I think my greatest discomfort in life is being lodged in the middle of a crowded, wooden pew with strangers blocking either exit on day #2 of my period. Half the church has no idea the severe discomfort and potential embarrassment of attending church on a period day, especially when the sermon runs long, especially when there’s no easy escape from a packed pew. This is vulnerable to write about…but I figure if an entire story of miraculous New Testament healing can involve a woman’s blood issue, then I can write honestly here.
I’ve sat through dozens of such church services my entire life. I’ve sat through cramps and blood and anxiety fueled by the desperate need to vacate an eerily quiet sanctuary in the midst of serious prayer. We are so driven by the desire to belong that we avoid the squeamish, messy topics of blood and illness and grief and despair. On Sundays, we gather, hiding cramps, hiding sadness, hiding questions, hiding disbelief. We leave our not-for-public-consumption thoughts and feelings at the door and pass out bulletins, volunteer in nursery, sign up for events, raise our hands, close our eyes, vocally pray thoughtful prayers, listen attentively…we are doing the things we’re certain will lead to belonging, to be seen as upstanding, to be considered servant-hearted.
But what happens when, despite all the volunteering, and pushing through pain, and praying, and tithing, we still find ourselves on the outskirts of what C.S. Lewis called the “inner circle” (a circle I don’t think should exist but far too often does)? In my nearly two years of public writing, I’ve heard story after story of church harm, neglect, and even abuse. I’ve borne witness to painful recountings of rejection, manipulation, DARVO, gaslighting, and abuse cover-ups by church people and leaders. On Twitter, I’ve seen husband/father/pastor types slander preaching women, attack LGBTQ Christians, and condemn the deconstructing (I am not being uncharitable here–if you want to see far-too-many examples of Christians behaving badly, check out Twitter).
We all have an inherent need to belong somewhere. In church, that urge to belong often comes out through the things we do or give to the local body. But it’s also exhibited in the stances folks take both in person and the digital world, when they’re less inclined to be considerate or thoughtful or humble. And because they already belong to a particular closed off, non-inclusive community, they can afford to be condescending or belittling or even cruel.
Volunteer and Be Received
Up until my late twenties, I’d never opted out of church. Christians go to church—it’s what we do (even on period days) from Sunday morning worship to Wednesday night home groups and men’s and women’s groups and any other supplemental events. The servant’s heart was perhaps the best descriptor for any good church-goer. We were known first for our service. We were included and belonged because we gave and did and served. I don’t think the attention to physical works was intentional (how many times did I hear “works don’t save”?). But I absorbed the message that I belonged because of what I could offer, how much I could serve. There’s no rest for the weary or the wicked. And there’s no rest for the Christian either.
I carried this with me into adulthood, into our first out-of-state move as a young married couple. We lived in Pensacola, FL, for just six months but I was determined to begin our new military life belonging to something. And we found it immediately. One balmy, stormy night, my husband and I walked into a small church service on base led by a visiting chaplain. He was fiery and passionate. And after the service, he and his wife almost immediately walked up to us and introduced themselves. I remember thinking: “wow, meeting new people is so easy!” I noticed their intentionality with every sailor, especially the ones who’d wandered in alone. They invited us to their little church that met in a school cafeteria. In fact, they seemed to invite everyone to their church from sailors they’d run into at the gym to Walmart customers standing behind them in the checkout line.
I felt like I’d arrived home. I was a stranger but I’d been extended hospitality into an inner circle that was closed off to no one. That Thanksgiving, I hosted a lavish meal in our tiny apartment for nearly 10 sailors. I made everything from scratch because I thought it would be better that way (it was but they didn’t really care). I met my neighbor who lived across the parking lot and let her come over and hang out (even though she often overstayed her welcome). Jordan offered to help with the church powerpoint and we started arriving early on Sunday mornings, thrilled to be part of something beyond ourselves. Everyone was friendly. They always thanked us repeatedly for small things. At this church, the culture seemed different. Everyone worked together but not because there was an expectation to always produce. There was harmony and welcome and deep gratitude for even small labor.
For six months, we belonged. Our circle was small but it was true. I had great expectations for wherever we’d end up next, which I assumed would be anywhere else but the south (join the Navy, see the world and all). But we ended up just a few hours north in Georgia. And once again, we had to start all over in a widespread city with a church on every corner. It felt far more overwhelming. Isolated on base, with some legitimately bizarre and needy neighbors, I cried in the closet everyday for weeks. On Sunday mornings, we’d put on our Sunday best (I always wore something that I hoped said: “I’m friendly and creative. Please be my friend”) and head over to the next church on our list. Every Sunday I’d walk through unfamiliar doors with the hope THIS would be the Sunday we’d be truly welcomed with bright smiles and lunch invitations. This would be the Sunday we’d meet our forever friends, our true church family. But Sunday after Sunday we sat through services that felt more like closed off groups. Everyone seemed paired up. Everyone seemed to already have their people. No one noticed us. No one talked to us.
