The Human Factor: Kindness Beyond the Church Walls

 As someone who has walked with God for years, I find myself standing at an uncomfortable crossroads, staring at a truth I never wanted to confront: the people who taught me about unconditional love seem incapable of practicing it. These are the same voices that filled my childhood with lessons about loving without limits, about seeing Christ in every face, about never letting someone's bank account or skin color or accent determine their worth in our eyes. Yet here they are, these spiritual mentors and fellow believers, drawing lines in the sand with the same hands they raised in worship just hours before.

But what haunts me most isn't just their hypocrisy—it's the ease with which they justify it. How does someone transition from "love thy neighbor" to "well, not that neighbor" without missing a beat? Is it possible that the Christianity they taught me was never meant to be lived out fully, but rather existed as some beautiful, impossible ideal we're supposed to admire from a distance? Or worse—have I been naive enough to believe that faith actually changes people, when maybe it just gives them a more sophisticated vocabulary for their unchanged hearts?

This leads me to a question that terrifies me: If the people who claim to know God best are the ones most comfortable betraying His core message, what does that say about the reliability of everything else they've taught me? How many other "truths" about faith, about God, about what it means to be a good person, are just as hollow as their promises of unconditional love? And if I can't trust the messengers, how do I know I can trust the message itself?

I was raised in the heart of the church. My parents were devoted Christians, surrounded by extended family who shared the same faith. From the very beginning, my world was steeped in Christianity. I attended a Christian preschool while my mom worked at a Christian school, and faith was woven into every part of our lives. By the time I was three, I was already reciting Bible verses and praying for my pastors each night with a childlike sincerity that came naturally in such an environment.

But then, everything started to shift. I began kindergarten at a public school, and my mom left her job at the Christian school to teach in public education. Suddenly, the world I had known—one centered on shared beliefs and constant reminders of faith—expanded into something unfamiliar. I was no longer surrounded by “full-blown” Christianity. The change wasn’t just about environment; it was the beginning of a broader awakening, one that would shape how I saw faith, people, and the complexities in between.

As I stepped further into the world outside of my faith bubble, I started to see things differently. I realized that not everyone was kind, and not everyone shared the beliefs I had been raised to hold dear. The values I was taught as absolute—what was good, right, and true—weren’t universal. Still, I stayed true to myself. I tried to be kind, to make friends, and to be the kind of person I believed God wanted me to be.

Sometimes, that was enough. I found friends who accepted me, even if we didn’t always agree. But other times, I became a target. I was bullied for being “different.” I didn’t listen to the popular music on secular radio—I listened to Christian stations. While other kids talked about the latest movies, I was still watching VeggieTales or old Disney classics. My world was smaller, safer, and sometimes that made me stand out in uncomfortable ways.

Over time, though, things began to shift—subtly, quietly. My parents noticed some of the teasing. We started making small changes. In my dad’s car, we didn’t always listen to Christian radio anymore. At home, we watched movies that made my mom a little uneasy, but that were age-appropriate and helped me feel more connected to the world I was growing up in. It wasn’t a rejection of faith—it was an adjustment. A gentle opening of doors.

The only thing that still felt “normal” through all the changes was television. It was a space where my family could meet in the middle. There were shows my mom and dad both enjoyed, and I was finally at the age where I could understand the humor—at least on the surface. Shows like MASH*, Home Improvement, and Friends became staples in our home. I laughed at the jokes, but most of the deeper, adult messages flew right over my head. It felt like a safe kind of rebellion—grown-up TV that didn’t get me into trouble.

But then came another layer to my personality that didn’t quite fit the mold I was raised in: my love for musicals. I was obsessed. I knew every word to The Sound of Music like it was scripture. I sang along to Grease with more passion than most kids my age, and I was always looking forward to discovering the next show-stopping number. Musical theater lit something up in me—it was joy, drama, expression, and beauty all rolled into one.

But in the eyes of some, that love made me look... different. Like I was drifting from the faith I had been raised in. I didn’t look like the typical Christian kid anymore. I looked like an oddball—someone with one foot still in the church, but the other stepping out into a world full of “secular” influence. And in that tension, I started to feel the pressure of choosing between who I was becoming and who others expected me to be.

Once a year, I went to church camp—a place that felt both familiar and freeing. It was a rare space where I could spend time with kids who were like me in some ways, yet completely different in others. In the evenings, we sang worship songs with genuine hearts, every lyric echoing our shared belief in God and Jesus. But during the day, things lightened up. We blasted songs like Fearless by Taylor Swift during activities, laughed over inside jokes, and just enjoyed being kids. We were serious about our faith, but we also got to be normal—silly, joyful, expressive. Church camp reminded me that faith and fun didn’t have to be opposites. They could exist together, and in that space, I felt like my full self.

