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A Letter to a Church I Left

This is a letter I wrote to myself, to process my feelings and my sense of grief and loss after choosing to stop attending a church that I respect and, honestly, that I like. I just couldn’t keep going. This was not sent, because I couldn’t see how to make sure it would be received positively; it’d be very easy to take this as scathing criticism, and that’s not what it is. I am publishing it just in case anyone else wonders if they feel the same things – and to suggest that they shouldn’t have to.

Pastor, I wanted to reach out, sort of, to just clear the air in my own mind.

If you haven’t guessed, and you have, we’re no longer attending the church. It’s fine; there’re some residual mild scars on our part (the reason we left, because we don’t do things without cause), but there’s no bitterness, and we haven’t run down you, or the church, or the Church as a whole. We just felt like we were failed in some important ways, and I wanted to write you about why.

And yes, I know, you’re unlikely to read this. I wrote this to myself, so I could work through all of it and just process it. If you do read this, rest assured, I expect it to be for information’s sake only. It really is a record of myself for myself, and if you read this I hope it might be useful to you or others somehow, and if you are reading this, I mean it for your benefit and mine.

Did you know my mother had died, or when? Why, or why not?

I get it, if you didn’t: I don’t talk to people easily or well. She died in the summer, I found out Friday morning, and played for the worship team that Sunday.

My relationship with my mother was interesting; she was a real human being, with everything that implies, faults and flaws and wonders and achievements, all together. She was able to hold immense faith in one hand and offer you betrayal and suspicion in the other, and I say that not to impugn her memory but to recognize who she was and why our relationship was fraught.

And I grieve oddly: not only am I an introvert, but I’ve seen a lot of death for most of my life. I grew up in a high risk situation, in an age of much more primitive medicine. I’ve experienced enough of the mortal coil that a passing doesn’t bother me much. It can’t. I’ve seen too much of it.

But with my mother, it’s not just the ending of her life: it’s the ending without real resolution. There can be no peace made with the dead; all peace is from stasis, and that’s where my mother and I were left. She was dead. I was not. We had not come to a point where we were satisfied, and she suffered from dementia that prevented most such clarification; I suppose there was the possibility that she’d come into her own mind and we could come to an understanding, but her passing ended that.

Such is life. Yet I am also human, and this was my mother, and I grieved in my own way… isolated, alone, in the middle of the church.

I remember. I remember “How are you doing, man?” – and the pro forma response was, and is, “Fine,” because that’s the Man Code. I was not fine. I was trying to figure out how to rebalance my world, isolated, alone, in the middle of the church. My wife had suggested I not go, but I had made a commitment, and I take commitments seriously, so we went. (Plus, what else was I going to do?)

Did you know she’d died? Did anyone? Who was I supposed to have connected to at the church such that someone, anyone, would have known? You? The worship pastor? Anyone? If not the two of you – the two people with whom I personally had the strongest connections in the church – then who? When?

Was I supposed to go to you and bare my soul? How? Because I understand that I am not necessarily like most people; most people would hear “my mother passed away” and think of the grief as a simple loss. One loves and honors one’s parents, so that’s simple enough, stiff upper lip, we’re sorry for your loss, and that’s that.

I get that. Yet that is not me. That is not my loss.

And there’s the problem, right there: I don’t think anyone at our church ever invested in us, in my family. There was some investment: I do not mean to deny everything, because I can’t in any honest way. Yet it felt like there was a sort of quid pro quo involved: if we extended effort to a specific degree, we might eventually expect a return investment to a similar degree; as we plugged in, so would we be plugged in and eventually the clique would see us as more than interlopers, as more than names and faces.

The thing is: we don’t have it to give. I hold myself apart because the maelstrom of my inner and outer lives is not your effin’ problem… but it’s an effin’ church. The Body has to concern itself with the hand, even though the hand is not the Body. And I make no demands – like I said, there is no demand here, no intended recrimination – but there were failures: we failed to signify who we were, and we were failed in that people took that as how it was, that’s fine, even in moments when I feel like it should have been obvious that it was not good enough to be fine.

You’ve asked me for insight in various ways; I appreciate that, even while I find it amusing. (Who am I to have insight? Is it worth it?) Yet when asked, I offered; you asked about deep emotions, and for the love of God and out of my own depths, I answered in my own way. And it was worth it, I hope.

And I was tentative in other ways, I know, but I still tried, to respect what people could bear while respecting myself and the people who could bear more. I know I am not simple, and I know others are, and I cannot disrespect that, and I do not disrespect that. But I tried.

And yet, if you asked me if I felt seen or known at the church, I’d say no. I do not have any idea how anyone there would have described me, were they asked, even you. I’d be a name, probably a face – I know my face is pretty memorable. Some might be able to describe something of my faith. But if anyone asked what I did, or what my hopes were, or what my fears were, or what my struggles were, or when I lost my job… who would have known? Who would have cared?

Being perfectly frank, I think the caring ended at the Man Code: pro forma, we go around the room, we ask, we move on as we hope nobody really digs in the dirt of their own lives for others to see. That’s how I felt.

Why? Why was I asking the various Toms, Dicks, and Harrys about the concerns they had in their lives, but … that was the end of the exchange? I know it feels like I’m being selfish for me to say “What about us? We cared for others, what about us, us? US?” But the fact remains: a well that is never supplied runs dry.

And we ran dry.

I don’t have any answers, because I don’t have a question. I only see data, and patterns. And this was a pattern that cost my family, it cost us in time and endurance and forbearance for little slights, surely unintended but easily avoided with any understanding – and that understanding was lacking.

