Note to the Reader (Pre-read / Context): November is historically remembered as Reformation Month among mainline Protestant churches worldwide. While it is important to remember the early reformers, especially Martin Luther and his 95 Theses, it is equally important to turn our attention to the Reformation of the East.
Cleansing: The Heart of Reformation
When I think about the cleansing of my heart, I am often reminded of the incident recorded in the Gospels where Jesus cleansed the temple. I’ve seen so many memes of Jesus flipping tables (and honestly, they make me laugh), but I think I often forget what exactly Jesus was cleansing the temple of.
When I re-read those passages, I wondered: why was Jesus upset about people selling at the temple? After all, don’t we sometimes have stalls in our own churches today?
Here’s what I understood:
Moneychangers were profiting off worshippers under the guise of ritual purification.
Those selling animals for sacrifice were charging unfair amounts to pilgrims who had traveled far.
Jesus wasn’t angry at the convenience offered to worshippers. He was angry at the exploitation hidden behind it. What was meant to be holy had been turned into something profitable.
This is what holy anger can do: it calls us to confront injustice, upturn corrupt systems, and ensure the underprivileged aren’t being taken advantage of. Jesus set this example beautifully.
Image: Jesus cleansing the temple. Abraham Malpan’s reforms echo this posture centuries later.
I am also reminded of another moment that took place eighteen centuries later, in Kerala. Abraham Malpan, often called the “Martin Luther of the East,” sought to reform the Malankara Church and return it to the primacy of Scripture. He recognized that a wooden statue in his parish had become more important than the God it was meant to point toward. So he threw the statue into the church’s well. He was grieved by the deviation in worship.
This holy anger led to conviction: the courage to say, “If this is not what God wants, let it be removed, even if done painfully.”
These moments, separated by eighteen hundred years, remind us that holy anger is not about rage. It is about refocusing on the heart of worship—a burning desire for God’s house, God’s truth, and God’s people. Different eras, different contexts, yet the same spiritual impulse.
As we step into Advent, may we carry this spirit of Reformation forward. May we ask ourselves: “What in my heart needs to be cleansed? What tables have I allowed to remain unturned?” May we let God call us, refine us and use us, even if it means flipping tables in the spaces He’s placed us.
May we all have a Blessed Advent!
Note to the Reader (Post-read /Reflection): Abraham Malpan’s reforms eventually led to the formation of the Mar Thoma Church. Even if your own faith heritage did not come through this particular movement, his spirit and courage remains an inspiration. Reformation is bigger than denominations, it is always a call to return our worship to Christ alone.
It is my prayer that reformation would not be a movement limited to a certain time and place, but a lifelong journey for each of us.
May we continue to reform.
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For those interested in learning more about the Reformation of the East and Abraham Malpan’s wider contributions, you can read more here: Marthoma – The Church Heritage
Note to the Reader: This piece was originally written for my church youth group’s elocution competition, where I explored the topic “Are traditional gender roles from the Bible present in today’s modern times?”
Hi! My topic is: Are traditional gender roles in the Bible present in today’s modern times?
Before we dive into gender roles, I want to start by exploring the concept of Biblical womanhood — and then flow into gender roles.
1. Biblical Womanhood
So, what does the Bible say about Biblical womanhood? There are five examples I’d like to draw from Scripture.
Esther Esther was a queen married to Xerxes and is known for saving her people from genocide. She approached the king unsummoned, risking her life to protect her people.
If that is what Biblical womanhood is, I endorse it.
Jael Jael appears in the book of Judges. When a tyrant slept in her tent, she drove a tent peg through his head. Now, of course, I’m not asking us to do the same — but it shows the courage and wisdom needed to confront evil.
If that is what Biblical womanhood is, I’d like to be a Biblical woman.
Ruth and Naomi During that time, it was uncommon for women to live without a male guardian. Despite being a widow, Ruth clung to Naomi, saying, “Your God will be my God.” This was extremely countercultural.
If that is what Biblical womanhood is, may that be true for me as well.
Phoebe Phoebe is mentioned in Paul’s letters as a deacon of the church. She actively served alongside elders in the ministry — a clear sign of how women were part of early Christian leadership and ministry.
If that is what Biblical womanhood is, may God use me the same way.
Women Who Funded Jesus’ Ministry Time and again, the New Testament shows that Jesus’ ministry was supported by women.
If that is what Biblical womanhood is, I absolutely want to be one.
2. Biblical Gender Roles:
Now, let’s turn to gender roles.
People often quote Paul’s words, “Wives, submit to your husbands,” as if it sets a hierarchy. But the verse just before that says husbands should “love your wives as Christ loved the church.”
