My husband of five years, Dan, stands beside me, steady as a pier tethered to a drifting boat. Once we are home, we will crawl into bed together—both of us still dressed in our church clothes, but with our shoes kicked off—and he will listen as I mumble through my litany of grievances: the political jab during the announcements, the talk of hell, the simplistic interpretation of a complicated text, the violent and masculine theology, the seemingly shared assumption that the end times are upon us because we just elected a Democratic president with a foreign-sounding name.
