Otherwise, I’m pretty boring. I’ve never drank or experimented with drugs. I’m a virgin. I never cuss. I’ve never stolen so much as a cookie off my mom’s counter back home. I cover my shoulders to keep men’s thoughts pure. I always donate to the Salvation Army bucket at Christmas.

But that was before Marquette. Before Micah and James and Dani and the truth about my parents came to light. Since, I’ve worn a two-piece, said fuck out loud, kissed a boy, thought about more than kissing a boy, and lied my pants off to multiple people about the state of my heart. I’ve had terrible, mean-spirited thoughts about my parents, and while I haven’t dabbled in alcohol, the thought did cross my mind late one night that a drink might take the edge off whatever this heartache is that I’m feeling.

With all this sinning going on, I’m halfway scared the church doors will go up in flames when I pass through. Will they be able to tell I’m different? Can they read the conflict on my face? The doubt? The insincerity?

A lot of churches say, “Come as you are,” or “We are an imperfect people,” or “Sinners welcome,” but I feel like it’s mostly a line. Not that I’ve had reason to question it, personally, but this is why: sinners are welcome in the door. They’re encouraged, even. But if a known sinner wants to volunteer in any capacity, they are turned down. I’ve seen it again and again. If you are a recovering alcoholic, you can volunteer. You’re a sinner, but you aren’t acting on that sinful impulse. You’re not a sinner on the outside. Only in your heart.

But say you slip? Something terrible happens and you have a drink? Or a photo surfaces of a drunken night out years before? Or someone sees you sitting at a bar with a questionable glass in front of you and they report you to the pastor?

The following weekend, you’re no longer allowed to be a greeter in the lobby, passing out free coffee coupons. Because the uncomfortable truth is, while the church loves sinners in their pews, they don’t want them in front of a crowd. It’s the difference between acceptance and tolerance, and it might catch on.

God forbid.

I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t. But now that I’m aware of it, I’m having a hard time moving past it. Before Marquette, I was only a sinner in my heart. Now I’m … out there. Like toothpaste all squeezed out of the tube. I can’t be put back in. And I don’t think I want to be.