And isn’t Christ’s love sacrificial and selfless? Paul was outlining a Godly marriage model — one that was radically countercultural in a Greco-Roman society, where marriage was deeply patriarchal.
3. Conclusion: God’s Heart
Today, women can earn degrees, own property, hold jobs, and have bank accounts. I’d argue this aligns even more with the Biblical understanding of equality and stewardship.
Yes, patriarchy still exists. And yes, toxic feminism has emerged. But the Bible stands apart from both extremes. It teaches that men and women hold equal and valuable places in God’s eyes, and both are used mightily by Him.
As Paul wrote in Galatians 3:28:
“There is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
So, are traditional gender roles in the Bible seen in today’s modern world? My answer is a BIG YES.
Back to the Reader:
Oh, I just wanted to end this blog with the meme. Kinda summarises the energy of my elocution. Take it as reader priviledges, haha!
“Religion is like food. But whether you want to use it to feed your neighbour or shove it down their throat is upto you.”
Hello there! Welcome back to another part of the Disentangling My Faith series. I truly appreciate how patient so many of you have been as I process and write through much of my deconstruction journey – which I’m hearing from so many of you is a rite of passage. My hope in writing this has always been twofold: to make sense of my own story, and maybe offer a glimpse of recognition to someone who’s on a similar path, or even if you’re not, to simply understand it.
When faith became mine
So many of you have asked when I first accepted Jesus. It between when I was 12-14, somewhere during my confirmation classes (yes, that’s a thing — for my friends who aren’t familiar with it, it’s a doctrinal-based class before partaking in Communion for the first time). By the way, my first Holy Communion classes were A-one – I loved every session, and the priest who led them was truly good at engaging with younger folks. It allowed for me to have a deeper hunger for my faith and pursue it more actively.
Around the same time, I was also reading Jefferson Bethke’s ‘Jesus > Religion’ and that definitely solidified my understanding of Christianity – thereby starting a lifelong relationship.
Recap: So far, we’ve talked about my very religious upbringing — growing up in a strictly Bible-believing, Protestant-affirming, Jesus-loving home — and how that laid the foundation for my faith. We’ve also seen how college shook some of my idealistic beliefs, how my rose-tinted glasses began to crack, and how, eventually, having no faith at all felt more comforting than holding on to one that no longer fit. I went down the rabbit hole of reading stories of people who had left the Church, realizing how naïve I had been to judge them. And then, there I was – sitting at the same table, exhausted, but still wanting to find some sort of conclusion to what was happening to me.
Now that we’re done with the more painful part of my journey, it’s time to step into the reconstruction — starting with the part that was perhaps the sweetest: Nepal.
6. A Trip to the Mountains
Honestly, this is the part of my journey that was the sweetest. I look back at it and it’s like a warm hug from an old friend. Looking at the ice-capped mountains, sipping on some hot tea, and enjoying the beams of sunlight falling on my face while also turning those snowy mountains into golden – it was truly a trip I needed both physically and spiritually.
I had come to Nepal to be trained as a facilitator for a workshop. I went with an open mind, but also a broken heart. If you grew up in an evangelical space like me, you’d know that losing one’s faith feels like one of the biggest downfalls imaginable — and this was a highly evangelical workshop. I found myself silently begging God to save me from facing a group of people who seemed to have it all together.
“If even established Christian leaders could feel this way, maybe I wasn’t so wrong to have a heart that needed mending.”
The weight of my deconstruction was still heavy as the workshop began. It was mentally intense — group discussions, role-plays, practice sessions, adult learning principles, and imagining hypothetical future participants to truly understand what helps a human mind learn. But what struck me most during those eight days were the people — opening up about personal struggles, not from shame, but from honesty. Even the lead facilitator shared brokenness, and the other trainees did too – about their lives, their churches, and their struggles with people. This was a powerful realization for me since I had only expected to see polished confidence, but what I witnessed was honesty and brokenness.
Love at the Centre Much of the workshop’s theme revolved around love – love at the centre of our vision, our mission, our every interaction. And as we spoke about the Church, I began to see that what often breaks us apart isn’t our disagreements, but the way we don’t know how to disagree. That insight quietly shifted something inside me.
For years, I had tried to untangle my faith with precision, like a theologian sorting through doctrines. But in the process, I had forgotten that faith was meant to be so much more than the letters of the text. It was always supposed to lead to the heart.
An issue of the heart
You see, when I first came to faith, it wasn’t a single moment or dramatic conversion story. In those early years, my faith grew through study and logic — it made sense to my mind long before it reached my heart. Although it was a great foundation, it couldn’t stand the realities that hit along with adulthood because it was terribly idealistic.
