My friend Hannah and I walked along the Hudson River one fall morning, and she said, “The church is a mess—in its own right, politically, in terms of gender and race—and it’s getting so much wrong. How do you stay?” “I see all that,” I told her. Of course I do. But there’s a stubborn part of me that is absolutely unwilling to starve my own heart because some other people have gotten it wrong. My faith is one of the most nourishing, healing, restorative parts of my life, and I’m unwilling to go without it as a protest. I see the church’s failings. I’ve seen many of them up close, much closer
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