Go Back

Audio Version

If you have ever had the pleasure of hanging out with me while listening to my playlist, you know how eclectic my music taste is. The playlist can go from a worship song to a vulgar rap song, back to worship, and then into some Disney LoFi, Alexander Hamilton, or even lullabies.

The songs in my iTunes feel like an extension of my life. The 70s music I grew up listening to with my mom, oldies from my teenage years listening to Sunday Night Oldies on the radio, Disney and lullabies from my time as a new mom and preschool teacher, hip-hop and R&B being the majority of my taste in music, and Christian music from when I got saved to now. Even a bit of country from when I tried (and mostly failed) to have an open mind with new genres.

Most of my Christian and worship music playlists are still songs the first few years after I got saved. Songs from 2011 and 2012 that bring me back to the small coffee shop of a larger church, where our small church worshiped on Sunday afternoons. We worshiped not with a worship leader but with YouTube on a television or a pastor on the bongos while another member played the keyboard. All of us singing off-key, except perhaps the pastor's wife and her sister.

As I ran my errands, one of those songs came on, and I instantly felt the weight of sadness. I nearly skipped the song, anxious to ignore the emotion and all that came with it. Instead, I let it play. I tried to process why this song made me so sad.

What did the song represent? Was it the lyrics? Was it something that had happened in my life when the song came out?

But no... it was just a Christian song from 2012. One that reminded me of worshipping in a church I loved or singing in the car with my kids. Songs that brought me comfort and hope.

Slowly, the source of the sadness seeped in.

It wasn't a new sadness. It just came in a new way that day.

In last month's newsletter, I briefly touched on leaving our previous church. This month, I am two weeks late with this email. I didn't know what to say this month. The weight of all we were walking through was becoming too much. I prayed for God to give me the words, what he needed me to write, and what he needed someone to hear—maybe what he needed me to hear.

And He gave me this song.

This reminder of how easy my faith had been at one time.

How all we needed, all we wanted, was His truth.

Faith the size of a mustard seed that moved mountains.

Answered prayers that brought a sense of awe.

Faith that grew simply because of our desire to see Jesus in everything.

A coffee shop with mix-match couches and chairs, a TV, and some bongos.

A group of people who did church and life together. Who cared about each other. Who prayed for each other. Who showed up for one another.

Bible-reading and bible teaching.

Bringing Jesus into today, and today back to Jesus.

For months now, I haven't been able to shake the idea that it has all become mixed up, that we have gotten it wrong—those of us who call ourselves Christians, those of us who consider ourselves "the church."

We are so caught up in doctrine, opinions, numbers of people, the amount of the tithe, politics, lifestyle agreements, social media presence, local church culture, worship performances, and the pastor's outfits. All while we watch as pastor after pastor falls to sin, Christians leaving the church due to hurts, churches side-eyeing those who are hurting and labeling it "weak faith" or "deconstruction."

And all I can think is, "I wanna go back."

I want to go back to before.

Before we ever considered doctrine.

Before we had heard of new earth vs. old earth.

Before speaking in tongues or the gift of prophecy were "necessities."

Before Christianity felt saturated in politics.

Before prayer began to feel like desperation and lost its beauty when answered.

Before my faith shrunk back down to a mustard seed, and I doubted I could climb a mountain - let alone move one.

Before we left our home church to move to a new state and stumbled our way through churches that were messy and run by humans who were messier.

Before we found ourselves wounded from one of those churches.

Before we had to wonder how we had allowed and even contributed to any of the above.

Maybe I want to go back to before my husband and I took ministry on as a job. Before we worked for a church and saw its internal workings. Before we got so close that hurt should have seemed inevitable.

A few weeks ago, I listened to a sermon where a Pastor preached that while misery loves company, bitterness loves a party. She said that when we invite people into our bitterness, we become a stumbling block to their pursuit of peace, and a bitter person can destroy a life group or separate a church.

And my heart broke.

I asked myself if I was bitter. Is that why the pastor's words stung?

I have talked to a lot of my friends and fellow church-goers about the ways I was struggling with church and my faith. Did that make me a stumbling block? Did it make me divisive? Able to destroy a life group? Separate a church?

It is not that the pastor's words weren't true. As she said, I have seen bitter people cause division and destruction. But her words felt like another way for the church to quiet those who are crying out, hushing their hurt to hide the church's harm. 

I don't think I am bitter, but I know I am hurting. And even if that brings along a bit of bitterness right now, it isn't without a desperation for healing or a desire to stay.

In her book "Raised to Stay," Natalie Runion captures what many of us have experienced in church.

"... but as with any house, it comes with dysfunctional family members, painful memories, and hidden secrets that often go to the grave with its patriarchs. We find drama, broken relationships, abuse, and political power grabs that match the ominous glass artistry of the betrayed Messiah and a hanging Judas."

Few of us who consider ourselves "churched" have gone unharmed, even distantly, by the sins of a church or its leaders or members. Speaking out about these things does not cause the church to bear any more stains than it does by attempting to wash away our sins with club soda.

A few chapters later, Natalie continues, "Maybe if we were all really honest, we'd realize that we're all in a similar war. We're not alone, we're not crazy. Perhaps in hearing the stories of others wanting to quit and choosing to stay, we'd admit the struggle to walk away from our faith and calling is real, but we have a God who saves us and is figthing for us on our most war weary days. We would most likely find we have an army in each other, and we don't have to quit."

The pastor who spoke about bitterness didn't intend for her words to make anyone feel like I did. But hurt hearts feel things differently. It's like pulling on a pair of jeans and brushing your scraped knee as you go. It feels a little raw.

It wasn't her job to be extra careful with her words - it is my job to tend to my wound when something rubs against it.

A few months back, I wrote about healing out loud - and here, now, that is what I am doing. Being really honest, like Natalie says in her book.  Healing - out loud.

I am attempting to heal.

Seeking the truth.

Trying to stay strong in my faith.

Trying to stay… period.

It's messy and confusing, and I am probably going to misstep.

Maybe even misstepping by writing this newsletter.

I'm in the middle of it.

Half healed, half doubting.

One foot in and one hand grasping at the door jam to escape.

I know it was not "the church" that hurt me.

It was its members - the flawed and sinful humans, like myself, who lead and attend church.

But if I and others who were hurt stay silent - who are we helping?

If we leave the church - who else are we hurting?

And if nothing changes, when does it become the church that is causing harm by refusing to be better?

We need to be honest to move forward.

We need to stay to have better.

Otherwise, we leave the church - Christ's bride - to those who are doing the hurting.

We leave the hurting to attempt to heal alone.

And I can't do that...

Because I want to go back.

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