Exactly one year ago, on a quiet Sunday morning in early autumn, my wife and I decided not to attend church. On one hand this was nothing out of the ordinary–we had stayed home before. This time though, we were not staying home because of covid lockdowns or the kids getting sick. This time we were making the decision to find another church home.

Depending what Christian denomination you grew up with, that doesn’t shock you. It is not as if we were reneging on the Apostles Creed or disavowing our baptism. But you need to understand something: the church we stopped attending that morning sought to give a comprehensive curriculum for life. Being Amish-Mennonite as my wife and I had been for more than three decades meant that we had always accepted parameters around basic choices. This included rules about our entertainment, clothing, schooling and specific theological beliefs.

You’ll remember those close-knit communities that certain academics cite, the ones where the individual conforms to the whole, thus avoiding addiction, loneliness, narcissism and early death. That was us. We were leaving behind one of those. A place with real community, a safe haven, probably a Blue Zone. Whether we parted peacefully or got driven out, whether it was choice or fate, one thing is certain: the ship of our former faith community is sailing and we are not on board.

And now one whole year has passed.

The transition has been both dramatic and unremarkable. Gradually you learn to buy clothes with the colour and style that suit you, guilt-free. You see that your kids can attend school with the other kids in the village and that this doesn’t have to deal a deadly blow to your values. You see that those Scripture passages have other viable (may I say less sectarian?) interpretations than those your church community held to.

All of it is intoxicating at first, but then you see that most of society lives this way, and soon you don’t give it much thought anymore. The luxury of being a human among humans seeps in. You are not separate from humanity as you have long been catechised to think, but seeking to live in the midst of its glorious messiness.

The members of your former community are still there. You see them and at times you exchange pleasantries. Several of your friends have felt like safe people to you, so you share with them how you are processing the transition. They listen empathetically and you feel heard and loved. Yet at the end of the conversation, the rupture is still there. What you see as oppressive human structures they see as a rich heritage that can refine our baser tendencies. What you see as manmade barriers to the mystical and universally accessible path of Jesus they see as applications to principles and necessary parts of culture—all cultures have rules, right?

You point out, with as little antagonism as possible, that as far as you know ethnic Anabaptists are the only group who tie cultural practices to the two core sacraments of the Christian faith, baptism and communion. Yet this does not change anyone’s mind, and that’s okay, everyone already knew it wouldn’t. You part ways with a sense of numb irresolution.

And if you’re honest you admit that those hymns really were pretty heavenly, and let’s not even get started with the potluck meals. All your old friends, too, are still there and you miss those friendships. You have sought out new social networks but it was never because your old friends were bad. You just wish you could share life with them again. Those friends are going on without you, giving the talks you were once invited to give, writing the church magazine articles you once wrote. Maybe they are right in staying and you wrong in leaving.

Yet somehow it is no longer about being right. Among the overwhelming and dizzying immensity of life’s canyon walls on all sides, to you the timorous mortal, it crosses your mind less often now to ask who is right. And besides all that you are aware of this one salient reality: it is unlikely that you could go back. At least not with all of you, not with the part that asks, seeks and knocks, the part that wanders and wonders.

With that you gather your children in and try to read them verses and sing them songs, the same ones your parents tried to nurture you with, albeit in a context that you are now diverging from. You turn your face toward the next year, the next decade, the next generation, wondering at the strange, almost cruel circumstances life visits on us. You hedge your bets with Mr. Frost, hoping that in the end taking the road less travelled will really make all the difference; hoping that you are playing your hand well because sure as the day is long you won’t be dealt another.