The Girl Who Dropped Jesus and Then He Carried Her

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

Are there things you look back on, certain you know exactly what happened?

For a long time, that's how I saw something that happened in second grade, but now I see it differently. My Father in Heaven has made beauty from ashes and strength from weakness. He is my God of miracles.

Before I go further, let me explain what I mean by “dropping” Jesus.

In my childhood faith, we were taught that during communion the bread became the literal body of Christ.

Each week, our K–8 school walked across the parking lot for church services. It was the same where I had been baptized as a baby. Light poured through stained glass and a beautiful mid-century tile mosaic stretched high behind the altar. Being there with my classmates every Thursday cemented the things I felt with my family on Sundays. Church felt like home.

One week, when it was my turn to receive communion, I stepped forward and reached up. But instead of stooping down to give me communion, the clergyman tossed it. The wafer rolled off my hands and fell to the floor.

In that moment, I believed I had dropped Jesus.

The clergyman shouted for me to pick it up and eat it as my classmates from first through eighth grade watched. When I returned to my pew, I could not stop crying. I thought I had done something unforgivable.

That moment was painful. But it was not the most impactful.

Years later, in high school, I began exploring a different Christian denomination. That decision brought consequences from adults outside my family who attempted to control my choices through unhealthy tactics.

If believing I had done something unforgivable as a child was the spark of internalized fear and shame, what happened later was a wildfire. Those experiences shaped me in ways I didn't understand for a long time.

But like I said, my Savior is a God of miracles.

Even though these parts of my past would later surface in confusing ways: blips of social anxiety at church, fears that God was disappointed in me, and compulsions to prove my worth in faith-based settings, eventually my Savior showed me what was at the root. And it had very little to do with me.

He showed me that while it is good to move on, we can only do so once the past has been addressed.

Which is why I am here.

From what I understand, the human mind has many pathways to healing. For me, key to untethering false ideas about God and the low hum of shame was returning to those moments with my Savior beside me. EMDR therapy, through my faith community’s social services, helped me do that. Within months, things began to shift.

One thing I've learned is this:

"Trauma is not only what happens to us. It is what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness." —Peter LeVine

As a child and teen, isolation allowed shame to take root during painful experiences in religious settings.

Returning to those things with a perfectly empathetic witness, Jesus Christ, removed isolation. The past no longer held the same power.

Then my Savior let in light.

I learned that the clergyman who shamed me struggled with mental illness. While that doesn't excuse what happened, it helped me release the belief that I'd done something unforgivable.

I learned that after that incident, teachers made sure he no longer led services for students.

I learned he once ministered to a young couple others had turned away.

I learned he returned from war expected to minister to others with little to no help healing his own mind.

Knowing this shifted what I had imagined for years: storming into his office and shouting, “You made me drop Jesus! Then you shamed me in front of everyone!”

In reality, God had something better in mind, like understanding the past and my worth, and the worth of those who hurt me.

I no longer see myself as the girl who dropped Jesus. Now, I see myself as the one He picked up. The one He carried when no one fully understood what she needed.

My Savior understands because He's been there. Throughout the scriptures are examples of others using coercive tactics to try and get Him to believe and behave in certain ways. When that didn't work, they escalated their efforts. Though we don't often use the language of abuse to describe what Christ experienced (because His Atonement was the will of His Father, and He willingly laid down His life). The truth is, He experienced coercion. Then He overcame.

In case you're wondering why no one intervened during my difficult experiences as a child and teen, the answer to that has many layers.

After the difficult interaction with the clergyman, I felt anxious on Thursdays, wondering if I'd see him again. Knowing he would no longer lead services for students would have spared me some anxiety as a kid. But, I can't blame my parents or teachers for not handling it perfectly.

Would you believe that years later, when something similar happened to one of my own teens, I didn't know what to do either? When my child was shamed during a similar church ordinance, you would think, of all people, I would have stood up. Instead, it became one of the times my wounds resurfaced. I went home and cried.

But these experiences have cemented a few things for me:

It isn't always Christlike to stay silent.

Setting boundaries in faith-centered relationships is not wrong, even if it feels uncomfortable.

Jesus heals spiritual wounds.

My new normal is not perfect, but it keeps improving. The greatest change is that I have my agency again. When unhealthy behavior appears, I can respond in ways that reflect Him.

Sometimes what He places in my heart is unexpected, for example, this:

If that clergyman shamed a little girl who dropped Jesus today, you'd be the one to advocate for his mental health needs.