Personal Blogs

"If conscience leads you to shadowed paths, take heart; prophets trod there first."

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Leaving a religious group can feel like stepping into an unknown and often lonely space, where the familiar rhythms of community are replaced by silence and questions. It’s an act of courage, born from a longing for something truer, something better. But this journey is rarely straightforward. It’s often marked by a deep desire to find belonging again, to feel part of something meaningful. Yet, in that very search, it’s easy to stumble into the same patterns that led to frustration before.

When we leave, we often carry with us a longing for the ideals we once believed the group could embody—authentic love, shared purpose, and connection. In that longing, the pull toward a new community can feel almost irresistible. At first, it might seem like you’ve found what was missing—a fresh start, free from the old flaws and disappointments. But over time, familiar dynamics can emerge: rigid expectations, hierarchical control, or a sense of obligation that chips away at the freedom you sought. It’s not a failure to find yourself here; it’s human. We all yearn for connection, even when it comes with compromises.

This cycle can feel exhausting, even defeating. You might wonder, Why does this keep happening? And as that frustration builds, it’s natural to look back at the group you left with anger or bitterness, revisiting every hurt, every disappointment, as if doing so might finally release you. But often, this focus on the past becomes a trap of its own. Instead of freeing us, it ties us to what we hoped to leave behind, consuming our energy and keeping us from fully stepping into the present. 

Psalm 146:3 reminds us of a profound truth: “Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save.” These words, written thousands of years ago, still speak powerfully to us today. They remind us that human leaders—whether in the groups we leave or the ones we’re drawn to—are fallible. When we place too much trust in them, we set ourselves up for disillusionment. True peace doesn’t come from finding the perfect group or leader; it comes from anchoring our trust in God, who alone is constant and unfailing.

Jesus himself warned against relying on human authority to mediate our relationship with God. In Matthew 23:9, he says, “And do not call anyone on earth ‘father,’ for you have one Father, and he is in heaven.” These words aren’t about rejecting community—they’re about freeing ourselves from the idea that our faith depends on any one person or group. Christ’s invitation is to find belonging in Him, where our worth isn’t measured by conformity but by the deep, unshakable love of God.

This doesn’t mean that community isn’t important—it is. We thrive when we’re connected to others who encourage us and walk alongside us. But a healthy community should support your personal relationship with God, not replace it. When we approach relationships with discernment, anchored in the confidence that our faith rests in God, we’re free to engage without losing ourselves.

The wilderness seasons of life—the times when we feel alone or untethered—are often where God meets us most intimately. Elijah discovered this when, after fleeing into the desert, he found God not in the noise of wind or fire but in a gentle whisper. It’s in these quiet spaces, stripped of distraction, that we can hear God’s voice most clearly, feel His presence most profoundly.

C.S. Lewis once described pain and solitude as God’s megaphone, awakening us to truths we might otherwise overlook. It’s in these moments of stillness that we’re reminded of a love that doesn’t demand performance or conformity but simply invites us to be. The journey away from a group isn’t just about leaving—it’s about discovering who you are in the light of God’s love, a love that doesn’t change or falter.

If you find yourself walking this road, know that you are not alone. The void you feel isn’t a sign of failure—it’s an opportunity to encounter God in a new and personal way. As Psalm 23:4 promises, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” This comfort isn’t distant or abstract; it’s the steady, quiet assurance that God walks with you, even in the uncertainty.

One day, you may look back on this season and see it not as a time of loss but as a chapter of growth—a time when your roots of faith stretched deeper, unshaken by the winds of disappointment. And as you move forward, you’ll carry with you a faith that is freer, truer, and stronger, rooted not in any human institution but in the boundless love of God.

Image of the ancient Stool of Repentance practice found in many ancient congregations was generated with the use of Chat GPT and does not reflect anyone dead or alive.

Image generated with the assistance of ChatGPT

"If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the assembly. 

If he refuses to hear the assembly also, 

let him be to you as a Gentile or a tax collector."

Matthew 18:17 (WEB).

"If he refuses to hear them, appeal to the Church; 

and if he refuses to hear even the Church, 

regard him just as you regard a Gentile or a tax-gatherer."

Matthew 18:17 (Weymouth New Testament).

Chemla and Compassion: Rediscovering Mercy in Modern Christianity

We have come a long way in Christian congregations in dealing with sin, or, have we?  In reflecting on mercy, the Aramaic word Chemla provides a beautiful foundation. This ancient term from Talmudic texts embodies a compassionate kindness that flows not from obligation but from pure benevolence. It’s mercy extended not based on merit but as a gift, a gesture rooted in a generosity that goes beyond what is earned. In a world quick to judge and condemn, Chemla reminds us of the value in sparing judgment and offering kindness to those who may not “deserve” it. This sense of undeserved compassion finds its echo in the teachings of Jesus, especially in Matthew 18, where he lays out a path for dealing with interpersonal offenses—a path that focuses not on retribution but on restoration.