My reconstruction was NOT something that needed theological or academic guidance as much. It did NOT want God to give me more expositions or make me go into rabbit holes of ‘what did the original Greek word mean?’. I NEEDED to know that God can see my broken heart and it hurts Him too.
I needed to know that God could hold the pieces of me that I didn’t even understand — the emotions, the doubts, the brokenness I couldn’t put into words — and allow me to wrestle with them. It was the realisation that he WANTED me to wrestle with them. That He deeply cared about the parts of me that felt too messy or confusing, and that healing could begin even when I didn’t have all the answers.
I needed to know that the church is deeply flawed — and that’s okay. It’s part of what we all signed up for when we chose to serve. I needed to know that people, all kinds of people — even leader, no, ESPECIALLY leaders — get to witness the ways the church hurts. Seeing that, wrestling in that tension, was a very real and necessary part of growing up, of learning what faith truly means. And in that vulnerability, I began to allow my heart to heal.
Looking Back
Looking back, Nepal feels like the place where my heart began to thaw. It was the headstart to my reconstruction – from being a child with rose-tinted glasses on the Christian church to an adult painfully learning that faith isn’t about intellectual victory or flawless apologetics, but about allowing for more authentic dialogue. Slowly, piece by piece, I began to feel.
Unfortunately, I’m not able to find the picture of my view from my room but here’s another shot from the flight. It was pretty much this view for all 8 days!
If Nepal was the spark that started my reconstruction journey, my return to Chennai became the slow, steady flame that strengthened it. It was a space that rightfully took the baton and challenged and healed me in ways I hadn’t expected. That’s the story for Part 7.
Will there be work in heaven? Is it just a white-filtered space with angels singing, or is there more to eternity than endless leisure?
Back in college, one of my math professors said, “Dear children, in heaven we’ll be singing and rejoicing all the time. No more math exams!” Although appreciated her intention to comfort us from the stress of tests, I could not help but wonder: have we reduced heaven to a picture of a God who needs our eternal applause? Have we as Christians, boiled the image of God to a narcissist?
Work and Worship
Many of us think work and worship are opposites. Work is what we “have to do”; worship is what we “get to do.” But Scripture shows otherwise. The Hebrew word avodah means both work and worship. In Genesis 2:15, Adam was placed in the garden not to lounge, but to tend and keep it. Work was part of God’s original design, meant to be an expression of worship.
Our labor — solving equations, planting crops, coding software, raising children — can reflect God’s image and become liturgy. Worship isn’t escaping work; it’s redeeming it. Colossians 3:23 reminds us, “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.”
So, Will There Be Math in Heaven?
Math, to me, has never been just numbers. I have always loved solving problems and have marvelled at how concepts like the calculus can provide insights on the mysteries of the universe, from quantum physics and rocket launches to practical applications in life sciences, like cell harvesting. When I see galaxies spiral in Fibonacci sequences or fractals repeat infinitely, I cannot help but marvel: My Lord and my God! With how much intention did you create the entirety of this universe? It gives me goosebumps, makes me teary-eyed and fills my heart with absolute joy! That spark of wonder is worship in itself.
(The Fibonacci sequence as a tool to observe patterns in nature)
And so it is my conviction that in heaven too, we will have math. But not the kind we hate in schools. Not the math that is about tests or proving cleverness. I know in my heart that this will be about marveling at God’s cosmos, tracing patterns, symmetry, and mysteries. Heaven is not the absence of work, but the fulfilment of it – where my eyes would not stop sparkling at the wonders of the Universe.
Perhaps the real question isn’t, “Will there be math in heaven?” but, “Will there be work that re-energises my spirit and help me serve and worship God better?” And to that, I think the answer is a BIG yes!
What ancient disagreements can teach us about worship, unity, and spiritual nourishment(Acts 15:36-41)
Two thousand years ago, Paul and Barnabas had a sharp disagreement — one so serious that they parted ways. Yet instead of halting the mission, their separation multiplied it. Could it be that sometimes, God uses our differences — even our disagreements — to further His own mission?
I think so. It’s clear that God can and does work through our diversity. After all, we were created with different personalities, inclinations, and callings.
This brings to mind another historic disagreement.
Martin Luther and Ulrich Zwingli
Back in the 16th century, two of our beloved early reformers Luther and Ulrich were trying to decide on what practices should be retained from the Roman Catholic Church as they helped shape what would become Protestantism. Their own views were the following:
Luther’s view: “What Scripture does not forbid, it permits.”
Luther believed that if the Scriptures didn’t prohibit a practice, it could be retained — a perspective that led to traditions that kept liturgy, vestments, and structure. This became the foundation for what we now call High Church Protestantism: Lutherans, Episcopalians, Anglicans, and others.
Zwingli’s view: “What Scripture does not command, it forbids.”
