"People don't have time for church." As I typed those words in last week's post and read them again and again, I knew I was asking for trouble, so let me explain. People don't have time for life-draining communities when life-giving communities are just as available. If your church is life-giving for you, I celebrate that. Life-giving churches are out there. I also know that the same place that gives life to one person can drain the life from another. For years I have felt more connected with God and produced more intimate and authentic relationships at my school, on my deck, and with the families of my kids' athletic teams than I ever did in a church building. I suspect the same is true for patrons of a non-profit pub a college classmate of mine opened in Washington state this year. The pub's Facebook page describes it as "A Non-Profit Pub that seeks to make the world a better place through beer, food and the community that comes with it." I get that. People don't have time for quick black-and-white answers to the social and spiritual issues of our time. I want to devote my time to people who will share space with me through the pain and difficult questions of life. "I'll pray for you" and Psalm 23 are not enough. I want to devote my time to people who will engage and explore with me when I ask provocative questions that sound like heresy. A standard Sunday School answer and a Bible verse taken out of its historical and cultural context are definitely not enough. People don't have time for keeping up appearances. They want to come as they are. I cherish chapel at my grandfather's nursing home because it is a beautiful example of come as you are. Many wear sweatpants, several fall asleep from time to time, we lose the tune or rhythm while singing, and some talk or cry out during the sermon or prayer, but a 30-minute chapel at the nursing home is one place where I meet God. The authenticity, patience, grace, and joy of nursing home chapel bring me rest and peace every time. No one expects anything from me. I get to just come as I am. So, yes, I get it. Saying "people don't have time for church" sounds ridiculous. We make time for what we value and what gives us life. But, maybe, just maybe, the people who don't have time for church are actually busy being the church. I like that.
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I didn't leave church to run away from faith, but toward it. My increasing cynicism, bitterness, and anxiety about church was slowly killing my faith, so I left church to resuscitate my faith.
Leaving church is not for everybody. As Kelly Bean says in her book How To Be Christian Without Going to Church, "The structure of church often provides a variety of opportunities to touch the lives of others and to form healthy relationships" (72). For me, church provided a foundational understanding of my faith, and I am grateful. However, at some point church became a chore, a burden, and a frustration. So, I left. I'm not alone. According to research done by Barna in 2017, one-tenth of Americans are Christians who care a lot about their faith but choose not to attend church. On page 46 of Kelly Bean's book, Jim, a non-goer and former pastor, gives four reasons that make a lot of sense to me.
So, to my church-going friends, don't worry about me. Instead, put your energies toward Central American children who have entered America all by themselves to find family members, LGBTQ people and their families who don't feel welcome and cared for at the churches of their childhood, and students who need mentors because their parents are incarcerated. These aren't random stories that happen in big cities. These are the stories of my students--in South Dakota. No, don't worry about me and the ten percent of Christians who have stopped attending church. We didn't lose our faith. We actually found it. Last night my family hosted our faith community's weekly gathering. When we started planning, we expected 20. Then, it was 14. Then, it was 11. Then, it was 13. Then, it was 10. As the number dropped throughout the week, my heart did too. I grieved the absences because I love spending time with them, but also because a piece of me fears that these gatherings have an expiration date that is sooner than later. Leaving church has made my faith more vibrant than it's been in a long time, and I just want to discover rest and inspiration in this space for a while longer.
We ended up with 7, and one was late, so for the first hour and a half we were 3 kids and 3 adults. The rhythm I'd envisioned for the evening was out the window. We'd moved into a jam session. The best part of jam sessions is that they are full of new discoveries and authenticity. While eating, we 3 adults got to know 3 kids better. After the kids left the table, we sat for another hour getting to know each other better, even getting into some controversial issues with respect, grace, and empathy. Then, we all gathered again, now 7 of us, to talk about Mark 10:17-31, the infamous camel through the eye of a needle passage. All of us--yes, all of us!--talked for an hour and came away inspired. For me, the discussion came down to loving God and loving others. I was afraid last night's little gathering would be weird, contrived, and awkward. Instead, we 3 adults and 4 kids had no trouble finding our rhythm and harmonizing. Whether we've been all 20 or just 6, the organic nature of small faith-based gatherings is special and has made leaving church easier than I ever expected it to be. Midway through year one of my home church experience, our four families ran into a problem. What do we do with the kids? As a group we have 12 very different kids who are in grades 11, 9, 8, 7, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 1, pre-K...and a baby. They all get along well enough, usually.
