Tomorrow will be one year since the email hit my inbox. The one “checking in” to see if I was okay, to schedule a meeting to talk with him and his assistant. I wouldn’t see it until a week later. And it would take a month to actually have the meeting, the one for which he didn’t bother to show up.

I didn’t know I’d already been removed from the worship team. I didn’t know my Facebook statuses and my blog posts were determining factors in that decision. I didn’t know my own spiritual journey of seeking grace in the midst of messiness disqualified me from singing on that church’s platform. I didn’t know I’d leave that meeting with his assistant and not hear a word from him for nine months.

* * * * *

We’ve been out of church for eleven months now. Had you asked Mark or me a few years ago if there would come a time when we’d be out of church for a year, neither of us could’ve imagined it. We wouldn’t have guessed that we’d spend our Sunday mornings sleeping in or lounging on the sofas or hanging out at Panera Bread.

Sure, I’d thought of taking a break like my counselor had suggested. But I wouldn’t have guessed that the church hurt would be so intense that I’d break for a year, then struggle to step foot inside another church.

* * * * *

We went to the church with the sign and the female pastor again this past Sunday. Just like the previous Sunday, apprehension gnawed at me as we entered the parking lot. But, once again, people were friendly and my tension melted . . . until the pastor announced there was a guest speaker. A male guest speaker.

I have my suspicions as to why I wanted to get up and run out the door. Most of my church hurts have been at the hands of male leadership patriarchy. But I remained in my seat, and the guest speaker did a fine job, although I have to admit that I’m finding myself more fond {and less scared} of a female pastor.

* * * * *

Mark and I were discussing the past year, and our recent visits to church. I told him how I’m afraid to think of committing again. Of being vulnerable again. Of getting hurt again. How I can’t take being punished again for the spiritual journey I find myself stumbling through. How I can’t take being told again there’s something wrong with me {that’s another story for another day}. How I don’t think I can survive another round of spiritual abuse and manipulation.

I know that even after all the shit, I still love the Church. And I still want to be part of the local church. I still think Jesus welcomes everybody to the Table, and I want to sit and eat in acceptance.

* * * * *

I still have that email . . . the beginning of the end. The end of spiritual abuse and manipulation. The end of pulpit shaming. The end of a little grace mixed in with the law. The end of evangelical patriarchy.

Oh, sure, all those things will still go on and on in churches. But as for me, they have ended . . . because now I know better.