🙈 Misophonia and Ministry: A Love Story

Confessions Too Small to Be Impressive (But Too Real to Ignore)

If I were to stand in front of you and say, "Hi, I’m Jonas, and I used to struggle with heroin," most people would blink, nod, maybe even offer a hug. A quiet moment of solemnity. A spiritual awakening queued up in the wings.

But if I say, "Hi, I’m Jonas, and I can’t stand to hear people eat," people recoil like I just kicked a golden retriever.

This is my actual confession: I have a very hard time watching, hearing, or participating in the act of communal eating (unless there's plenty of background noise and the folks I’m eating with are proficient with their napkins). It’s not because of social anxiety. Or because I’m above it. It’s because I’m a deeply flawed, mildly neurotic human who cannot handle the slurping, chewing, lip-smacking symphony of the human mouth at work.

I know. It’s petty. Small. Minuscule, even.

And yet, it makes parts of my ministry surprisingly hard.

Jesus spent roughly 80% of his earthly time going from meal to meal. He ate his way through the Holy Land. Bread, fish, wine, more bread. He welcomed sinners and saints to the same table. He made communion a central sacrament.

Meanwhile, I’m over here fantasizing about installing invisible noise-canceling booths at potlucks. Just a few little sanctified soundproof pods. Like confessionals, but for chewing.

It’s not just other people, either. I can’t even stand myself when I eat. I usually play music during meals to drown out the sound of my own chewing. I am both Judas and the guy Jesus handed the bread to and I’m annoyed with both of us.

There’s a name for this, apparently. It’s called misophonia, which sounds like a heavy metal band but is actually a condition that makes certain sounds (like chewing) trigger intense rage or anxiety. So at least I’m not alone. There are forums. We meet online. We don’t eat together.

But still, it feels ridiculous. Like one of those embarrassing sins that aren’t even cool. The kind that don’t get a Netflix docuseries. I wish I had something more... dramatic to confess. This just makes me sound like a bougie, anti-social pastor who gags at the sound of soup.

And yes, I’m now absolutely terrified that none of my parishioners will ever want to eat with me again. (Please, don’t uninvite me from dinner parties. I love dinner parties!)

It honestly would’ve been easier to admit to being a Dave Matthews fan. (Wait, did I just say that in public?!)

And yet, I think this is the spiritual lesson tucked into the crumbs.

The things we really don’t want to confess? They’re often not the big, dramatic "failures" we think they are. It’s the tiny, humiliating stuff that makes us feel most human. The silly, awkward, weird-little-gremlin parts of us that don’t belong in a sermon or a self-help book.

And maybe that’s exactly why they’re holy.

Because those are the places grace sneaks in. Not where we’re proud to be vulnerable, but where we’re actually ashamed of how weird we are.

So here it is: I’m a pastor who loves Jesus but cannot bear the sound of soup slurping. If you ever ask me to lunch and I suddenly suggest a walk or coffee instead, know that it’s not you. It’s the minestrone.