America’s Quiet Divorce
“We are most afraid of being known and not being loved.” — Brené Brown
Marriage is terrifying at its core. In a marriage we are finally known. After years of searching for the right person, you finally find the one who presumably wants to spend the rest of their life with you, and you feel the same. But after years of togetherness through every season of human stress, there is no mystery left. You’ve seen each other without makeup and in stained sweatpants, fat, thin, out of shape, stressed over problems at work, arguing over dirty dishes at the kitchen sink. When the masks are removed, we are completely vulnerable in front of each other, and we don’t always like what we see.
Will they still love me when they really know me?
Or am I only lovable in pieces?
Divorce is our worst fear incarnate. He or she has seen everything about me and decides they want out. After really knowing me, they say, I chose wrong. I don’t want to be with you anymore.
It may be a simplistic framing, but it captures something essential about being human: our deep-seated fear of being rejected when we are most vulnerable. I have lived it and survived it.
The church provides a spiritual form of marriage. Before the altar, in the colored light of the stained-glass windows, believers can remove the veil and finally be fully known in a room of witnesses. But if we are rejected, uncared for, or neglected after laying ourselves bare, it leads to a spiritual divorce. You went to a place you hoped would be safe, a place where you would be loved and protected, and the opposite happened. You were hurt, abused, or mistreated. It is the reason why nearly half of American Christians are now unchurched.
The quiet divorce of Christians from the church is a sad story, and one that is gaining momentum. Paul tells us in Ephesians that husbands are to love their wives as Christ loved the church, a sacrificial love, agape, that centers on what is best for the other. It is not dependent on performance or worthiness. Most of us are desperately seeking this kind of love, yet in many churches, seekers encounter something very different: a performative culture, and leaders who use their sheep for their own gain rather than loving and shepherding the flock.
Performance culture is the quiet economy of quid pro quo. It rewards those who already have something to offer—the rich, the talented, the healthy, the beautiful. If you are seen as having little to offer, you become invisible. When this mentality shows up in holy places, it doesn’t just disappoint. It wounds. The seeker goes looking for God and instead finds something transactional in its place, a marketplace in the place of the altar.
If I am being honest, I no longer enter any human space with my heart on my sleeve. You can call me cynical, but I am older and no longer naive. I do not expect to experience agape love as a daily norm, even among fellow Christians. If I encounter sacrificial love, even in moments, I consider myself blessed. I am also not naive about myself. We have all sinned and fall short of God’s glory as Paul tells us in Romans. In other words, how can churches ever be a safe place if we’re all so, so… human?
Perhaps it isn’t Bibles we should be bringing to church, but boxing gloves. This exposes the real question: Do we have the right to be vulnerable in a church?
When we trust people with our secrets, we must hope they are spiritually mature enough to carry that weight. Many are not. True spiritual sharing grows out of trust over time. Christians must practice discernment; we can be loving while still recognizing that entrusting certain people with our vulnerability would be unwise. Jesus told his followers to be as innocent as doves and wise as snakes; we are told to carry discernment with us at all times.
Church hurt is real. According to a recent LifeWay poll, one out of three Christians has left a church due to disenchantment with leadership. In Ezekiel, the prophet condemns the false shepherds: “Ah, shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep?” The word “shepherd” comes from the Hebrew word ra’ah—care, provision, protection, and presence. It is the same ra’ah the Psalmist promises when he says, The Lord is my shepherd. The sheep do not earn this care. Ra’ah is the natural calling of the shepherd and it flows from him like water from a stream.
That is the standard.
The shepherd calling is the same calling of a marriage partner. It is the calling of the church. The spouse is called not just to be present, but to care deeply, to shape their life around the care of their partner.
Yet we live in a world where the spouse betrays and the shepherd neglects. The standard often feels just out of reach.
But Ezekiel does not end there. He promises hope for the scattered. God says He Himself will search for His sheep. He will not abandon them.
Despite my own failed marriage and fair amount of church hurt, I do not believe we should give up entirely on the idea of safe places. If the church is indeed our spiritual home, we must remind ourselves that homes can be safe and loving even when parents aren’t perfect. Mistakes can lead to wisdom when parents are committed to what is best for their children. It is care, not perfection that makes the difference. The church too can be flawed, but still be a home and a good one. A good home is worth fighting for. Leaving a church is no easy matter and shouldn’t be. But this is also true:
If there is no evidence of ra’ah—no real care, no protection, no willingness to carry the weight of others, and little evidence that this will change—then it is not what it claims to be.
And you are allowed to leave.
The problem is not that we long for too much. It’s that we too often settle for too little.
Debby Handman is a former minister (M.Div), educator, and single mother writing from the misty crossroads of faith and survival in rural Oregon. She is the author of the acclaimed novels House on Sand and The Gambler’s Wife, and her upcoming release, House of Broken Vessels.