Gatherings meant for spiritual encouragement should be characterized by love, compassion, and empathy, but that wasn't always present among the kids. Some kids felt alone or rejected, which hurt all of us as those kids' parents grieved deeply for their kids, and the other parents wrestled with embarrassment, among other emotions. One of many reasons why I left mainstream church was to run toward greater love, compassion, and empathy and away from loneliness and rejection, but here we were, same struggles, new group. After a week of intense and emotional communication between the adults, we reconciled. We didn't find the perfect solution. In fact, one year later we are still working on it. But, we reconciled! Had we been in a mainstream church, we might have avoided each other, found new groups, and moved on, but we reconciled! As a small community that meets in homes, we had to. We're giving more focus to the kids' role in our gatherings now. Through our shared reading of Faithful Presence by David Fitch, we learned that being with children is an important spiritual practice, as well as reconciliation. Sometimes we artfully include the kids in our spiritual discussions, which is by far my favorite as I aim to support my own kids' spiritual growth and provide a new model of church for them. Sometimes an adult or older kid organizes and leads an activity for the children. Sometimes an adult just hangs out with the kids while the other adults delve into deeper or more personal matters. We're still figuring it out--and so are the kids--but in the mess of it all, we are learning about love, compassion, empathy, and reconciliation. A friend who was part of a similar gathering for two years before it dissolved told me that incorporating or entertaining the kids was a factor in their demise. Mainstream church is so much easier with all of its programs for kids. Yet, before leaving church, I started to question the programming that separated kids from adults, especially during Sunday service. Then, a dear friend, and the most faithful Catholic I know, shared her story. Mass can be hard for Rachel. She has six kids, and maybe number seven will arrive today. Her kids, like all kids, want to wiggle and talk and play. One Sunday morning when Rachel felt especially exasperated, a church leader told her this: from birth to death we are all part of one community, and the children's cries are not a burden to the congregation but a reminder that we are a large family that keeps the faith from generation to generation. Figuring out how to fold kids into a unique spiritual experience such as a home church has been the hardest part so far. Even more importantly, reconciling and working it out has been the best. I am not lying when I say I left church at age 40. I am not lying when I say I have church Saturday night. It's just that the meaning of the word has changed for me.
Church during my first four decades meant programs, marketing, branding, and budgets. Church during this past year meant twenty people sharing a meal, their spirituality, and their hearts. Most of the time I call it home church, but I could also call it Bible study, book club, small group, life group, or hanging out with friends. We've never listened to a sermon, we sing only a little bit, and we lit candles once. We came together as people jaded or even hurt by our experiences in mainstream evangelical churches. We are two former pastors, four business people, two teachers, and twelve kids. We welcome questions and doubts. We commit to vulnerability and honesty. We value love for each other over theology. We take on tough issues and work through disagreements and hurt feelings. None of that ever went well in my other church experiences. So, whereas church used to represent a building, programs, and the people who helped it all run, it now represents people gathering to encourage and empower one another to love God and love others. For 40 years I wandered in a desert--a desert that taught me a lot--but now I feel like I've entered a promised land. At age 40, I stopped going to church. I was tired emotionally, mentally, and physically, and the day of rest was often the most tiring day of the week because of church. If it wasn't the monumental effort to get my family out the door, it was the volunteering I'd do to keep any one of a long list of programs running. The nursery, Sunday School, sign-up tables, Wednesday night activities, a building committee--I was actually just a minimal volunteer compared to others. And, what for?
As I drink tea on my deck most Sunday mornings now, the words Sunday service come to mind. During my 40 years in church, Sunday service meant we served ourselves inside the church. We left frustrated when we weren't fed, church lingo for inspired. We paid for sound systems for singing, flat screen TVs for announcements, and a gym for activities and meals. The last one I had a large part in, convincing myself that a gym would be a blessing to our city and a way to bring people through our doors first on a Thursday night but maybe later for a Sunday service. Now, one year after leaving church, Sunday service means helping my 93-year-old grandpa attend chapel at his nursing home, getting him and his table mates their food for lunch, helping my own family with their needs and projects, cleaning for a friend, or assisting a stranger at the store. And Sunday all by itself means rest and time to reflect. Sunday is time to breathe, sit on the deck, and drink a cup of tea. One year ago I stopped going to church, and Sunday service on the day of rest has never, ever been better. |