Matthew 18 emphasizes the unique worth of each person, particularly when they are in a vulnerable position. Jesus begins by stressing a deep responsibility to protect others from harm. In verse 6, he warns of the gravity of causing someone to stumble, illustrating the serious duty we hold to uphold one another’s well-being. This responsibility extends not only to protecting others from physical harm but from the emotional and spiritual damage that harsh treatment or judgment can inflict.

When Jesus addresses how to handle wrongdoing, he diverges sharply from the “cancel culture” or public humiliation we often see today in the press and media. Rather than exposing faults in a public forum, Jesus teaches us to approach the individual privately in verse 15. This private meeting is an act of compassion; it respects the person’s dignity and offers them a chance for redemption without the weight of public disgrace. It’s a step grounded in mercy, meant to open the door for healing and reconciliation.

If this first private attempt fails to bring understanding, Jesus offers a next step that is, again, full of gentleness: involving one or two other people. This approach is not intended to coerce or shame but to bring supportive witnesses, creating a space where understanding can grow without escalating tension or fostering resentment. The goal remains restoration, with all parties working together to preserve the individual’s dignity and support them in finding their way back. This approach stands in stark contrast to religious practices that employ harsh, procedural punishments. 

There’s something uniquely powerful in this way of handling sin that resists judgmental tendencies. Unlike religious methods that may rely on public penance or social isolation to correct, the pathway Jesus outlines is marked by patience and a commitment to mercy. Forgiveness, he reminds us, is not to be limited. In his conversation with Peter, he illustrates the boundless nature of mercy with his “seventy times seven” response, a call to forgive endlessly with no "question of the person's repentance " . Mercy, in this sense, becomes an ongoing commitment to view others through a lens of compassion, seeing their worth rather than their faults.

Even when efforts to reach reconciliation fail, Jesus does not abandon the path of mercy. Only after every attempt has been made does he suggest involving the larger community, the congregation,  and even then, not as a means to ostracize or condemn. Instead, the community’s involvement serves as a final collective effort to restore the individual. Rather than casting someone out, this step is a last, loving appeal unlike the formal stool-of-repentance- type of judgement. 

Matthew 18 offers us a different kind of road map for addressing wrongs. It’s a path steeped in the spirit of Chemla, that divine compassion that doesn’t judge but offers undeserved kindness. How different our communities could be if we followed this example, holding onto mercy as our guide, letting compassion outweigh condemnation, and valuing each person’s dignity even in their lowest moments. It’s a vision of mercy, not just as a response to sin, but as a way of life.

"Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission."

Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@eugenegrunge

Time never allows one to forget those special encounters in life. The night Barnabas knocked my door was one. I immediately invited him in. It was one of those evenings when the world outside felt cold and uninviting, and inside, my heart wasn’t much warmer. I’d been feeling lonely after leaving my religion, cut off from so many people I once called friends. There were days when the silence in my home seemed unbearable. That night, though, was different.

I’d heard about Barnabas—his reputation as a man of encouragement, someone who lifted others wherever he went—but I wasn’t prepared for just how genuine and kind he would be. The moment he walked in, it was as if a light had entered with him. He had a way about him, a quiet presence that made me feel like everything was going to be okay, even before we sat down.

The meal wasn’t fancy—just something simple—but it didn’t matter. We talked about life, faith, and struggles, and I found myself sharing things I hadn’t told anyone in a long time. I told him how isolated I’d been feeling since leaving my religion, how I missed the sense of community, even though I knew I couldn’t stay in that environment. Barnabas listened. He really listened, with a warmth in his eyes that said, “I understand.”

He didn’t rush to offer answers, but when he spoke, his words were like a balm to my soul. He told me stories from his own journey—how he had seen people rejected and misunderstood, and how he had always tried to be a bridge for them, just as Christ had been for him. “God never leaves you out to dry, don’t you realise that the spirit directed me to knock on your door?”  he said softly.

By the time dessert was finished, something had shifted in me. I realized I wasn’t as alone as I had thought. Barnabas reminded me that leaving a group doesn’t mean leaving God or losing the opportunity for connection. He spoke of God’s love not as something bound by human institutions but as a living, breathing presence in our lives, no matter where we find ourselves. “Let’s pray”  he said as he took my hand and pressed it warmly.

When he finally left that night, I stood at the door and watched him walk down the street, then disappear into the ether like some kind of heavenly apparition. 

The house felt quiet again, but it wasn’t the same silence I had known before. There was a sense of peace, a gentle reassurance that I wasn’t walking this path alone. As I shut the door, I smiled to myself. Barnabas had a way of leaving behind more than just good conversation—he left behind hope.

*****

I praised God and thought about the time when Barnabas turned up at the first century congregation and he couldn't help but rejoice. He encouraged everyone to stay committed to the Lord with all their hearts. He was a good man, filled with the Holy Spirit and strong in his faith, and because of that, a great number of people were drawn to the Lord. Acts 11:23-25. Bless you Barnabas!

“Now Joseph, who was renamed Barnabas (Son of Comfort), 

a Levite from Cyprus, having owned a field, 

sold it and laid the money at the apostles’ feet.” Acts 4: 36.