Zwingli, on the other hand, felt that if the Scriptures didn’t command a practice, it must be removed. His more minimalist approach laid the foundation for modern day Low Church Protestantism: Baptists, Independent, Pentecostal, Quaker and others.
2. High Church and Low Church: A Quick Guide (You may skip this section if you are already familiar!)
While all Christians — Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant — broadly agree on non-negotiables like the Trinity, the Atonement, Baptism, and Communion, Protestant churches also share further common ground among themselves. These include beliefs such as Jesus being the direct mediator between God and humanity, salvation through grace alone, the removal of icons, and the rejection of priestly confession as a requirement.
Unlike the Catholic–Protestant divide, which was primarily theological — especially concerning authority, sacraments, and salvation — the classification of High Church and Low Church within Protestantism is more about worship expression, structure, and culture than core beliefs. While the theology across Protestant denominations often aligns, the methodology and style of worship can make High and Low Church traditions feel worlds apart.
In a High Church (also called as Anglo-Catholic) context, one is most likely to find:
A defined altar and pulpit
Clergy in traditional vestments
The structured use of the Nicene Creed and other liturgical elements
While High Church Protestants do not believe that the church building or the clergy are inherently “holy” in the Roman Catholic sense, they place symbolic and reverent value on what these elements represent. High Church traditions often retain more continuity with historic Christian worship practices, appreciating their roots in Roman Catholic liturgywhile maintaining distinct Protestant theology.
In a Low Church (also called Evangelical-Centric) context, you are more likely to find:
A minimal or flexible space to worship
A more informal worship style with spontaneous prayer and contemporary music
Longer sermons, expository preaching, and emphasis on Bible study
After all, Low Church practices emerged in part from a desire to reform not just theology but also practice — stripping away what they saw as unnecessary ritual in favor of simplicity and accessibility. Their aim was often to recapture the spirit of the Early Church, where worship was centered around Scripture, fellowship, and shared prayer, without the hierarchy or ceremony that developed later.
Both approaches can be meaningful, reverent, and faithful. And I’ve seen the value of both up close.
3. Worship Approaches as Tools
I often see worship styles the way I see cutlery. One person may prefer a fork and knife, another a spoon, another a pair of chopsticks, and another their fingers. This is widely shaped by geography, upbringing and personal preference and each person takes what’s best for them. But at the end of the day, the question isn’t how they’re eating. It’s WHAT they are eating.
Often, as we argue on the methodology of worship I think of it as fighting against which cutlery is important. When the question we should all be asking is if the food we are eating is nourishing our bodies and souls.
In the same way, whether our worship is structured or spontaneous, what matters is: Are we in a space that allows us to know God and ourselves in a wholistic way?
As someone who grew up attending the Mar Thoma Church — which reflects a High Church, Eastern Protestant tradition — while also being raised in an Evangelical Protestant home, I’ve often found myself standing in between. I love the incense, hymns, and rhythms of the Mar Thoma order of worship which taught me reverence and rootedness. But I also find myself blending in the evangelical spaces because I love the simplicity and accessibility of the worship. It gives me the idea that even reaching out to God should be as simple as this. Both spaces have taught me intimacy and a personal responsibility to thirst for God. And I find this as a way for me to understand a fuller picture of who Jesus is.
One side reminds me of the Lordship of Jesus. The other, reminds me of the Friendship of Jesus. And I think this has given me the privilege to have a broader and fuller experience in my personal walk with the Lord.
Maybe you resonate with that. Or maybe you thrive in one space more than the other — and that’s okay. There is room for both in the Body.
Conclusion – Room for both in the Body
Disagreement doesn’t always lead to division. Sometimes, it leads to multiplication, depth, and diverse expression — just like it did for Paul and Barnabas.
Can you think of a time when a disagreement in your life led to unexpected fruit? Something new, meaningful, and God-honoring?
God is not afraid of our differences. He often works through them — and so can we.
Interesting points to note:
Hi there! Here are a couple of points I would like to acknowledge as I pieced this writing together.
Theological Roots: 1. Luther and Zwingli mainly had a theological disagreement on the Eucharist. While Luther acknowledged that Christ is Present in the Eucharist (Consubstantiation) Zwingli thought of it as a remembrance of Jesus death (Memorial). 2. Modern day low church has only come about in the 1800s. However, the school of thought and it’s ideas were present as early as the conversations of our Protestant Fathers.
3. Many modern churches today identify as Broad Church — blending both structured and informal elements.
Eastern Church Parallel 4. This was one of my favourite discoveries while writing this. I realized that within Indian church history, a similar narrative exists.