When I reached middle school, everything in my life started to shift. My dad had begun studying to become a pastor, and not long after, we moved to a new church. At the time, I wasn’t told the full story—I was simply told that the change would help me cope with the sadness of losing my best friend, who had just moved out of state. It sounded comforting, maybe even logical, but something about it didn’t quite sit right. Deep down, I sensed there was more happening beneath the surface.

That season marked a turning point for me. The church I had known as home was gone, my best friend was gone, and now my dad was stepping into a new, more visible spiritual role. Everything familiar began to feel unstable. My sense of normalcy was cracking, and so was the version of faith I had always known. What followed was a period of deep transformation—one that would challenge, stretch, and ultimately reshape the way I saw God, church, and myself.

Then my dad stepped away from the church. He stayed in school, but he stopped showing up to services. Why? Because our so-called pastor told him he would never become a pastor — that he wasn’t good enough and wouldn’t make it. And instead of supporting him, my mom told him to just accept it and listen. So he left. He walked away from the church, and honestly, I don’t blame him. He only ever came back when I was involved — for my confirmation, when I had a solo with the youth praise team, or if I had a big part in a church play. That was it. Otherwise, he was done. But this time, I understood exactly what was happening. I saw the truth. I saw why my dad stopped going. And I lost every bit of respect I had for that lead pastor. That is not what a true Christian is supposed to be.

I was furious with some of the adults in the church. How could they just stand by and let the leader of their church say such cruel, dismissive things? I didn’t leave the church entirely, but I refused to sit through another one of those services. I kept going to Sunday School, even helped teach the little kids in elementary, but I couldn’t bring myself to respect the pastor anymore. He had lost all credibility in my eyes.

Then one Sunday, the truth finally broke through for others too. Someone else saw what I already knew. They saw why my dad walked away, why we lost an incredible youth leader, and why every staff member had gone silent and afraid to speak up. I saw it happen — our lead pastor screaming at the children's ministry director, just because the lesson she taught the kids didn’t perfectly line up with his sermon. It was disgusting. And that moment? That was the turning point. The adults finally opened their eyes. They realized that this man, the one preaching every week, wasn’t practicing a single word of what he preached. He wasn’t a leader. He was a hypocrite. And finally — finally — the church leaders had the guts to do something about it. They asked him to retire.

High school is where everything really started to shift for me. I was in a huge public school — over a thousand students — most of them believed differently than I did, and honestly, that was fine. I found my place in theater — show choir, musicals, plays — that was my world, and I loved every second of it. But my faith? It started to crack.

There were Sundays I couldn’t even drag myself out of bed. Youth group felt like the same old stuff recycled over and over again — boring lessons dressed up in new words. I only bothered showing up for the big flashy youth events they threw every few months. And the thing is, it wasn’t just boredom anymore. I had changed. I still believed — deep down, I held onto my faith — but I could finally see things for what they were. I saw how the world really worked. I knew what normal looked like, and church didn’t feel like it anymore.

Some of the kids I went to church with? They were the rich, sheltered ones. They only ever brushed up against “reality” during mission trips where they could feel good about helping the “less fortunate.” Inner-city kids thought I was normal. But to the rich kids at church? I was the weird one. I didn’t fit into their neat little box, and I was done pretending to.

But after high school, things shifted again. The children’s ministry director asked me if I could lead third service Sunday School. I already attended second service and usually rode with my mom to save gas, so it made sense. She wanted to actually sit in church and have her peace, and I was more than willing to help. I wasn’t just some helper — I got to lead the lessons, plan the activities, and run the class. So I stepped up. I brought on an assistant, and every Sunday during third service, we handled it. I was also in the choir, so I had to rush out of my robe, grab my kids, and get everything started — but I loved it. We had fun. We did creative lessons, hands-on activities, even snacks. The kids enjoyed it, and so did I.

Soon, I became her right hand — second in command. She trusted me. I was the one she leaned on for events, planning, all of it. But of course, people had to talk. Because yes — I was dating her son. Sumi and I liked each other, we were getting to know one another, and yes, we were in a relationship. But suddenly, that’s all anyone could see. People started whispering that the only reason I had any responsibility, the only reason I was trusted with so much at 20 years old, was because I was dating the children’s ministry director’s son.

That pissed me off. I wasn’t shy about calling it out, either. I told people flat-out: that’s not why I’m here. I earned that trust through hard work, dedication, and because I actually cared about the kids. But of course, people believe what they want to believe — it’s easier for them to assume it’s favoritism than admit I was doing a damn good job.

Eventually, she had to separate us at church — not because we did anything wrong, but because people couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Our relationship wasn’t public property. It was ours. Between me, him, and our families. That’s it. I was lucky to have friends who didn’t judge us, who supported us, who knew the truth. We didn’t parade our relationship around because I didn’t want the extra drama or judgment. We kept it private, respectful, and separate — because people love to make assumptions when they’ve got nothing better to do.

