Why did I leave? Because I was tired of being expected to hate.

It's been a couple of years since my exit from evangelicalism. The thick of that processing, unpacking, and deconstructing time was overwhelmed with grief, loss, and a wondering if things would ever feel steady again (they do — there is so much hope — they do). I was incredibly blessed to have a few friends and supportive parents along the way — which is rare, and I've never forgotten that fact.

Although the learning and exploring will always continue, it feels less urgent now. The pressing questions have either been answered, or I've found peace in the not knowing. I've become part of a community where wonderings are welcome, and where it's always okay to ask, "But why?"

Still, it's not as if I have completely left my former community behind. I've chosen to not attend their events or services because, quite frankly, my beliefs wouldn't be welcomed. But I remain connected for a variety of reasons. An ongoing learning process in this growth experience is evaluating how to have relationships with those that choose to stick around, or those who might come along later. I don't want to create an echo chamber for myself. If I learned anything from my time in these spaces, it's seeing the awful effects of group think and group polarization play out in real time, and the hurt and trauma it causes to those who dare to believe differently.

Staying connected means I'm still loosely aware of the practices and beliefs of this crowd. I tune in enough to know what's going on, but tune out enough to not go on a righteous anger rant every day. The distance has given me a great deal of perspective on what I left behind, and more importantly, why I left it behind.

Perhaps the biggest thing I've left behind is fear. Fear dictates so much of the evangelical cultural narrative, and fear often leads to hate. When most people recall a childhood memory, they can recall which grade they were in. But I could tell you which group of people evangelicals hated at the time.

People that read Harry Potter. Gay people. The writers of that Golden Compass movie. Muslims. Obama. Refugees. Liberals. Hillary. Immigrants. Anyone that said Black Lives Matter. People who believe in wearing masks. People who believe in getting the vaccine. Trans people. People that taught CRT. Disney. Drag queens. 

What is startling to me now is that they insisted they were actually loving these people. It was certainly hate, but they did some sort of mental gymnastics to label it love.

They would give metaphors of tackling someone so that they wouldn't get hit by a bus. In the metaphor, they injure the person in the process of getting them out of harm's way. Then they ask if the loving thing would have been to let the person get hit rather than injuring them by trying to save them. But in doing so, they show their hand and center themselves as the savior.

Then of course there's the whiplash of excuses in the face of atrocities in their own circles. Theologians, pastors, faith leaders... their backstage behaviors brought to light. Spiritual and physical abuse. Hidden crimes. Protection of abusers. I've said it before and I'll say it again: they want to call drag queens "groomers" but do not utter a word about the actual groomers in their own spaces. And if they do, it's another gymnastic routine of defense.

I was expected to laugh at the jokes about groups of people that were assumed to not be in the room. I wasn't allowed to support efforts to help marginalized groups. It was inappropriate for me to care for a friend that was gay or transgender unless I was actively trying to change them. Any time I advocated for immigrants, or the black community, or natives, or people that weren't white evangelical Christians, I was patronized or spoken to harshly. 

Looking back on all of that (and what's happening now) just makes me so tired. How did I last as long as I did in those spaces?

A few things I've learned:

1. We are not saviors. Not even close. We are called to bring heaven to earth, not hell.

2. Our love isn't love just because we call it love (or because we think we're telling the truth). Love is love. Pull out 1 Corinthians 13 and see how far you get before current behavior in evangelical culture fails the love test.

3. Love lifts up the other person, not drags them down. If they feel hatred, they are probably right.

4. I don't hold a monopoly on truth, and neither does any one person from my former (or current) community. Which is a relief all around. I've been spoken to in such condescending tones by people that have not been in my "inner circle" in a long time, if ever. They speak as if I'm a lost little sheep, led astray by the whims of the world. But while it's fair to say I believe they are just as lost as they think I am, I don't have to talk to them that way. I don't need to make them feel like they make me feel.

5. Seeking out people in marginalized communities and showering them with unconditional love and compassion is at the very heart of Jesus. I don't know how I missed it before, but I see it now.

As much as I hoped the community I was once part of would welcome reform, the more I followed Jesus, the more they pushed me out.

Here's the thing: I can say that now without anger. It's just a fact, and one that I have accepted. It was wrong of them to do that, but they were right — we don't believe the same thing. We don't follow the same morals. 

There is so much freedom in this life. They would roll their eyes and claim it's freedom to sin. But love isn't sin. Woe to those that call good evil, and evil good.

I've gotten off topic, so I'll close here. What pushed me out of institutional church spaces was how comfortable the people were with hating others. So comfortable that they didn't even see it as hate, and so comfortable that by not also participating in the hatred, I was hated, too.

With the perspective of distance, I see now that what you believe about God does quite a number on how you see yourself, and how you see other people. When you think you're a hopeless, dirty, rotten, sinner that is incapable of good, you project that onto others. But we were never meant to find our identity in the bad things we've done.

"When we speak about ourselves as deserving only punishment, it gives us license to treat others the same. Unfortunately, when we believe that humans are unworthy or love, we lose sight of the imago Dei in every person. The belief that we are destined for punishment allows the violence and death imbedded in our systems to go unchallenged, and sometimes baptized as though God-ordained. ... A few years ago, in the wake of another death of a black man at the hands of police, I saw multiple examples of a shame-filled approach to God. When police officers killed Eric Garner, I saw Christians reasoning that because everyone has sinned and offended a holy God, execution is what everyone deserves—and in fact that was what Eric Garner deserved. In that moment, shame-filled spirituality was upholding an unjust system that had no vision for the inherent value of humans, whom God created. We need freedom from shame-filled spirituality not only to escape our own shame but also to heal our systems that use shame to oppress and abuse. ...

If we anxiously try to keep close by vigilantly making sure we never offend a holy God, we end up valuing rules over people. We hear about asylum seekers at the southern border and we're more upset about laws being broken than about human suffering. We become like the religious leaders of Jesus's day who complained about healing on the Sabbath." Krispin Mayfield, Attached to God

My hope? That each of those people experience the unconditional love of Jesus and that it clicks. We are loved, and we are here to love.

"Surprisingly, when Jesus comes to earth, he doesn't start puking everywhere. He's not disgusted. He delights in people, loves spending time and sitting at tables with those who would never have been welcomed into temple. Jesus, the perfect picture of God, delights in us." Krispin Mayfield, Attached to God

Hate has no place here.