The Mar Thoma Church broke away from the Malankara Orthodox Church over theological reform, much like Protestantism from Catholicism. However, the St. Thomas Evangelical Churchof India(STECI) separated from Mar Thoma over ritual and liturgical vestments — not doctrine.
While the in the west we have Roman Catholicism → High Church Protestantism (Anglican) → Low Church(Pentecoastal) the East has Oriental Orthodox → Oriental Protestant (Marthoma) → Evangelical Protestant (STECI).
Pretty neat, huh? 🙂
Author’s Note: While I personally find myself theologically more inclined with evangelical spaces— especially in their emphasis on accessibility and simplicity in worship — I’ve grown to deeply appreciate the beauty, symbolism, and reverence found in the church liturgy. High Church and Low Church in no way mean that one is superior to the other. They are simply different ways of expressing the same faith — very much like cutlery. Different tools, same nourishment. My goal in writing this is not to promote one over the other, but to explore how both expressions can uniquely nourish the Body of Christ and reflect the fullness of our faith heritage. May God bless us all as we pursue to know Him better through whatever means suits us best.
Religion is like food. But whether you want to use it to feed your neighbour or shove it down their throat is upto you.
Hello! Thank you for patiently walking with me as I write my journey. One of the hardest parts of writing this series was sitting down to journal, polish, and make sense of everything I’d been through—emotionally overwhelming, to say the least.
When I look at my spiralling and landing into atheism I am reminded of a video I saw ages ago —a pani puri eating challenge by OkTested. It was a challenge where the participants were asked to finish about 500 pani puris and whoever finished first would win. It looked really fun! Later on, when one of the participants confessed in another video that after the challenge he wasn’t able to look at panipuri for the next 6 months because he ate so much of it. I was able to relate to it on a personal level.
This was one of the times we made pani puri at home. Back in the lockdown days when all of us turned into chefs. Hahaha
I do not know why, but this strangely comforted me. Even something like panipuri can make you feel nauseous when you have an overdose. How much more could my faith feel?
When it came to Christianity, it was not the faith in itself that triggered my loathing towards it. It was the constant compulsion to participate in religious activities, behave within a certain framework and solely subscribe to the theology of the authorities without doubt or debate.
5. At the Table
Quite organically, I found myself back at the table. It came with a sense of unexplainable peace. To be back at the table I knew. But it did not feel the same.
I was at the table. I knew I was. I was sure. Then why did this feel different?
This did not feel like the table I had left behind. Along with a sense of peace, another friend came and sat beside me this time. It was hyperawareness and it came with a deep burden for the misrepresentation of my faith. I was back at the table but my rose-tainted glasses of my faith fell off. And dealing with this was more painful than dealing with not having faith at all.
Luckily, this was during the pandemic so it gave me a lot of time to think and do my own research.
I started researching. about people within the evangelical church who had similar experiences of a fallout. And boy, did I get myself into a rabbit hole!
The stillness of the pandemic forced me to confront a lot of these questions that I had pushed aside the last couple of years. Without the noise of weekly services and constant activity, I could finally hear my own thoughts clearly.
There were plenty of such stories! And a lot of them were way worse than what I went through!
I read stories of people within the church who felt they were indoctrinated from childhood on what to believe. And exploring any other concept/topic would lead to their familes and/or their churches disowning them.
I read stories of multiple forms of abuse spiritual, physical and sexual within the church. I heard a couple of messages of preachers openly telling the women of the congregation that they must submit to their abusive husbands. And the list went on and on and on.
Although I was able to brush off my own experience and come back to the table, the sudden cacaphony of so many hurting people within the church and those leaving the church for good became so deafening I struggled to see the foundational truths of my faith. I could not come in terms with my formative years of my faith. Everything was suddenly wrong.
I was at the table but I was grieving. I was still mourning.
Not the loss of my faith – that was reforming.
Not the loss of my identity – that was still hanging by a thread.
But I was grieving the loss and hurt that thousands of people faced. From a faith I held so dear. I read stories of people within the church who felt they were indoctrinated from childhood on what to believe. And exploring any other concept/topic would lead to their familes and/or their churches disowning them.
I read stories of multiple forms of abuse spiritual, physical and sexual within the church. I heard a couple of messages of preachers openly telling the women of the congregation that they must submit to their abusive husbands. And the list went on and on and on.
Although I was able to brush off my own experience and come back to the table, the sudden cacaphony of so many hurting people within the church and those leaving the church for good became so deafening I struggled to see the foundational truths of my faith. I could not come in terms with my formative years of my upbringing. Everything was suddenly wrong.
And in that grief, I began to feel a deep sense of empathy. Empathy for those who no longer identified with the church. I understood, finally, that walking away wasn’t always rebellion—it was sometimes survival. As someone mourning the loss of her own identity, I realised: leaving isn’t easy.
