garbage.
We don’t need special treatment. Honestly, I’d trade Pride Month and all of its trappings to just be treated like a human being. In the end, we don’t give a shit about your rainbow cakes and witty t-shirts. We just want to live.
Another post I originally shared as a FB status but figured it warranted its own post on here, especially since I haven’t posted on the blog in a minute. It’s been a crazy few weeks of coursework but my classes are over after this upcoming week, so expect more ramblings on here soon!
I see people posting their “I was gay but THEN I FOUND JESUS” testimonies all the time, but never any “I found Jesus but THEN I WAS GAY” testimonies. So allow me to share mine.
I used to attend an evangelical megachurch, first in my teens and again when I reached my lowest low after graduation. I was so broken and jaded I needed somewhere I could call home, and the church of my youth seemed right. I started going back, got deeply involved in the music ministry, and even married a man with an intention of starting a family, because that’s what you were “supposed” to do. But I wasn’t truly happy. I had to drink wine just to make household chores bearable. I had such a bad mental breakdown I had to go to a psychiatric emergency facility. I isolated myself from the people I loved and tried so hard to break my own bones to fit into a box that didn’t feel right to me. Even my own mom saw that I was miserable.
The breaking point came when my church announced a conversion therapy class for teenage girls — while I was standing on the stage about to lead worship. I should have walked off that stage, and I still kick myself for not doing it in the moment. But it planted a seed — something wasn’t right. I started to realize I was one of those girls! I’d been attracted to people of every gender, but I had to crush the parts of me that weren’t straight because I wanted so desperately to fit in and be “normal” by these people’s standards.
I was tired. And so I came out.
I’m so glad I chose to live my truth as a pansexual woman. I ended up leaving the marriage I rushed into for the sake of “staying pure” and married my best friend, who I realized I was in love with the entire time. I have a family of fellow queerdos who are truer friends to me than anyone at that church I left. My blood family even sees how happy I am now and is happy for me! And I didn’t have to leave behind my faith in Christ to embrace my true self — I found an affirming church that accepted me and my gay and trans siblings for who they are.
Being queer and following Christ aren’t mutually exclusive things. My faith is stronger for having been tested. God works all things together for the good of those who love Him, and He truly blessed me with so much. I love who He made me to be, and I’m glad I can finally live in the light.
Feel free to share if my story reaches you in some way. I want the world to know it’s okay not to fit into the mold of American evangelical Christianity. God doesn’t love you any less. You are exactly who He created you to be ❤️
I originally posted this on my Facebook and Instagram pages (@thejessajoyce, if you’re curious), but I wanted to share this brief little write-up here as well. It’s so important to get this message out there since more often than not, the theoretical future of society and the fight to better it is co-opted by straight, cis, white, non-disabled people in an effort to tear down people who are not like them. I want to present a counter-argument. If all lives truly matter, as many on the political right say, and we must “think of the children,” my future children should be considered as well. There is room for everyone at the table of life, and we need to remember that this Easter.
Reading this book (Feminist Queer Crip by Alison Kafer) at the suggestion of one of my favorite professors for my capstone project on autism, and it feels especially poignant in the days of #blacklivesmatter and #SaveTheChildren and #autismawarenessmonth and the recent fight against drag and transgender rights. The first chapter talks a lot about the Child — the personification of the future of society — who is often politicized and weaponized. Think of the children, people say. The image of the Child is more often than not a white cishet non-disabled child born to white cishet non-disabled parents. This Child absolutely matters. But I’m not interested in fighting for him, not because I don’t care about him, but because he already has enough people fighting for his right to exist in peace. Instead, I want to fight for my children.
In a few short years, I’ll likely have a child of my own. That child will likely have a disability of some sort, or rather, a difference that makes it harder to exist in a world that isn’t built for her. Considering my family history, she’ll likely be autistic or ADHD. Depending on our donor, she will likely be at least part black, and she’ll have queer parents who will support her should she eventually come to terms with her own queerness. And guess what? Her life will matter too. She should have a right to exist in peace alongside the theoretical Child described above. I want her to have a future too.
That’s why it’s so important to keep fighting for equality. I feel like it’s important to note that it’s Easter Sunday as I post this. I am a Christian through and through, despite the fact that I don’t “fit” the American Evangelical mold, and I firmly believe that Christ died for EVERYONE. Not just white Americans or straight people or cisgender people or able-bodied and able-minded people. We are all wonderfully made and we all should have a right to inhabit this beautiful planet. This post is a call to prayer and more importantly, a call to action. We need to be a light to this sometimes dark and scary world. We need to keep fighting the good fight.
