I’ve been listening to a podcast about the fall of Mars Hill, an evangelical megachurch, and its volatile lead pastor, Mark Driscoll. As I was listening, I noticed I started to feel quite uneasy. Anxious. My heart rate ticked up. My breathing was a little faster. I felt a lump in my throat. A tenseness in my shoulders. I noticed the same feeling when I happened to see a pastor from the church we have just left at my son’s baseball game. And it was then that I understood that what I knew with my head, had seeped into every crevice in my body. I was reacting to emotional hurt. Spiritual wounding.

Over the past few years, since the 2016 election, I have been wrestling with understanding and reconciling my faith tradition with what felt like a hijacking by extreme right-wing politicians. The Jesus that I know and love was no longer being represented by this brand of rugged and rude religion. Tones of nationalism and racism becoming stronger. I was uncomfortable. So I started to look deeper into my own faith.

After we moved here in 2016, we started attending a church that is large, popular, and polished. The preacher is gifted, holding our attention for 45 minutes at a time. We joined a small group. Made friends with the leadership. Faithfully tithed.

But a few years in, something didn’t feel right. It was subtle and we couldn’t put our finger on it. Finally, one night at dinner, my husband said, “Where are the women? Why don’t women preach? Who are the women on the elder board? Where are the women leading the way?” He was right. The women are in the shadows. Many of the women stay home (a very fine arrangement if by choice, not by pressure), home-school the children, “support” their husbands, or otherwise are deferent, especially in the matters of the church.

We started doing some digging on the church website. No women on the elder board. But no comment on the church’s position on such matters. So, my husband contacted the lead pastor and the executive pastor to ask the question: Where are the women? This is when we learned (after a few cups of coffee and some emails) about “complementarianism”. This is a theology widespread in evangelical circles that espouses that while women and men are “equal” they are to hold different roles and promotes that men should be the “leaders” of the household (female submission) and church (ergo, no women on the elder board). There was no overt abuse. No direct threats. It wasn’t what was happening, but rather who wasn’t included that was the problem. This is why it was harder to see from the outset.  

“The Bible said ‘man’”, we were told by the pastors. “We can’t argue with that.” They quoted 1 Timothy 3 (Here is a trustworthy saying: Whoever aspires to be an overseer desires a noble task. ² Now the overseer is to be above reproach, faithful to his wife, temperate, self-controlled, respectable, hospitable, able to teach…) to defend this concept, seemingly ignoring that the verses they quoted have nothing to do with being an anatomical man, but everything to do with being a person of character.

I was heartbroken. This church was anything but transparent about its codified rules of excluding women at the leadership table. Think about that. Fifty percent of the world…equal but not invited. And not even brave enough to be upfront about that fact. We discussed leaving the church then, to find a more inclusive place, but decided to hold on. To keep the conversation going. Someone has to stay and help drive change from within, right?

Then came COVID…

Early in the pandemic, this church gathered its vast resources to purchase masks for our healthcare community (noble but misguided as this only exacerbated the black market for masks early on when hospitals were outbid by private sector bidders). I was interviewed as a “front line provider” and the church prayed over me and others. But, later in the pandemic, when everyone was tired of masks, and the church had been meeting online-only for months, I begged the church leaders to encourage mask-wearing for those attending services. While I sat in my living room, watching online, too afraid to attend in person, with a child ineligible for vaccines at that point, I watched throngs of maskless worshippers pour into services. It was agonizing. A missed opportunity to take the lead in the community to demonstrate humility, sacrifice, and compassion.

I opened emails from my hospital about the rising number of COVID cases, hours of EMS diversion time, followed by the personal communication from the church pastor about not suggesting masking at services, so that “everyone feels welcome”. Stunned, I replied, “Well, interestingly enough, this doctor doesn’t feel welcome at my home place of worship right now, as I feel it’s a public health threat to me, my unvaccinated youngest son, and all those around me who could contract COVID from me, an unbeknownst carrier.” Furthermore, I noted, it was striking that the church that was so proud of itself for procuring thousands of masks months earlier was unwilling to don the same simple masks to mitigate the spread of the deadly disease. I offered the perspective that this posture about masks amplifies the perception that Christians are selfish and entitled individuals.

Again, my heart was shattered.

And as I sat in the stillness of my basement, feeling with my body the anxiousness about my experience at the church, it began to make sense. As much as I don’t want to use the word “trauma”, it’s what it is. The body tells the mind:” You are hurt.” Despite my efforts to talk to church leaders with calm and kind and curious words, I remained wounded. After hours and hours of discussion with my family and other trusted friends, we decided to leave the church.

It may seem so small as this huge church won’t miss us at all. Besides, we are moving to another state. So why would I even bother writing this? Why is this worthy of discussion? Because I am not the only one who has been hurt.

What makes me saddest is how many people are damaged by this type of theology and behavior. When women are held back, uninvited, we all lose. We all lose when we decline to bring a diversity of voices to the table. We all lose when we place individualism over the social contract to care for one another with small sacrifices. I just can’t believe that Jesus would tell a woman “You are equally welcome in heaven but not at the same table as a man on earth.” And I certainly can’t picture a loving Lord who would refuse to take simple measures to protect the most vulnerable among us.

It took me years to see and name that unsettled feeling. And now that I have pulled away, I feel so much more healthy and free. I also struggled with the church’s position on LGBTQ+ and the deafening silence on issues of racism and the war in Ukraine. So now, I am re-imagining my faith that is centered on Jesus. On His love. Not a set of hurtful man-made rules that bring exclusion and offense, and yes, even pain. I have not given up on Jesus, but I have given up on a church that may do a lot of good, but at great cost to too many.

Disclaimer: My viewpoints are not necessarily reflective of my employer, or any local, regional or national organization that I belong to. As a matter of fact, I pretty much just speak for myself. Please keep that in mind.