But maybe, just maybe, a greater sense of peace and clarity could still find me.
And it did—in the most unexpected of places.
(Part 6 to be released soon. I really appreciate your patience. :))
And He took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is My body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.’” — Luke 22:19
A few days ago, I came across a post claiming that the word companionship came from the idea of “breaking bread.” At first, I thought it was a theological stretch—perhaps someone being poetic. But to my surprise, the word companion does, in fact, stem from the Latin roots com (meaning together) and panis (meaning bread). It literally means one who shares bread. This discovery led me down a new path of reflection.
As someone who loves studying how Holy Communion is practiced across denominations, I’ve spent time drafting comparative charts on the various theological interpretations—Transubstantiation, Consubstantiation, Mystery, and Memorial. But this small etymological revelation made me consider another perspective—one I had previously only touched on: the relational and communal nature of Communion.
A few years ago, while attending a retreat hosted by a para-church organization, we partook in Communion as was tradition. But that year, the person leading introduced us to something different. First, each of us took the bread and the cup on our own, remembering the sacrifice of Jesus. Then, we were invited to find someone in the room—a friend, a loved one—and offer it to them.
I rose immediately and went to two of my close friends. We broke the bread, shared it, and prayed for one another. In that moment, it felt like something Jesus Himself would have done with His disciples. It wasn’t just a ritual—it was sacred in its simplicity and intimacy. I’ve found sacredness in community. In the shared laughter over a meal. In the heartfelt prayers whispered over one another. In the very act of being together. And maybe that’s something I overlooked all this time—simply because there wasn’t a full-blown doctrine on it. Or perhaps because no church tradition I knew explicitly named it as such.
Jefferson Bethke, in his book It’s Not What You Think, critiques the commercialization and reduction of Communion that happened through the institutionalization of religion. He compares it to a hypothetical scenario: imagine someone, centuries from now, discovering that Thanksgiving had been reduced to a single slice of turkey and a shot of wine. They’d be confused—because Thanksgiving is a grand meal! And more than the meal, it’s about the gathering of friends you don’t often meet during the rest of the year. It’s about the people, the stories, the laughter, the intimacy.
In many ways, the early church treated the Lord’s Table in a similar manner—a full meal shared in community, wrapped in a newfound love for Jesus. Of course, over time, as Christianity became more structured and liturgical, practicality led to simplification. But I can’t help feeling that the quiet holiness of friendship, shared meals, and community is just as sacred—sometimes even more—than kneeling on the pew.
As someone who deconstructed her faith and found her way back, Communion was one of those areas I wrestled with deeply. I wasn’t sure where I stood. I wasn’t sure if I found it holy anymore. But today, with the quiet revelation of the word companion, I’ve made peace with it.
Because maybe Communion is found not just in doctrine, but in the companionship of fellow believers. Maybe breaking bread together is the truest act of sharing our love and remembrance of Jesus.
As we draw closer to the end of the Holy Week, may you find a table where you are known, loved and nourished. Amen.
Have you heard of the term eco-anxiety? When I first came across the term on an urban dictionary page, I was a little surprised. How could anxiety possibly have an ecological or environmental impact? It sounded almost made up. Eco-anxiety refers to the chronic fear and distress caused by the current state of the environment and the devastating effects of climate change.
This made sense to me. I’ve always found myself being caught between the subject of sustainability. My mind would often feel divided between choices that are environmentally conscious versus choices that are convenient, easy or just practical. In some way or the other, I think all of us have dealt with some level of eco-anxiety at some point in their lives.
However, more often than not, eco-anxiety can sometimes feel overwhelming. Like how can one person undo years of deforestation, pollution, and climate destruction? It’s like staring at an infinite sea of problems while trying to solve them with just one equation.
For someone who has their fair share of what they call “activist guilt” the weight of it often leads to questions: Does it even matter? Is the guilt and responsibility worth it? How much is too much? In this blog, I will take you through a series of my own eco-anxiety and how I came in terms with it. I hope you find it relatable and, perhaps, find solace in navigating your own journey with eco-anxiety.
1. The Plastic Bottle
Every time I see a single-use plastic bottle (or cup, straw, plate for that matter) I weigh how thirsty I am to really consume it.
Because even if it’s one bottle it’s a lot in the long run. But I’m also aware that Sustainability is people first. So do I drink or not?
How thirsty am I? Can I hold it until I get home? Can I prevent this by drinking a lot of water before stepping out of the house? And carry some?
Maybe I’ll drink this one time because I’m really thirsty.
My mind constantly races back and forth in support of the bottle versus hydrating. The debate is not just about the plastic bottle—it’s symbolic of the larger battle between living sustainably and navigating the practicalities of the urban life.
