On Tuesday, I had the opportunity to speak with a group of college students at UTC about my faith. Their questions were thoughtful, honest—and at times, incredibly pointed. We talked about the Church, the Bible, and the growing influence of Christian Nationalism. And in their questions, I didn’t hear cynicism for the sake of cynicism. I heard longing. Hunger for truth. A desire to reconcile the Jesus they’re drawn to with the institution that so often misrepresents Him.
It was a powerful reminder of why I love this generation so deeply—and why I miss teaching. Their honesty doesn’t scare me. It inspires me. Because what they’re asking for isn’t shallow or dismissive. It’s rooted in integrity. They’re not afraid to ask hard questions, and they won’t settle for half-hearted answers.
That conversation also became an unexpected doorway into a heavier, more reflective Holy Week for me. A reminder of just how much harm the institution of the Church has caused in the name of control, power, and “rightness.” A reminder that the story of Jesus—His life, His death, His resurrection—has too often been weaponized instead of lived.
As I walked through this Holy Week, I felt the weight of both hope and heartbreak. Hope, because I still believe in the radical, restorative love of Jesus. Heartbreak, because I know how many have been wounded by the very place that was supposed to embody that love.
For those finding themselves in the in-between—between hope and doubt, belief and questions, grief and a longing to trust—this Good Friday might have felt heavier than usual. Or maybe quieter. Less about a church service and more about the ache in your chest you couldn’t quite name.
Sometimes, we forget that Good Friday wasn’t always good news. For the people who lived it, it was heartbreak. It was confusion. It was the silence of a story that felt unfinished.
And maybe that’s where some of us are too.
It’s 7:22am on Easter morning, and I’m sitting in my local coffee shop trying not to break down. (Spoiler: I’m not doing a great job.) For the past few minutes, I’ve been trying to name the weight I’m carrying—to put my finger on why this morning feels so heavy.
It’s not sadness exactly. It’s something deeper. Something tangled up in longing, in a hope that’s been stretched thin—not because I’m unsure of what I believe, but because I’m heartbroken over what the Church in America has become. There’s an ache in showing up to celebrate resurrection while feeling disillusioned with the institution that’s supposed to carry that message.
Honestly, it feels surreal. All across the country, churches are gathering today to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus—the hope, the victory, the promise of new life. And yet, many of those same spaces are also turning a blind eye—or worse, offering full-throated support—to the very horrors unfolding around us.
It’s jarring to see the name of Jesus lifted high in worship, while injustice is justified from the same pulpits. To hear words about love and redemption echo through sanctuaries that have grown comfortable with cruelty, exclusion, and nationalism disguised as faith.
How can we celebrate resurrection while aligning ourselves with systems that continue to oppress the vulnerable?
How can we claim to follow a Savior who fed the poor, welcomed the outsider, and challenged the powerful—while refusing to do the same?
There’s a deep dissonance between the Jesus we preach and the actions we defend. And on a day meant to proclaim the triumph of life over death, I can’t help but wonder: What kind of resurrection are we really celebrating?
It feels like we’ve traded humility and compassion for control and dominance. We’ve built platforms instead of communities, chosen power over presence, and somewhere along the way, we stopped looking like the Jesus we claim to follow. And I find myself grieving—not just for the ways we’ve strayed, but for the people who’ve been left behind in the wreckage. The ones silenced for not fitting the mold. The ones scarred by judgment when they came seeking grace. People Jesus would have drawn close… we’ve too often pushed out for asking hard questions.
I’m also incredibly heartbroken because I can’t get one member of my family to attend an Easter service with me. (Edited to say that my oldest just texted to say that she’s joining me!)
But, I don’t blame them.
How could I? When the version of church they’ve seen looks more like exclusion than welcome, more like performance than presence. When church has too often made them feel like projects to be fixed instead of people to be loved.
I understand their hesitation. I feel it sometimes, too.
Last night, my kids pointed out that if they attended church on Easter, they would become “one of those families” that only attends church on Easter and Christmas. (But, the only one that attended the Christmas service with me was my husband and he left half way through.)
Here’s the part that hurts: When people use that phrase, “one of those families,” it’s usually said with a mix of judgment and dismissal. Like it’s a character flaw. Like it’s laziness. But, for our family, what it really is… is grief. Disconnection. Weariness. It’s what happens when the Church stops feeling like a refuge and starts feeling like a place you have to explain yourself.
It’s not apathy or laziness or some failure of faith. It’s that we’ve seen too much. Heard too much. We’ve sat through too many sermons that preached love but practiced fear. We’ve watched too many leaders protect power over people. We’ve heard the silence when injustice demanded a response.
But, those aren’t the only issues.
We’ve also heard beautiful, stirring sermons that moved hearts in the moment—only to watch the energy fade before it ever turned into action. And somewhere along the way, the place that once felt sacred started to feel… foreign.
At first, we quietly wondered if there was still a place for us at the table. But over time, a harder truth became difficult to ignore: The table itself has been reshaped—corrupted—by the rise of Christian Nationalism.
At some point, the question shifted. It stopped being about whether we had a seat at the table… and became a harder, more haunting question: Is Jesus even at this table anymore?
And maybe that’s what’s unraveling me this morning. The deep desire for something real—for a Church that looks more like Jesus and less like an empire. A Church that leads with humility, not hierarchy. That feeds the hungry, lifts the oppressed, welcomes the stranger, and loves without agenda.
I don’t long for perfection. I long for presence. For sacred spaces that are honest, human, and rooted in compassion. For leaders who are less interested in being right and more interested in being like Christ. For a Church where the fruit of the Spirit isn’t just preached from the pulpit, but practiced in everyday life.
So maybe this ache, this unraveling, is a holy one. A sign that what once sustained us no longer will. A call to imagine something new—not as a rejection of faith, but as an act of faith. Maybe it’s not about leaving the table out of bitterness… maybe it’s about walking away in order to make room for something better.
A new table. A truer table. One where Jesus doesn’t just get mentioned… He’s actually there. A place where the weary are embraced, not evaluated. Where questions are welcomed. Where love leads.
That’s the Church I still believe in.
That’s the one I’m waiting on.
And maybe… that’s the one we’re called to help rebuild.
Searching for Jesus in A̶m̶e̶r̶i̶c̶a̶ Chattanooga 