Let me tell you about the day I broke things off with Jesus.
Four years ago this week—on May 3, 2015—I sat in my last Christian worship service. I had doubts prior, mind you—including a tear-filled incident years earlier—but up to that exact hour I still maintained a sense of hope. Until I didn’t.
Call it an epiphany if you must name it, but I knew unequivocally it was over. I stayed for the rest of the service because my brain could not even process getting up and walking out. I sat blankly, wondering if anyone could sense my despair.
In that small Methodist church in upstate New York, on an ordinary and unassuming Sunday, I realized I could not call myself a follower of Jesus anymore. For the first time in over 40 years I no longer identified as a Christian. At that moment I honestly did not have any idea where I would end up, faith-wise. I just felt my current path would not take me there.
My husband had stayed home with our youngest that day. The girls were in Sunday school in another part of the building. So, as the time to stand and head to the front for communion arrived, I sat alone, contemplating, debating whether or not to engage.
Should I still go along with the ritual a last time? One for the road? Participating seemed weird. Not participating seemed weirder. Awkward and guilt-inducing either way.
I decided to do it. I walked up. I accepted the bread. I took my mini-cup of wine. I said the right words. I returned to my seat. I quietly said goodbye. I cried a little. No one noticed.
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