I held the paper in my trembling hands: Licensed Local Pastor. This title was finally mine. After earning my bachelor’s degree in Biblical Studies and Biblical Languages, completing the rigorous licensing process for the United Methodist Church, gaining approval from the Board of Ordained Ministry, and being appointed to my own pastoral position, I felt elated.
Growing up, I watched my mother embody the role of the devoted pastor’s wife. She typed papers, led choirs, and taught Sunday school, all while managing a full-time job outside the church. I promised myself I would follow a different path.
But I did not. My husband was in seminary when we married, and I accepted his calling to ministry as my own. Our wedding vows included the iconic words from Ruth: “Where you go, I will go; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God.” Together, we envisioned a future as missionaries.
For decades, I took on every volunteer role I could in the church. I typed bulletins, led choirs, taught Sunday school, organized women’s retreats, and directed church camps. At times, it became overwhelming, but I believed that the Christian way was to give oneself fully in service to others.
That commitment brought me to a small congregation, where I found myself preaching about service to God and others. It felt as though my entire life had led me to that moment. But this time, I was alone. My husband still had his congregation to tend, so I was forging this path solo. My congregation was small and elderly, and I performed more than the usual number of funerals. One member had recently lost her son after a lung transplant, and though I did my best to support her, her grief was so immense that she needed more than I could offer. Within a year and a half, my initial elation had soured into sorrow.
Alone in the church building, I would light candles and pray, begging God for relief from the despair that gripped me. The weight of depression became too much to bear. In desperation, I secluded myself in a hotel room for two days, praying and crying for release. When my husband came to take me home, I told him I needed to quit. He urged me to hold on for a few more months, but I broke down in tears.
After that experience, I tried to continue in ministry, joining my husband as an associate pastor for a year, hoping that a season of healing would restore me. I did not realize then just how long healing would take. I went on and off depression medication several times, searching for stability. Eventually, I found work in Human Resources at our local state university, where I transitioned to full-time employment. Despite some difficult moments—such as a painful encounter with an old college friend—I managed to hold on, emerging wiser for the struggle. Throughout this journey, my faith in God remained intact, largely unchanged. But something was about to shake it to the core.
My husband’s church had recently expanded its facilities, and the resulting financial strain led the congregation, with guidance from the district superintendent and bishop, to reduce his pay. In response, a couple from the church, appalled by this decision, generously gifted us a trip to Israel/Palestine.
While I knew of the longstanding conflict in Israel and Palestine, I had never fully understood the underlying issues. This first trip, which would be followed by four more, deepened our understanding of the Palestinian people and the profound challenges they face.
Our relationship with the Palestinian community opened doors to friendships with Arabic-speaking and Muslim individuals. We learned firsthand that Arabs and Muslims are not to be feared but embraced for their vibrant cultures and boundless hospitality. Some of our most treasured memories involve time spent with our Arab and Muslim friends.
Then came the rise of Donald Trump and Christian Nationalism. I was stunned to see so many of my Christian friends, former parishioners, and church leaders embrace the notion that God had ordained a man known for misogyny, racism, and predatory behavior to be President of the United States. I don’t believe that God ordains political leaders—especially in a democracy where the people elect their leaders. To me, Trump’s values seemed directly opposed to the teachings of Jesus. I found it disconcerting that some Christians would advocate for a religiously driven government in the U.S. when they so vehemently oppose religious control in other parts of the world. The separation of church and state exists to protect diverse beliefs and avoid imposing one religion on everyone.
This political and religious climate, coupled with an unwavering allegiance to the Israeli government, has left me feeling alienated from the faith community I once called home. Since my husband’s retirement three years ago, I have avoided Christian gatherings and church services. The beliefs that once sustained me now feel hollow.
In recent years, I’ve read numerous articles criticizing those who are deconstructing their faith and leaving the church. Many writers blame these individuals for lacking strength or dedication, or even claim they’re misled or influenced by satanic forces. This is nonsense. The real problem is the church’s departure from the teachings of Jesus. The Jesus I grew up with—a figure of love and servanthood—has been replaced by a Jesus of power and exclusion, one who condemns rather than embraces. I cannot follow this version of Jesus.