You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.
My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.
So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.
Let’s make one thing clear: I despise Harry Potter. Absolutely loathe it. I can’t follow it to save my life, the creator sucks, and Pokémon is the superior millennial franchise in every way. But sometimes I fondly remember a sermon I saw many years ago talking about it. No, they didn’t go on a rant about how it’s Satanic and all that crap (surprisingly). Instead, they viewed it as an allegory for the way God calls us to certain things in our lives, and the absolute ridiculous lengths He’ll go to in order to owl-airdrop that Hogwarts acceptable letter to your front step. I think about that scene with the with all the letters flying around a lot still, even though I’m not a huge fan of my old church and certainly not a fan of Harry Potter.
From a young age, I always imagined that Hogwarts letter to be an acceptance into a doctoral program. My joke is that I refuse to die before adding the letters “Dr.” in front of my name. It just made sense. I was (almost) top of my class and had a passion for learning and academia like none other. And full disclosure, a good part of why I wanted this so badly was to prove to everyone I was actually smart! To be honest, it was more than a little vain — I craved the status that came with the title.
So I decided there was no way around it. I was going to become a doctor of something or other. Medicine, psychology — trust me, I’ve cycled through all the aspirations. But every time I try to commit to something, life gets in the way. Too much money, mental health issues, parents convincing me to pursue classical guitar instead of premed (no regrets; music school was the time of my life).
Maybe it’s not in this season of life to pursue such things. Or perhaps — even scarier — I’m not supposed to pursue them at all.
Jesus Himself said to deny yourself and take up your cross (Matthew 16:24). What does that even mean for my own life though? Do I really have to give up on my futile attempts to glorify myself, to add a little pizzazz to my own name, to hold the coveted title of “doctor” I’ve dreamed about my entire life? And it hit me.
Maybe I’m supposed to be Pastor Jess instead of Dr. Jess.
It’s perfect. I get to learn theology (which I’m already a huge nerd about), play music, write, interact with and help people on a personal level, and perhaps most importantly, further the Kingdom of God. I keep going back to a certain phrase: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I keep complaining that there are so few affirming churches, but what am I doing to change that? I personally know so many queer folks who feel disenfranchised by their churches and the Christian community at large. Maybe it’s my job here on this little blue planet to help give them a community who loves and accepts them as they are while leading them home to a God who loves and accepts them as they are. I know I’m not a perfect person by any means, but God uses imperfect people all the time. I’ve prayed about this for a while now and all signs seem to point in this direction. I feel like I finally got my Hogwarts letter.
Maybe being a pastor isn’t as glamorous as being a professor or doctor. But if I can help just just one gay or trans kid feel like God hasn’t abandoned them, it will all be worth it.
Hi Church! Yup, the “big C” Church. Whether you’re a pastor or part of the congregation or even just an Easter-and-Christmas Christian, this letter is for you! Yay!
So here’s the thing. I really want to go to church with you. I really do. I want to have Bible studies and deep theological discussions with you. I want to break communion bread with you. I want to lift my hands in worship and bawl like a baby to “How He Loves” with you (the “sloppy wet kiss” version, of course). But I can’t. And all because I’ve committed the heinous sin of wanting to marry and start a family with someone else who pees sitting down.
This is crucial for a Godly marriage, apparently.
It’s not for lack of acceptance — roughly 80 percent of unaffiliated Christians support gay marriage. And trust me, we want in too — about 50 percent of queer folks consider themselves religious, many of them Christians. So what’s the deal? Are we too afraid to let the gates fling open, as Christ would have wanted? Are we so stuck in our old ideals that we can’t possibly change the way we do things?
I urge you to question everything. Don’t take it from me, take it from the Good Book itself.
“Test everything that is said. Hold on to what is good.”
1 Thessalonians 5:21
What if everything we were taught about gender and sexuality as it relates to Christianity is wrong? I could deconstruct the infamous clobber verses, but scholarsmuch more well-versedin the Scripturesalready have. I want to take a different approach. In Matthew 7, it is said that we are to distinguish God’s truth from lies of false prophets by examining their fruits. What are the fruits of exclusion theology? In addition to alienating the aforementioned 50 percent and denying them the church experience, we have to think about the next generation and the messages we’re sending them by holding to these toxic ideas. According to The Trevor Project, queer youth are 8.4 times more likely to attempt suicide when in an non-supportive environment. Kids freaking dying isn’t a fruit of the Spirit, right? Because that’s a pretty rotten fruit.