2. The Diet
Over the years, I’ve also been informed of how diet can play a vital role in my overall carbon footprint, and have consciously cut down on my meat consumption, especially red meat. It’s a small attempt to lower my carbon footprint, but it doesn’t always feel impactful.
Credits: Lunar Baboon
Being a Malayalee Christian adds an extra layer of awkwardness to these choices, especially during family gatherings when meals are laden with meat dishes. Often this brings me to the question of does this small change of mine really affect the overall carbon emissions produce by hyper urban individuals like me on a daily basis?
At times, my small dietary sacrifices feel like pouring a glass of water on a house fire. Which brings me to a more fundamental question: How much individual responsibility is too much?
3. Individuals Vs Corporations
The more I think about sustainability, the clearer it becomes that individual actions, while important, are terribly insignificant as compared to the damage caused by corporations and industries. We think twice before using a plastic bottle/cup/straw while billionaires board private jets. It feels unfair that the burden of “saving the planet” falls on individuals when the scale of corporate impact is exponentially larger.
To be fair, individuals have been receiving the blame and being burdened with the responsibility of sustainability disproportionately more than those in power. Of course individual actions are important but would you blame the guy who had one glass of water for not pouring enough or the guy who had the whole system of the hosepipe and refused to open it in the first place simply because he wanted the hosepipe to himself? When do we recognise the unfair share of responsibility?
This led me to years of frustration that kept growing until I realised..
4. Saving the Planet includes saving myself
In the midst of this, I’ve realized something I often overlook: saving the environment also means saving myself. It means recognizing that I am part of the ecosystem I’m trying to protect. Drowning in guilt over a plastic bottle or a meat dish isn’t sustainable either—mentally, emotionally, or physically.
Although this in no way means that one shouldn’t have the passion to save the planet I think gentle reminders of self-preserverence are equally necessary. Sustainability must include mental and emotional well-being, or it defeats its purpose entirely.
Being kind to myself is just as important as being kind to the planet.
5. Realizing I’m Not Alone
Eco-anxiety is quite rampant among people my age is something I realised when I converse with my friend groups. However, I was not prepared for it being common among younger kids. Recently, when I was talking to a group of kids and the topic veered towards nature and marine life I was a little surprised that many of them expressed sadness over extinct animals. It was overwhelming to see such young minds burdened by this reality.
Research confirms that eco-anxiety is increasingly common among younger generations, including teenagers and children. This made me realise that the eco-anxiety and activist guilt that runs in me is not a singular instance but an increasing phenomenon, especially among younger people.
This was both painful to process and a stark reminder of the urgency of the situation. It made me realize that sustainability isn’t about perfection—it’s about collective, consistent effort.
6. LT Jeyachandran’s Approach
What really helped me were the words of LT Jeyachandran when it came to navigating and channelising my own feelings regarding the climate crisis. I find it very rare to see theologians who view climate change not just from an ethical lens but also from the lens of a spiritual responsibility.
While a lot of Christian preachers openly mocked the credibility of global warming (something my scientific temper couldn’t handle) or spiritualize it without action, his approach reminded me of the reason we are called to protect the planet -stewardship. He critiques both extremes: worshipping the environment and dismissing climate concerns. Instead, he emphasizes the responsibility to care for creation as one of the spiritual duties that cannot be compromised on.
This perspective has helped me channel my eco-anxiety in constructive ways. Much like anger can be channeled into fighting injustice, eco-anxiety can fuel efforts to address environmental challenges. Jeyachandran’s teachings offered a balanced and hopeful perspective. This healed me in more ways than I could’ve ever imagined.
Final Thoughts
I realise that eco-anxiety is useful and necessary to take action, too much of it can be paralyzing. And if I need to take care of myself, I need to understand my own limitations without feeling too guilty.
Eco-anxiety is real and valid, but it doesn’t have to envelope me in guikt. Small steps, done with intention, matter. Whether it’s skipping a plastic bottle, eating less meat, or simply being mindful, every action counts.
And sometimes, the most sustainable thing we can do is extend grace—to the planet, to each other, and to ourselves.
What’s a blog without a touch of existential humor? On a serious note, I hope this is not the future.
If you’ve experienced eco-anxiety or activist guilt, I hope this blog reminds you that you’re not alone. We’re in this together, striving for progress, not perfection.
Thank you for traveling with me through my very eco-anxious journey!
Have you ever been to a church with stained glass? The kind where sunlight streams through and transforms the space into something almost heavenly? Not every church has stained glass, of course. It’s not a mandate, and it’s certainly not a measure of holiness. But my particular church has a stained glass cross right at the centre of the altar.