I was hit with a blow of guilt realizing I’d been the person so comfortable in my belonging I didn’t see the folks who didn’t yet belong. I didn’t notice the newcomers, the shy stragglers. Moving changed that for me. I began dreading church visits. My body would seize with anxiety. We started leaving earlier and earlier before the announcements started. Why stay if we’d just be boxed into a crowd of unseeing strangers heading out to lunch plans we weren’t invited to?
This went on for months. We volunteered for church work day events as first-timers, thinking this would be our angle towards acceptance. We started going to a small group after just one Sunday hoping this would seal the deal towards our belonging, even subjecting ourselves to a bizarre prophecy of space rockets (spoken specifically over me)…we asked good questions and flexed our theological background…and finally arrived at yet another church that would eventually become “the church.”
I walked into a Bible study of about 50 women I did not know. It was awkward and terrifying, but I continued going even though they were halfway through Galatians and I was so far behind. I signed us up for church membership classes and yet another small group. We joined within weeks (after proving our salvation to a church leader by explaining the gospel in 60 seconds). I signed up for women’s leadership training (which began to take up my Saturdays), attended baby showers and wedding showers, and frequently took meals to new mothers, while also volunteering for Navy spouse events and participating in the local Rising Tide Society (a group for artists, creatives, and entrepreneurs). I got swindled into volunteering with children's church (which I loathe) but didn’t have the heart to say no. I was available throughout the week for miscellaneous projects from shelf assembly to freezer meal preparation. I got swindled (again) to help with vacation Bible school (VBS) and ended up in charge of a large group of distracted children…I volunteered to write and design a neighborhood newsletter. I invited women I met in Bible study over for coffee. I invited myself over to help young moms who couldn’t get away. I endeavored to pay attention to newcomers. Jordan and I volunteered monthly as church greeters, showing up early to pass out bulletins and welcome people in…
I gave, served, and volunteered to the point of burnout because I was keenly aware of an inner circle no amount of service or hard work allowed me access to. I wanted respect. I wanted friendship. I wanted a place in that world. I felt women couldn’t relate to me because I wasn’t a newlywed but also didn’t have children. Church people like to plant roots and we couldn’t. Our time in that church and city had an expiration date as a military family and many (I’m certain) held us at arm’s length because they knew we were leaving soon anyway.
Abandoned.
Jordan left for deployment without a church sendoff (no congregational prayers or announcements made). I threw him a party with some of our closest (mostly non-church) friends. I thought if I proved myself for six months, gave my time, offered my heart, extended invitations to coffee, and diligently attended services, I’d be supported during deployment. I thought I’d be cared for and tended to by compassionate shepherds. I thought I’d be invited to dinners and sent frequent check-in texts. I guess I thought I could earn the love of the people I was serving.
Rachel Held Evans wrote in Searching for Sunday, “All I wanted was a safe place to be. Like so many, I was in search of sanctuary.”
This is also all I wanted. Beyond all the extracurriculars and parachurch events, I desired sanctuary, respite, safe haven.
By the time Jordan returned after seven months at sea, I was overwhelmed by the burnout that comes with too much work, too little affirmation, and insignificant rest. I felt betrayed by the institution I’d spent my whole life loving and serving.
I felt I’d been abandoned. I didn’t voice it to anybody then. I didn’t even voice the depth of those emotions to my husband. I’ve recounted everything slowly to him over the last few years because, at first, I thought I’d been wrong to be hurt, that I was wrong to ever say anything “negative” about church in general. But if that’s not the definition of a cult, I don’t know what is. Christ is our solid ground; everything else is sinking sand. That can include the church when church is not properly caring or shepherding or loving or welcoming. And when the church places undue significance on works, doctrine, tenets, and seamless services, souls are inevitably trampled. Mine was. I’ve been picking up the pieces of a shattered spirit ever since.
