James stopped short when he saw me on the couch yesterday, tears streaming down my cheeks as I read the headlines.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with alarm, and I could just see his mind rapidly conjuring up the possibilities. Someone died. Someone got sick. Someone was hurt.

It was none of these. But it was all of these.

“They overturned Roe v. Wade,” I whispered, unwilling to say the words aloud, and he nodded gravely. He’s seen me in this state enough times to immediately fetch a Kleenex box and hold my hand.

But I could tell he didn't quite understand.

And, from the looks of the celebratory tweets, posts, and Instagram stories from Churches around our country, neither can they. “The babies are saved!” they collectively roared, some using confetti backdrops to emphasize their already obvious glee. “Our country is saved!”

Yet when the fanfare dies and the bible drumming finally quiets, I wonder how many will see the pregnant teenager as she tears up her college admissions letter. Or open the doors to their gated communities so that she has a place for herself and her child when her parents turn her away. Or even offer her a tissue while she cries over these headlines.

She was why I cried. I don’t know her name, and I don’t know where she lives, but I know one thing - a lot of churches don’t want her. Oh sure, they have loud opinions on what she should to do with her baby, but most would wrinkle their noses and scoot to the far end of the pew, away from a poor, unkempt woman and her wailing baby. Because she can’t give an offering when she’s living on food stamps. She curses loudly and she's angry because her life is now over. And she doesn’t want to sing your damn songs because her state just told her that she has to have this baby, come hell or high water. She wants no part of your clean, sterile church where the law is revered, but Love falls so desperately short.

I think I should stop here with a disclaimer. I grew up in churches. I attended them, was a member of a few, and took communion every Sunday for nearly twenty years straight. They were my teachers, my mentors, my friends, and one of them became my husband. They’re my people, and my memories with them are suffused with so much fondness that it nearly chokes me to write these words.

I hate - no, absolutely despise - church religion.

I sometimes tell people that I found Jesus in spite of churches. My childhood church building was shared by two ministries, so as a child, I wandered back and forth, learning about the ‘Korean Jesus’ and the ‘white Jesus’. Korean pastors sold me a version of Jesus that felt a lot like a cross between a school principal and Santa. “He’s always watching,” they’d warn. “And he’ll know if you’ve committed a sin, and he’ll kick you out of heaven if you do, so you’d better behave.” Later that afternoon, I’d meet the white Jesus, who died for my sins because he loved me so much. I wasn’t sure which one was more correct, but I assumed between all of them, one adult must be telling the truth. So I split the difference and decided it’d be safest to be grateful for both Jesuses and clean up my act forever.

And I sure did. I memorized every bible verse, earned all the stickers, and made sure no adults (the Jesus elves, as I solemnly named them) saw me doing anything wrong. To this day, I wonder if that was where my perfectionism was born. My therapist and I are still sussing that out, but I do know this - I became an unbearable, sanctimonious being.

I disapproved of “those gays” and laughed when a Sunday school teacher made jokes about ‘Ellen Degenerate’. I avoided saying 'Oh my God' lest I be cast into hell for taking the Lord's name in vain. I gasped when a high school friend got pregnant and shook my head sorrowfully at her now-torn ticket to heaven.

I created an imaginary ladder of sins, where I could blithely forgive white lies and the penny candy I stole from the nearby bodega, because surely Jesus knew that wasn’t as bad as what those people over there were doing.

And, thank God, I picked up my bible somewhere as an adult and read it from cover to cover. I was stunned to discover I’d had it all wrong. I learned the wrong Jesus.I had the wrong religion. I’d hurt countless people by condemning all the wrong things. And if I died earlier on, I don’t even know if Jesus would have taken me. I sure wouldn’t have.

Because that Jesus - the real one (I think. I dunno. I’m still learning.) - he loved on broken people. He took the scruffy, the dirty, smelly, homeless, forgotten, turned-out ones that the churches of his time flung out their doors. He embraced them with open arms. And I think he would have sat with that pregnant woman and cried with her while American churches celebrated this week.

An old church friend texted me after I trepidatiously posted my last thoughts on the SCOTUS decision. I say ‘trepidatiously’ because I was nervous. My fingers actually trembled as I clicked the ‘Publish Now’ button. I knew I might be losing some friends because of my unfriendly opinions, and when I saw her name, I immediately tensed like a cat, preparing for battle.

But then I started reading. And seconds later, my legs collapsed under me.

Thank you for what you said, she wrote. Years ago, I survived an assault, and I asked a church for help. I went to a women's group, who listened...but they also made it seem like I was asking for it.

If you just read that and still feel proud to be a Christian, I’ll feel no regrets about terminating our friendship. I mean that. She is a gorgeous young woman with a personality so bubbly you'd never know she was carrying such a dark and heavy burden.

And when I heard that someone’s religion emboldened them to kick hurting assault victims while they were down*, I wanted to yell. In fact, I actually wrapped my hands around a nearby stuffy and screamed into its plush belly.

(Edit: *Yes, that's plural now. Because I've now heard from many, many friends whose pastors, church friends, and youth leaders cast blame on them for being victims of assault, rape, and sexual harassment).

I know this doesn’t describe all churches. I adore P., one of my old pastors, who would let tears flow unabashedly as he told stores about the hurting. I love S., another pastor, who practically spat on churchgoers who cast the pained aside. That's not what Jesus is about, they taught. I know some Christian friends whose practice a religion that keeps their hearts tender toward people. And all of these live their lives - even still - as a beautiful testament to their faith.

But if your Jesus makes you cheer on social media and somehow blame victims for inviting pain and scars, your fake religion can go to hell. Because while you cling to your laws, your labels, and your bible verses, you crush the hearts of the very people that Jesus died for. I'm not one for marketing, but I'm pretty sure that that won't win souls for your brand of Christ.

I’m publishing this piece with the same nervousness as the last one. Because when someone has strong opinions about anything, there’s always a storm a-brewing in the near distance. But I’ll end with this. I love people. I love their lives and I love their stories. I love hearing about the roller coaster they rode to get here, and most of those stories make me cry - often against my own wishes. My deepest regrets in life are always about the way I mistreated people - particularly as a practicing woman of faith who once perpetrated the very harm I now abhor.

As I wrote that last sentence, there were a few names and faces that were clearly envisaged in my mind. If you are one of them, I am so sorry. I hate that your memory of me is so clouded by so many hurts. I’m learning to do better, but that doesn’t erase what I did.

And for those of you who are still celebrating. Stop and listen. I beg you. Drop your verses, quiet your online cheers and retweets for a hot second and start seeing some actual names, faces, and voices. Because real, live people are now living in a fearful existence that you couldn’t even imagine. And when you blow your noisemaker in their faces, you make Jesus reek to the high heavens.

I still love you, because I love people.

But we could all do without your version of Jesus.