But Jess, you say, my church welcomes everybody! Well…
“Let your yes be yes, and your no be no. Anything else comes from a non-denominational pastor asked whether his church affirms gay people.”
Ken Wilson, the wisest pastor I know
Seriously, ask your pastor if they officiate gay marriages. Ask if they let queer folks have leadership roles. I guarantee you’ll get some convoluted “love the sinner, hate the sin” spiel. You’d be hard-pressed to find a “come as you are” hip megachurch with its own coffeeshop that would let me, a bisexual woman, even just play guitar for the worship team, much less be a worship leader. Not unless I denounced part of my sexuality and ended up with a dude, which, uh, didn’t happen.
Pastors, please rethink your stances on LGBTQ issues, and congregants, speak up. Let your church leadership know that you won’t support anti-LGBTQ rhetoric any longer. I remember standing onstage at my old church while a thinly veiled conversion therapy course for young girls was revealed. I should have walked off the stage right then. I still regret it to this day. Friends, don’t be like me. Christ has gifted us with bravery and strength to stand up to oppression. Now’s the time to be brave.
So today at work, I was scrolling through my playlists when I found THAT playlist. The one I haven’t dusted off in ages, the one I used to consult regularly in preparation for the event of the week — Sunday morning church.
And if Elevation’s “Resurrecting” WASN’T in that playlist, were you really a worship guitarist?
I was a fixture on the main stage of the megachurch I attended at the time. I’d drag my gear to the backstage area, banter with the production guys, and once the lights in the auditorium went down and the spotlights flashed on, I’d throw myself into the music, into worship. The music itself was never especially complex — same few chord progressions, same delay-infused chimey licks that wouldn’t sound out of place in a U2 song. In fact, if you’ve been to a modern church within the last 20 years, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But the emotion, that feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself for just a moment. Like a drug, you spend the rest of your life chasing that high.
Sometimes I wonder why I left it all behind.
Oh right, that’s why.
I felt like a rock star at my old church, but I knew it would come crashing down. I was bisexual, and I was slowly realizing the person I truly wanted to spend my life with was my best friend, another woman. There was no way I could have both. Leaving the evangelical church allowed me to finally live authentically, but at what cost? Chances are, I’ll never set foot on a stage of that size again. I’ll never hear the ring of my guitar through a room that could easily fit three houses inside. I’ll never have people tell me how much of an inspiration I am to their kid. I’ll never have that euphoria that only comes with leading worship at such a massive level.
It’s easy to get nostalgic for things that are toxic. You look back at a past friendship or relationship with these rose-tinted glasses that erase all of the pain it caused you. Hindsight may be 20/20, but it’s also biased as heck. You don’t want to remember the shitty parts, just the parts that made you happy. And you forget that in order to grow into who you are now, you needed to shed that old shell.
I don’t mean to throw any shade at my old church (which will remain unnamed), as they’ve helped me in times of need, and to be honest, I met a lot of very rad people because of my involvement there, many of whom I still speak to today. But I couldn’t live with the cognitive dissonance any longer. In order to grow as a person in Christ, I needed to not only leave the church, but leave behind the harmful lie that God will send me to Hell for the crime of loving another human who sits down to pee. But leaving the church also meant leaving behind the life I’d grown accustomed to, standing in the spotlight before crammed auditoriums week after week. 1 Corinthians 13:11 talks of putting away childish things. Maybe my need to be admired — my need to leave church guitar case in hand every Sunday feeling like a rock star — was the childish thing I needed to put on the shelf.
I won’t deny myself the chance to mourn the loss of my previous church community. I do miss my time there every now and then, but it was important to leave that season behind in order to grow in my faith journey. In order for a plant to flourish, one must cut off the parts that are diseased or damaged, even if the process hurts. Never make the mistake of romanticizing that which was harming you.
There was a time a few short years ago where I couldn’t imagine worship without the lights and fog machines and crowds with raised arms. Worship looks a lot different to me now. Whether it’s meditating on the living room floor, gazing in wonder at the blessings around me, listening to a dusty old playlist at work, or even just sitting in a quiet dark corner of my apartment with the same Sunday morning songs my hands have, for better or worse, committed to memory. To God — not me — be the glory.
JESSA JOYCE 