Then came that one summer — the last real normal one before everything unraveled. She paired us together for Vacation Bible School. And even though everyone expected us to act like the sweet, picture-perfect "church couple," we didn’t play that game. We made a choice: we were there to lead, not perform. We shared responsibility, we worked hard, and we focused on making sure those kids had an amazing week. We cared more about being good leaders than putting on a show for judgmental eyes.

Then COVID hit. Everything fell apart. We broke up. He had finished college, but had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, no direction — just floating. And me? I was in the middle of getting my degree and desperately needed some kind of stability. I couldn’t carry both of us, not with the chaos coming.

Then came the bombshell — his mom, the children's ministry director, announced her retirement and said she was leaving the church. I was stunned. I wasn’t ready to take on her role. I wasn’t prepared to fill her shoes, not like that, not that fast.

And within two months of COVID hitting, everything changed — and I mean everything. Our church was turned completely inside out. The children’s ministry director? Gone. Our youth director left to care for her family. The associate pastor was reassigned to a new church. And then the lead pastor was moved, too. Just like that, almost every leader I had ever known in that building was gone.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the new people — but they weren’t my people. They didn’t know what the church had been through. They hadn’t seen what I had seen. This wasn’t the same church anymore. It didn’t feel like home. It felt like a stranger wearing the same name.

But life kept moving, whether I was ready or not. I clung to the little pieces of normal that were left — mostly choir. It wasn’t the full choir anymore, just quartets, and I was part of that rotation. Our director would swap singers every few weeks, so at least that gave me something to hold onto. Something familiar. But even then, everything felt... off. Distanced. I still helped where I could, but it wasn’t the same. None of it was.

And then I left. I walked away — completely. Cut contact.

My beliefs were shifting again, and it scared me. I wanted to have a normal, steady relationship with God. I craved that peace — the kind I saw others claim to have. But underneath that longing, I was boiling with anger. At the church. At the people. At the hurt. At myself for still wanting faith after everything.

And then… I came home.

Yeah… some people showed me what real Christian love looked like — even when I didn’t want to see it. They sent cards while I was away. Some of them honestly pissed me off. I didn’t ask for encouragement. I didn’t want their words. But a few of those cards… they hit differently. They reminded me I wasn’t invisible. They made me feel human again. Normal, even. And for that, I was grateful — even in my anger.

But I also heard the whispers. The stories. The so-called “Christian people” who went to my mother and told her she must’ve done something wrong. Like my decision to step away had to be someone’s fault — hers. They judged me from a distance. Asking why I cut contact. Asking why I didn’t reply to people. As if I owed them something. As if they were entitled to my pain, my process, my healing. And I kept asking myself — Are these really Christians? Because nothing about what they said looked or sounded like Christ.

But then… there were the real ones. The people who didn’t need explanations. Who didn’t demand answers. The ones who just looked me in the eye and said, “I’m glad you’re home.” They didn’t pry. They just showed up. With love. With patience. Without judgment. They reminded me that real Christianity doesn’t come with a checklist or an interrogation — it shows up when it matters, and it stays. And deep down, even through all the anger and confusion, I knew — those were the real Christians.

But the truth is, there was just too much judgment. I stopped going regularly. I only showed up for special occasions, and even then, it felt like I was walking into a place that no longer fit. Sometimes I’d watch services online — other times, I couldn’t even bring myself to do that. The connection was fading, and I felt it.

Meanwhile, my dad started attending a new church — one where no one knew me. Where no one came at me with loaded questions. Sure, they asked things — but it wasn’t invasive. It wasn’t accusatory. It was… normal.

So I made a choice. I moved churches.

Am I still technically a member of my old church? Yes. Do I still show up there sometimes? Yeah, when I can. Do I like one better than the other? Not really. They’re different, but I still get something from both. I don’t feel weighed down by either of them. I’m not drowning in expectations anymore.

And more importantly — I’ve found my peace.

I know where I stand in my relationship with God, with Christ. My faith looks different now — very different from when I was a kid. But that’s what growing up does. Faith as an adult should look different. And the best part? I’m still involved. I still show up. I still do ministry with both churches — online, in person when I can. Thankfully, I don’t have to explain myself anymore. I don’t live close to either church, and when I do make it in person, it’s rare — but meaningful.

And now, I get to be the example I wish I’d had. I get to show kids that faith doesn’t have to look one way. That you can be in a public school, live in the real world, and still love Jesus. That normal isn’t pretending — it’s showing up in your life with love, honesty, and faith that doesn’t rely on performance. My journey’s been messy, complicated, and full of questions — but it’s real. And that’s what matters.