Last year, I felt deeply involved in the Easter experience—connected to the church and included in the story. This year was different. It was busy, and Easter seemed to pass by like another season in exile.
But something has shifted. This time, I don’t feel like a lost cause.
The last four years have taught me that my validation and right-standing don’t come from other people’s perceptions or opinions. They come from being honest—honest about who I am, and how that looks in the mirror of accountability.
This week, I passed some church folks standing in the city with a simple question on a board: On a scale of 1 to 10, how good do you need to be to get to heaven? It was thought-provoking and clever. I wished them well and shared honestly where I’m at. I explained I don’t currently fellowship in church, and if I did, my experience tells me I’d be viewed as “living in sin” because I’m not married to the woman I’ve shared my life with for 11 years.
She’s loved me more deeply than any other human. She forgives, she chooses love, and she stands beside me every day as we face life’s challenges together. I dream of marrying her — and I will — but not just to tick a religious box or appease fear. It will be when the time is right for us both.
Tonight, Easter Sunday, before hitting the pillow, I picked up my Kindle and read through the Easter story in Mark. A few things struck me — not as theology, but as lived experience. Maybe you’ll relate.
When Jesus is asked about the greatest commandment, he doesn’t quote a rulebook. He says: love—love God, love others. He even says it matters more than sacrifices and rituals. It made me wonder: how often does modern Christianity forget this? Sometimes it feels like a transaction — a “get ahead” religion, where if you tick the boxes, you’re in. But Jesus cuts through all that. It’s not performance. It’s relationship.
That hits home for me in recovery. It’s easy to think the goal is to “do it right” — stay clean, stay strong, tick every box. But the foundation isn’t perfection. It’s love. It’s grace. That reminder lifted the weight from my chest.
Then there’s Peter — the bold disciple who promises he’ll never fall, never deny. Jesus, knowing better, gently tells him he will. And sure enough, when pressure comes, Peter denies him three times. That stings. Because I get it. I’ve said, “Never again.” I’ve meant it. But addiction doesn’t care about intentions when the mist rolls in. Peter’s story reminds me that failure doesn’t mean I’m disqualified. It just means I’m human. Jesus knew Peter would fall, and still loved him. Still called him. Still built his church on that man.
Finally, I saw something deeply human in Jesus at Gethsemane. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he asks his friends to stay near. He prays, “Father, if it’s possible, take this cup from me.” That line… it hits different. He’s God — but he’s also human. Wrestling. Overwhelmed. Longing for a way out. He doesn’t walk into suffering like a stoic hero. He hurts. He grieves. And still, he chooses love.
So if you’re in a hard place this Easter — if you’re hurting, or you’ve fallen, or you’re afraid — you’re not disqualified. You’re not alone.
Brokenness and contrition are never despised.
Reach out. Be honest. Don’t go it alone.
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