Solid Ground
Last summer, our friends K.J. and Ryan came over to eat food truck pupusas with us in our backyard beneath the shelter of a low hanging tree. We sat and ate and talked as day turned to dusk. Ryan, who is gentle, thoughtful, and pastoral, asked, “what are your thoughts about church these days?” At that point we’d been apart from any sort of church community for over a year, largely due to the pandemic but also our own slowly-healing wounds. We’d attended a few Anglican services with K.J. and Ryan, and while the parish was small and gentle, we didn’t feel quite ready to return full time, nor did we know if the Anglican way was for us. Still, it was a kindness to be both invited and welcomed. “We don’t really know what we think about church right now,” I said honestly, and a bit emotionally. They know a bit of our story, we know a bit of theirs. Between the four of us there are broken spirits and heavy burdens. There also remains a communal love of Jesus. “Sometimes,” Ryan said, “church is what we’re doing right now with tacos and conversation with safe people.”
I’ve thought about that night often over the past year and Ryan’s permission (as a former pastor, chaplain, and friend) to take the time we need to take, to see the sacred even in the gathering of four over tortillas and melted cheese. Richard Rohr writes about imprints of the divine existing within every living thing, not because everything is God but because everything bears the mark of God. Even Jesus said God is present in the gathering of just a few. And I think about his small but memorable moments on a fishing boat, breakfast by the sea, the infamous last supper, the conversation at the well…small, intimate, simple, full of questions, brimming (I imagination) with sacred silence and unspoken words.
These days, I consider church through the lens of welcome and safe sanctuary, not just houses of worship but houses of Love. My small wounds opened a portal for church questions to spill out: questions of welcome and membership, communion, women’s “roles,” theology and doctrine, etc., etc., etc…I was initially grafted into one way of doing church but I am learning there are a multitude of ways.
Rachel Held Evans wrote, “...our God is in the business of transforming ordinary things into holy things, scraps of food into feasts and empty purification vessels into fountains of fine wine.” So perhaps this miracle God and the compassion of Christ can also meet us in our casual gatherings of few souls with many questions.
Maybe the words welcoming and affirming are 21st century words, words conservative Christians balk against and progressive Christians adamantly champion. But Jesus said, “Come to me ALL who are weary.” Jesus said it’s the sick who need a doctor and he blessed the poor in spirit (you know–the ones who can’t tell you the gospel in 60 seconds). A rule of St. Benedict reads, “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed in Christ.” Not once they’ve cleaned up their behaviors and fully affirm a Calvinistic theological framework. But now, even in the mess, even in mustard-seed-sized belief. Thomas Merton said, “A saint is not someone who is good but who experiences the goodness of God.”
I have experienced the goodness of God under shade trees and tasted the holy ordinary in red wine and fresh baked bread and food truck pupusas. I’ve been welcomed by internet strangers into spacious homes. And I’ve seen glimmers of a God far bigger than the boxes we’ve tried to confine him to. In the aftermath of abandonment, I’m beginning to know true belonging and discovered I’ve been kept and held by the God who sees even when I could no longer see God.
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Loving + Savoring
Movie: Vengeance — When the movie ended my husband and I just looked at each other with wide eyes. I think this is one of the most brilliant films I’ve seen in a while. It’s a commentary on story: the stories we get grafted into, the stories we have a right to tell, the stories we don’t, and the ways we go about telling them (slimy agenda or compassionate care, artistry or exhibition?) A quote that stuck with me: “Nobody writes anything. All we do is translate.”
**movie is rated R for language**
Book: The Universal Christ by Richard Rohr — I was late to this book that everyone was reading a few years ago... I know it’s the book that’s either beloved or hated depending on the theology of the reader. I read this with openness. And honestly, there’s so much beauty in this book. I’m a believer in the possibility and ability to read a book and gain wisdom and beauty even if parts raise questions. And honestly, we are human. None of us are going to write books that are 100 percent correct on everything. And that’s ok. Read charitably, read openly. Allow the possibility that truth can rise to the surface and there’s a hell of a lot of space for the mystery of the unknown.
Local Flavor: Hudson Hill — If you’re anywhere close to Denver, please make time to drink coffee at this dreamy, plant-filled coffee shop. It’s eclectic and brimming with hanging plants and towering fiddle leaf figs. And the pastries are divine. **they also have beer, wine, and cocktails :)
I wrote dozens of words thanking you. I don’t remember any of them. It asked me to subscribe again. And so I have. Your words here mean more than you can know. Susan
Gosh, this was just so good. Yes and Amen. "...I’ve been kept and held by the God who sees even when I could no longer see God." I surely hope this will be what I get to say about myself with confidence. I have so many uncertainties and questions - many I can't even articulate - and I often feel like I'm sitting alone with them, even when I cognitively know that's not true (thank you, fellow question-askers of the Internet). Thank you for sharing your heart with us and giving us another nod to hold onto, one that says no, you are not alone. <3