The Church Thing

Dear reader (fair warning), this is a personal piece. Since I am a copywriter, I am also a researcher. My topic of choice is religious trauma. Both of my senior capstones centered around this subject as I explored the downfalls of Western Christianity. And, I popped into church this week. Here’s how that went.

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I went to church for the first time in six years. I sat beside my dear friend, Connor. Beside him, his boyfriend, David.

It was strange how familiar it felt. Yet, I’m completely different. I sat next to my gay best friend, for god’s sake. My seventeen-year-old self would cry at the thought. I am no longer who I was then.

But, I’m not my nineteen-year-old self, either; who bent generously for the church, then finally snapped. Who, furious at what she’d heard, slammed the car door and drove away.

Since then, I hadn’t looked back.

And so I broke my six-year streak of “sleeping-in-Sundays.”

Why? I’m not too sure.

My husband is gone, my best friend is going, and I’ve been working for an Evangelical client all week. All the odds are in favor of church—this church. And you know I love a good experiment.

So I woke up early and skipped my makeup routine to make the service on time. I saw people I knew. I sketched in the church bulletin. I sang hymns beside a friend I’d worshipped with before. It all felt familiar, down to the bone.

It wasn’t hard. But it wasn’t exactly easy, either.

I passed on communion—I hadn’t felt that I’d earned it. Even that felt like muscle memory—the ever-present cry of “not enough.”

It’s feelings like these that make things complicated. The whole “church thing” hasn’t felt right for quite some time now (six years, give or take a few months). I don’t know how I got here. But here I am. And I’m reminded now of why the church hurts to me at all.

It’s because I miss it.

I miss it making sense. Diluted for all to share, but not letting Jesus multiply the fish. I drink, but I’m still thirsty. It’s as if the well is holding back from me. There’s a condition behind the bread and wine. It’s not said, but I can hear it.

I know God can handle my wrestling, but I don’t know that the church can. Until that happens, I don’t know that I’ll ever feel comfortable while sitting in the pew.