Just a few years ago, I was a proud Hands-Raised-In-Worship Christian. My husband and I rarely missed a sermon. He was in a men’s Bible study group. I sang on the worship team.
But now? Now I wince when I recognize a chord or melody from one of those songs I used to perform, we no longer speak to most of our former church family, and we haven’t been to a regular Sunday sermon in years.
The truth is, until a moment last weekend, I thought my faith had been irreparably fractured thanks to, of all people, my former pastor.
When my husband and I first started attending our church, our pastor was fairly new, the congregation was small, and the building was unassuming and drab. It was like the introductory chapters of a book. We were getting to know one another and setting the stage for the church’s future growth.
In those early days, I talked often with our pastor about politics and the intersection between many social issues and our church’s values. I wasn’t shy about my liberal beliefs in our conversations, nor was he bothered by them. He was as critical of Trump as he was of Hillary. He told me he didn’t think it was appropriate to directly address or take stances on political issues in his sermons.
Eventually he asked me to consider serving on the church’s board. There was heavy conservative representation, he said, and he thought it was important for the board to have a liberal perspective as well. Importantly, my liberal perspective included vocal and vigorous support of gay marriage, and he knew it.
When I asked him about his stance on gay marriage, he told me he hadn’t found Biblical support for it—at least, not yet—but that he wouldn’t address it in a sermon because he wanted to avoid alienating people or making anyone feel unwelcome.
In fact, “Welcome Home” was literally our slogan; it was painted on the exterior wall of the church, printed on t-shirts, and displayed on signs that volunteers waved in the parking lot.
And the welcoming worked. The congregation exploded. The once drab interior was renovated into a modernized sanctuary that looked more like a concert venue than a church (oh, and we had a coffee bar). The sermons, though, remained accepting and full of grace.
So I got baptized. We dedicated our daughters. And it really felt like we found our forever church home.
But then, Covid hit. And like much of the world, our church became unrecognizable.
It started with his anti-mask rhetoric on social media. Then he began condemning lockdowns. Soon he was openly praising Iowa’s governor for “reopening” schools and businesses.
He “backed the blue” but criticized the Black Lives Matter movement.
And then he did what he told me he’d never do: he announced an entire sermon series on the “sin” of homosexuality.
It had been months since I’d been in church at that point, both because of the shift in rhetoric and because we were still in the midst of the pandemic. But I decided to go to one of the sermons to hear and see for myself if there was anything left of the warm, welcoming space I once loved.
I slipped into the back of the sanctuary instead of what was once our regular spot in the front left of the house. I didn’t raise my hands in worship. My body didn’t sway to the music. I stood silent and still.
When the sermon began, I didn’t take my eyes off our pastor. My hope was that through my glare he would feel my rage and sense of betrayal.
As he continued on, I seethed. My cheeks and ears grew hot. Tears welled.
And when it was over, I knew. I knew my family would never go back, and I knew I would never be the same.
My trust in church was broken. What was once faith became cynicism. My Bible went from my nightstand to under my bed.
I grew more and more bitter as he doubled down on his far-right stances. He hosted a rally for a well-known conservative presidential candidate on the very stage where I was baptized. He shared praise for Moms for Liberty. He became vocal in his opposition to rights for transgender children.
He and our church became a symbol of everything I am not. And I started to wonder not just what I believed, but if I believed.
But then, last weekend, I felt a stir in my heart that I hadn’t felt in years, and I experienced it in the unlikeliest of places: a Catholic church I’d never been to in a city that isn’t mine.
I was there for my infant niece’s baptism—as her godparent, ironically enough.
Though my attention during mass was split between the service and making sure my daughters and their cousins stayed moderately still and quiet, my ears perked when I heard a mention of Matthew 25:40-45:
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’ They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’ He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’”
Of all the scripture in the Bible, the priest happened to choose the one passage I had read since walking out of my old church years before.
Even more amazingly, I had just read it thanks to a book published by my friend Kayla called Every Season Sacred.
Kayla wrote this book of reflections and prayers as a guide for parents through the seasons of parenthood and adulting. Because I’ve known Kayla for more than a decade and align with what she stands for, it was the first “religious” book I hadn’t been turned off by in years.
I got the book earlier this fall and have been slowly (very slowly) making my way through the reflections—like dipping my toes into the shallow end of the pool. The first reflection, called “Noticing” focuses on this passage from Matthew as a reminder to “become aware of where we may extend ordinary grace” and to “not get so busy that we miss Jesus in the people in front of us.”
As a very busy working mom of two very busy little girls who is constantly preaching kindness to anyone who will listen, Kayla’s reflection got my attention.
And that’s why this happy little coincidence of scripture in the Catholic church I’d never been to in a city that wasn’t mine got my attention too.
When mass was over, the baptism began, and my niece, who had been sleeping in my brother-in-law’s arms, woke up as we walked to the baptismal font. She watched the priest as he spoke, eyes wide—not scared, but curious. Innocent. Happy. Warm.
Then she looked at me and smiled.
And that’s when it happened—the stir in my heart.
Like years before, my cheeks and ears grew hot and tears welled, but this time it was thanks to joy, love, and hope. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt some of my cynicism fade instead of grow.
As we drove back home that afternoon, I wondered for a moment whether God intervened and planted that scripture in the mass. I ultimately shook it off. But I did wonder. And honestly, wondering felt good.
It’s going to take me a long time, maybe forever, to sort out what I believe. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully trust a pastor again.
But thanks to a coincidence (/act of God?) and my niece’s big, beautiful eyes, I’m no longer hopeless. And for right now, that’s enough.
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So priests don’t pick the gospel, it’s picked years in advance as part of a cycle, so every Catholic Church has the same readings each weekend. For that sermon, our priest told us the Constitution of God as ruler is love. That one hit home. Sorry your old pastor ended up being who he was. He doesn’t know how big the heavenly table is, nor does he decide who gets a seat. I know a very open, welcoming Catholic Church that has a bare minimum standard for kid behavior if you ever want to give it a try 💜
Thank you for writing this. I’ve struggled because I share the same liberal views and feel that a congregation should be a welcoming place for all people. Once politics becomes involved, tax status should be revoked.
My dad is retired clergy and I’ve watched as congregations have become more hard lined, extremists and chased the young families (that they need) away.
My daughters haven’t been baptized yet, and I’m conflicted because I don’t want them part of a community trying to restrict their rights (by someone’s views “in the name of Jesus” 🤦♂️)