The Girl Who Dropped Jesus and Then He Carried Her

We may think we see a painful situation clearly. Then God gives more light.

For a long time, that was how I saw one upsetting event from childhood. But now I have a miracle. My Savior has consoled me in my afflictions. He has given me beauty for ashes (Isaiah 61:3).

In my childhood faith community, we were taught that after communion was blessed, the bread became the literal body of Jesus Christ.

So when I say I “dropped Jesus,” that is what I believed had happened.

I'm seven and in second grade, excited to take communion for the second time. Sitting in the front row, I don't have to wait long for my turn, but things don't go as expected.

The clergyman doesn't stoop down to give me communion.

Instead, he tosses it. 

Before I can process what's happening, it's rolling off my hand onto the ground.

I have dropped Jesus! 

The clergyman yells, "Pick it up!" but I don't know what to do.

When I pick up Jesus from the dirty floor, do I give Him back?

If not, will I get in trouble for eating something that's been on the floor?

Seeing my pause, the clergyman shouts,"Well, EAT IT!" 

From his expression and tone, I know I must be very bad.

It is a complete shift from what I usually feel when my classmates and I walk across the school parking lot for church. Light still pours in through stained glass, and the beautiful mid-century tile mosaic behind the altar is still there. But today won’t cement the same things I feel each Sunday in this same place with my family.

Instead of belonging and happiness, I feel shame.

After walking back to my pew, I try to pray, but my face crumples and tears take over. For the next twenty minutes, everyone lined up on the left side of the church has to pass by me on their way back to their pews.

My classmates from first through eighth grade. Our teachers. The elderly congregants sitting in the back.

With each passing glance, the shame intensifies and the crying worsens.

What is everyone thinking?

Can they hear me crying?

Do they all know I dropped Jesus?

After that, my memories of church and school return to what they had always been—mostly positive.

But that is not the whole story.

In high school, a different Christian denomination feels like home, with that there's unexpected consequences. Adults outside my family, who feel some responsibility for me, try to influence me back into my childhood faith. Some of those efforts are awkward. Others are not healthy. Over time, those experiences pile onto the dropping-Jesus incident, shaping me in ways I don’t understand for a long time.

As my husband later points out, I am quick to think God is punishing me when things go wrong. I have confusing ideas about God that are hard to put into words. I also have social anxiety that appears out of nowhere, but only at church. Compulsions to prove my worth, but mostly around church members. Breakdowns when I think I have failed. It's weird how the smallest thing leaves me feeling unlike my true self.

For nearly twenty years, I don't know what is wrong with me.

And I have no idea how previous experience has woven fear and insecurity into the context of my personal spirituality. All I know is I love my faith community and I love God, but sometimes things feel really confusing.

Especially one inexplicable thought while interacting with people at church or sitting in Sunday services: Maybe you’re not as good as everyone here.

Then eight years ago, I begin experiencing miracles.

And they stay.

Key to untethering myself from false ideas about God, fear, and shame is facing old hurts in an evidence-based therapy called EMDR, with my Savior by my side. He helps me understand the past and my worth.

Even the worth of those who hurt me.

Then He keeps letting in more light.

I remember what my parents once said about the clergyman who yelled at me in church: that he suffered from mental illness after serving in a war.

Forty years later, I think, How do you minister to others with little to no help healing your own mind?

For years, I had envisioned storming into that clergyman’s office shouting, “You made me drop Jesus! Then you shamed me in front of everyone!”

I had no idea God had something better in mind. Empathy.

Then the impossible thing He describes for an enemy: love.

Then He lets in more light, with an unexpected thought: If that clergyman shamed a little girl who dropped Jesus today, you would be the first to advocate for his mental health needs.

Years later, I learn that after what happened at church, my teachers made sure that clergyman no longer led school services for students.

Then more recently, I learn that he once ministered to a young couple others had turned away.

None of this excuses what happened. But these layers of truth help me see that faith-based relationships do not have to be perfect to be good. And what I did as a child was not unforgivable.

I also can’t blame the adults involved for not handling everything perfectly. Years later, when I witness something similar between an adult and one of my own kids, I also don't know what to do. I don't know how to respond, but that has also taught me something important: It's not always Christlike to stay silent.

I used to see myself as the girl who dropped Jesus. Now I see myself as the one He picked up and carried. Every good thing I have now is because of Him, and I trust Him forever.