Christianity Unraveled

December 24th, 2019

I have been blessed by never being hurt by the church. Each person I have ever met has loved me fully and deeply, being kind and truly giving – from potlucks to providing me dinner or rides, to even offering to listen to my thoughts over a cup of coffee or tea they bought for me. The church as comprised of people have always been kind to me and to others who aren't me. That is one reason why I chose the church I attend now: they are focused on creating my community to become better. They do coat drives, food drives, provide free food to college students, and other such wonderful and helpful things.

Even so, lately being at church has been hurting me. Not in the sense that it is hurtful, but more in the sense that it hurts to be there. And yet, the church itself isn't in the wrong, especially as it is doing much good and honestly hasn't changed much since I begin attending, but rather I have changed and am changing, and being there seems to be one of the hardest places to be. It is a constant reminder to me of what I found and what I lost, and it seems to me that it feels as though I can never find it again. Going each time feels like a mini funeral of my previous self, forever haunted by it in seeing and hearing the other people in the church who seem to be exactly like the person I was one year ago.

Perhaps you have felt this too.

You sing to the worship music but can't wholeheartedly think about the lyrics without feeling the burst of tears that you previously would have attributed to the Holy Spirit. At one point, you stop singing altogether and begin to understand a sliver of the lives of the people you judged before who would stand next to you, staring at the screen with the words, and refuse to open their mouths.

You listen to the sermon but can't wholeheartedly think about the beauty of the words coming from your pastor/priest's mouth that you previously would have thought were blessed by God himself. You notice how lately, even though you have been committed for untold years to writing every single sermon down in hopes that you wouldn't forget it, you haven't written down a single word and perhaps didn't even bring your journal specifically designated for your relationship with God. At one point you stop listening altogether and let your mind drift away as you think about anything other than the words coming from the pulpit. Even if you listen, though, all that comes to your thoughts are criticisms and questions and comments and bitterness that will never be voiced.

But it doesn't stop there. You who once would stay 20-30 minutes after the service to mingle, catch up on people's lives, and pray for each other find yourself recoiling each time one of your friends at church want to say hello and ask you how you are doing. You want to tell them the truth, but what good would that do, and you begin to realize a sliver of how much people probably hid when you used to want to talk to others and truly get to know them. At one point, you begin sitting closer and closer in the back, and leaving earlier and earlier, and sometimes you stop attending altogether.

And then, two or three weeks later, you come back to a service and you remember why you stopped. Because as much as you love it, it hurts so, so much to be there. It hurts because you let yourself try to think during the worship and sermon. It hurts because you who desperately need to feel genuine want to tell people your feelings, but ultimately you don't because the fear of rejection or abandonment overruns your needs of being true to yourself.

But perhaps, it hurts the most because no matter how hard you try to not think about anything, it is impossible not to. It's impossible not to listen to people and it's impossible not to see people. And when you are unable to sing the words of the songs and feel the tears rising, you have only two options: close your eyes and try not to listen to the hundreds of voices who love and worship the God you aren't positive is real anymore, or keep them open and try not to notice the faces of the people surrounding you that are completely drowned in joy, love, and adoration toward the God you can't seem to love anymore. With only these two options available, hurt and sadness are inevitable, and it feels as though you are the only person in the room trying to figure out where faith comes in play when the odds seem much too highly stacked against Him.

It is best to describe this feeling as mourning. And I must admit that I feel as though I have been mourning for much too long. Sometimes I don't know what I am mourning. One day I am mourning the God I thought was real, and another I am mourning that people don't seem to see that the God I am beginning to think is real, could be real. Usually though, it seems as though I am mourning the death of myself. This is what happens mostly when I attend church: I find myself seeing or hearing the multitudes of people in love with God, and I remember that I used to as well. I remember when I was completely sold, when I could experience God (though I can't seem to believe that it was God anymore), and when I loved and worshiped God more than anything in the entire universe. I remember when I spent hours on end in the scripture, or singing by myself to him, or writing worship songs, or writing poetry, or praying, or leading/attending studies, or evangelizing – and I remember and realize that I will never be her again. I can never unexpose myself from my thoughts or questions or knowledge. And though sometimes I think I wish I could, I can't bring myself to actually wish this upon myself.

But even so, I am trying to trust in the miracle that is death. For from life comes death, and from death springs new life and growth. The never-ending circle of the material world relies on these two things, and I am beginning to believe that it may apply to the spiritual as well – life to death to life yet again. And then death, and then perhaps a better new understanding after it. A constant dying and renewal. And what a beautiful miracle that is.