free

a white ceramic sculpture of a person sitting on the ground. arms comfortably at their side and their knees drawn up to their chest

I have a confession to make.

I haven’t been to church in a year. 

Well, a year this past Tuesday.

I have another confession.

It’s been the most freeing year of my life.

Sunday School. Sunday Morning. Sunday Evening. 

Tuesday Visitation. Wednesday Bible Study.

Friday Youth Nights. Saturday Visitation.

Conferences. Revivals. Special Speakers.

This was the routine. For almost twenty years, this was my weekly routine.

It was exhausting. It felt like a lot of pressure.

It was also beautiful. In a weird kind of way.

Here we were. A group of people. 

All on the same page. 

All with the same goal.

All of us. 

Belonging.

I think that’s what I loved about it. That I belonged. Or at least, felt like I belonged.

Belonging is an incredibly powerful motivator.

A friend once said, “Belonging is more powerful than belief.” I’m still unpacking if that is true for me. But regardless, I’ve seen it played out enough to know there is truth in there somewhere.

When you are five, you listen to adults. You trust them.

When you are ten, you become curious regarding what they’ve said.

When you are fifteen, you realize that you have to be careful who hears your questions.

When you are twenty, you start to see where the holes are in what was said to you.

When you are twenty five, you redirect your focus, hoping for something redemptive.

When you are thirty, you walk away. Not out of angst, but out of need.

I was told that if I stepped away, bad things would happen.

Told I needed to trust. Have more faith.

I tried. I tried so hard. 

But still, I felt unsetttled.

The opposite of confident.

Anxious. Confused.

So I stepped back. Asked why.

I was never told I’d feel so free.

Last October I was in New York City for the first time. And on my last day, I walked around the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

By myself. It was divine.

I cried at everything. Because I’m emotional. Whatever.

While I was walking through the museum, I came across a sculpture. 

I can’t name it. Or even tell you who created it.

All I can tell you is how it made me feel.

It made me feel safe.

Secure.

Centered.

Art’s ability to center and soothe the soul will never cease to amaze and stun me.

The sculpture was a person. 

Sitting on a rock. Knees drawn up to the chest. 

Arms free. Heart protected. 

Gaze soft. Lingering even.

It’s how I feel having stepped away from religion.

It’s how I feel when I ask why.

When I question. 

When I am curious.

This sculpture is the epitome of freedom for me.

It has taken on a posture of humility. 

It is not standing tall, arms outstretched, daring the world to conquer it.

It sits in comfortable solitude. 

It does not need to shout its words to all who pass by, but rather, it sits thinking, pondering what is next.

It lives in a spirit of openness. 

Yes, it protects its heart, but it does not shield the world from being able to see it completely.

And that is what I want.

I don’t want to fight. Or argue.

I don’t want to pit myself against those I love.

I want to sit in humility, assuming I don’t have all the answers, and that having all the answers isn’t necessary.

I want to be comfortable in the skin I am in, not needing to fit the mold someone else has poured for me.

I want to be open and available, to create spaces of safety and belonging. Not just for myself, but for everyone who longs for such a space.

Why?

Because I never knew I could feel so free.

And it's really important to be free.