Why I Quit Searching for Church on Sundays...



Church
. . . . . . 

It has forever been this constant thing in my life.

It’s where I went to AWANA and learned Bible verses in hopes of getting candy. 
It’s where I learned I loved to sing. And sing with others. 
It’s where I first started asking questions and seeking answers. 
It’s where I learned about friendship and got accustomed to about fifty hugs before leaving the building each Sunday. 
It’s where people loved on me and provided food and care when I walked through cancer.

It’s also where I learned people are not perfect.

I had become so used to a particular setting that when my heart started being pulled and tugged and emotions and hurt came into play and all of that came undone… I felt lost.

Leaving your church home is painful.

Surrounded by hundreds of steeples in the Hamilton County area and still, there was only one I had ever known.

So I went to the nearest one.
But walking into those doors I brought with me all my skepticism and questions and doubts.
I was uncertain and yet longed for certainty.
So I jumped in to membership.
I plugged in at all the places I could.
I was searching for that same home experience.
But people are not perfect.
So neither can church hold this persona of perfection.

I got hurt again.
I saw faults and mistakes similar to my last home.
And so I ran.

It’s easier to run from hurt than to address it.
And to be fair, I think our hearts are also aware of what we can handle.

So I quit church.
And soon I quit praying and I quit hoping.
Claiming to even quit God (like that’s possible, but my heart thought it was).

Isolation gets us nowhere.
I see that now.
And my introverted self hates that.

I hate admitting I need help.
I hate that I can’t handle things on my own.
I hate that I have questions.
I hate that I have doubts.
I hate that I need people.

But in my time of leaving community,
I found the beauty of a steeple under the roof of a home.

Church didn’t happen for me on Sundays,
It happened on Monday nights,
Around a dinner table with a family and a few friends.
We talked about the week,
We talked about movies,
We talked about Star Wars and Doctor Who,
We would even sometimes talk about our struggles and our questions.
Never met with theological answers read from a script.
It was real, raw, and healing.

Sure there were times I felt isolated.
Sure there were times I kept silent.
But I knew if ever I wanted to step into the light, I would be accepted there.

I found church on Mondays.
And with that, I wanted to start searching for a church on Sundays.

So with a friend, who soon became my boyfriend, we started walking in to those holy doors on Sundays.

From newly planted, to older mega churches, we went searching.
I wanted fellowship, family, closeness, and realness.
I wanted Mondays on Sundays.

But I carried in baggage around each arm and around my neck,
Hoping some new group would be able to take it off.

Let’s be real… I am a hopeless hoper.
I have finally accepted this fact.
I can search every building and every group within every religious denomination.
And still I would find fault and hurt and unmet needs.

But I know what I will find… what I need to find.
A group of broken people who come to church like they are admitting themselves into a hospital instead of walking in perfect shoes and dresses ready to showcase their perfect self in the museum known as Baptist Church.

I had to attend an AA meeting as a requirement for a counseling class.
I was baffled and in tears over the rawness and honesty and love blasting throughout that room.
I was even approached by five women who had to tell me I was loved and accepted there and took my number to personally check in on me if I did not return (I didn’t have the heart to inform them I was only there to write a report for a class so I lovingly just smiled and accepted their kindness).

After many hugs and kind words later, it left this expectation for church.

And it hit me.
I am convinced brokenness brings people together far more than faith.

I think of those friends I am closest too.
We are close because of the times they have seen me cry.
We are close because we share questions and doubts and struggles.
Not because we can each recite various verses and can all teach a theology class if needed.

I say this in sincerity and with no intent on bashing churches.
But I am sincerely challenging what I look for and settle for in a church home.

I have not quit searching for church…
But I have quit searching for it on Sundays, under a steeple, with perfection.
Instead I am searching for brokenness.
I am searching for a hospital. 

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