And like most Indian churches, it is built facing the East. This is rooted in the belief that since Jesus ascended into heaven from the East, so facing the East during worship shows a sense of eagerness, awaiting His return. This is symbolic, of course, but here’s where it gets interesting.
When the service begins, the sun starts to rise. And this is especially true during early morning services like Christmas and Easter. As the service progresses, the sun falling through the stained glass cross, casts coloured rays of light and hues across the altar. By the time the service is in full swing, the sunlight forms a radiant silhouette of the cross on the altar, gently falling on the Celebrant, the Eucharist and the rest of the Elements at the altar.
Nehemiah 9:4-6
“The heavenly host bows down; all that has life praises His name; the heavens, the seas, and the earth all cry out to God in worship”
For someone who loves observing nature, this is by far the most exciting part of the service for me. Watching the sun illuminate the stained glass and imagining the sun’s journey across the expanse of the sky. It reminds me of the vastness of Creation while juxtapositioning my still, small being.
The stained glass becomes a window for me to take a glimpse into the world outside! In those moments, that I am reminded that creation itself is participating in worship.
Personally, I don’t believe in the inherent holiness of any registered religious place. Church buildings, after all, are simply vessels for the sacred moments that unfold within them. But I do believe that there is something in a good environment and a well intended atmosphere that allows the participant to reflect and worship. And what else are the walls of the church if not for spaces designed to inspire awe, reflection, and worship?
Sitting in my home parish, watching the sun rise behind the stained glass, I feel a deep sense of humility. It’s a moment of stillness and awe, a reminder that faith isn’t just about a Sunday morning ritual. Sometimes, it’s about noticing the little things—the way light passes through glass, the awe when realisation dawns, and watching the beams falling on anything and everything it can.
As I look at the altar, I’m reminded that faith, like the sunrise, is something we witness anew each day. And sometimes it’s when we pause and notice the simplest of things, on an otherwise hurried Sunday morning, – a ray of light, a silhouette of a cross- that we rediscover the extraordinary love of the Creator.
This is a picture of a sunrise I witnessed in Nepal after waking up at 3 a.m. to trek to a viewpoint. The beauty of that moment felt like a quiet whisper of the Creator, reminding me that faith often unfolds when we take the time to pause and notice.
Religion is like food. But whether you want to use it to feed your neighbour or shove it down their throat is upto you.
Hello! Thank you so much for traveling with me in my journey of the Disentangling my Faith series. Were you able to pause for a bit and introspect on the two questions I posed earlier? Or let me remind you. One was how does an athlete cope when they lose a limb? I’m sure you already remember the second question. Were you able to come up with answers for the same? If so, please take the opportunity to pause and converse with me on the same. 🙂
Before I proceed any further, I would like to remind you that this series is not a prescription to faith but rather a description of my personal journey. I hope you are able to read it keeping the same in mind.
No but seriously, how DOES one cope with the same? Does their identity crumble with them? How do they live with the fact that they can’t go back on the field? Ouch!
4. The Embrace
With everything that was happening around me so quickly and so unexpectedly, I started spiraling into a combination of PTSD along with the identity crisis of my faith. Like I mentioned before, it felt like I was spiraling and spiraling and there was no bottom to it. In the depths of my spiraling, I encountered something unexpected—a space where I could rest, unburdened by the questions that haunted me. I looked straight into it and it looked straight back at me and realized that never in my 21 years of existence could I imagine my life to finally turn out this way. But it did. And I let it embrace me. And I embraced it back. It was atheism, and for the first time, I felt like I could breathe.
It was comforting for me because it allowed me to breathe between the painful sessions that caused me to spiral. It numbed me from the otherwise hurting moments. It was comforting for me because I did not have to have an answer for the whys and hows about the questionable lifestyles of so many religious people. Atheism gave me permission to pause—to stop wrestling with answers and simply exist in the unknown. It freed me from the weight of needing to reconcile others’ actions with a deity I struggled to understand. And in that isolation was my solace. It gave me room to heal.
But it also came with the insecurity of still not knowing who I was. Who was Sharon if she was everything else, minus a Christian? (There are tears in my eyes as I answer this)
1. She is still loved: Still capable of experiencing love from members of her family and her close friends.
2. She is still worthy of experiencing joy.
3. She also experiences grief, maybe a little more than usual, but that is okay.
4. She is cherished: My father cuddling me in his arms and kissing me made me realize that love is never earned, love is never deserved, but it is still love.
At the Threshold
I realized I am human and still worthy of human connection. And somewhere along those lines, when I felt I had enough space, I had enough room, I was ready to re-navigate my past beliefs – fully embracing the roller coaster of emotions it would come with.
The Theologian's Daughter 