And there was no reason for it to be lacking. We were doing the best that we could to establish every connection we were able to make, and it was not enough. That’s not on you or the church – it’s a holistic problem, and we’re part of it… yet were I to look purely analytically, I’d say that something was missed that shouldn’t have been.

I don’t blame you, or anyone else there – in fact, I have no desire or even ability to point fingers. We all carry our own heavy burdens, and my family is not your specific concern, or anyone else’s. But I’d say that if there was a problem to observe at a systemic level, it’s this: we should have been someone’s burden, even as little as we were able to invest in creating those connections.

Maybe not yours – but someone’s. And we weren’t, and it was painfully clear, and that was untenable for us: attendance in a vacuum did more to weaken our walk than it did to encourage us, and that’s not a situation that I could put my family through.

Re-emerging?

Wow, it’s been something like nine months since I’ve last posted. I’m not sure why – there’s been a lot of turmoil in life, but it’s not like I haven’t been thinking, or praying, or living, for that matter. I just haven’t posted anything; most of my thoughts have been so focused on the moment I’m in that none of them have really been worth preserving.

I had lots of thoughts about the recent election in the United States – one that resulted in our election of the “Honorable Donald J. Trump,” with few apparently recognizing the sarcasm inherent in that phrase. However, my thoughts tended to be negative – I have a hard time accepting the election of a President with whom I’d be unwilling to leave my wife alone. I try to keep negative thoughts away from this site, so I curtailed the subject.

My sons have been enduring their own challenges, based on their maturations; my youngest entered high school, my middle son is finding out about life as an adult, and my oldest is trying to determine a direction in life. They’re all struggling, in their own ways; I’m proud of all of them, but they’re all having to endure sea changes of their own.

They’re doing it with as much support as my wife and I can manage to offer them, as far as we think it proper to give. (At some point, they’re adults – or young men, at least, in my youngest’s case – and too much support from their parents would stunt them.) However, something my wife said a couple of days ago was one of the saddest phrases I think I’ve heard in a long time.

We relied too much on the church.

In a way, she’s right. We expected the church to support us – instead, the social structure of our church actually worked against our kids, even though the church was (and is) sound theologically. They mean well. They were just not successful with our kids; our kids ended up being marginalized by the church, relied upon without compensatory support, expected to lead against their wills and before they were ready to commit to such leadership.

Make sure your church pays attention to every one of its members – even you.

Power

One of many distressing things about the church and its internals is the use and abuse of power.

It’s be easy to look at priests’ abuse of children, and see those as mere aberrations – or things isolated from “our church,” which is surely an excellent place with no such abuses.

But this view, an example of an external locus of control, is not always accurate.

Mankind’s story in the context of God (or is it “God’s story in the context of Man?”) has always involved power. The book of Genesis is filled with examples of the struggle for power and security: Adam, Joseph’s brothers, Esau, Noah.. even Abraham. Over and over again, you have Man claiming power that is rightfully God’s, in the attempt to control his own destiny and fate.

It isn’t limited to Genesis, either. The Perushim and Zadokim (“Pharisees” and “Sadducees,” respectively) struggled for power among themselves; their struggle for power caused them to miss the Messiah, to cause Him to be put to death. (This was in accordance with prophecy, so it’s not like they had a whole lot of choice, I suppose, in the end… they’re to be pitied rather than hated.) Herod slew the innocents out of a lust for the preservation of power.

The examples are numerous – going through them would include most of the Bible, I think. Ahab, Jonah, Job, Paul, Peter, Hezekiah, Absolom, Josiah, Ezra, David, Solomon… it goes on and on, covering the saints and sinners alike.

However, as I started with, the use and abuse of power goes far beyond stories, or even those unfortunate events we see in the press.

Power rules Christian life, as well. Paul’s writings, for example, are often used to control the structure of modern churches, by reading his edicts concerning the proper qualifications for deaconship, or about marriage, celibacy, gender roles, personal finery, riches, all kinds of things.

The key to reading these, for me, is to keep in mind that power isn’t necessarily absolute, nor is it permission to rule. Power, in the Christian life, is about responsibility, not control.

For example, my wife is to submit to me, as stated by Paul. But that doesn’t mean that I’m “over” her (and, if you’ll pardon the pun, I’ll never ever be “over” my wife, nor do I have any desire to be.) My wife serves me as I serve her, as the Bride of Christ serves Him and as He died for us.

However, while Christ serves as a perfect example for us and our relationships, we are not perfect. It’s here that absolutes turn into weapons.

For example, can a woman teach a class of men? Or serve as a deacon? Or perhaps serve as a pastor?

I’d have to say it depends. I have no issue, personally, with a woman of God teaching me; I’d welcome teaching no matter from whom it was. I have no issue being led by women in worship or in any other endeavor; those whom God has appointed are those whom I accept.

And that’s the crux of the issue. If a woman happens to be the most suitable candidate for the position of deacon, and God leads a church in such a way that a woman is selected… rock on. I don’t say this to say that every female deacon (deaconess?) is “right” or “approved by God” – only that I don’t see God as being limited in who He chooses to place in a given role.

Therefore, would I accept a female pastor, as well? Again, I don’t know – I suppose it’d be an oddity to me, but then again, that’s natural conservatism at work. I’d have to evaluate the specific situation. God has certainly chosen women to lead in the Bible (D’vorah, Hadasseh), so why would He be unable to do so today?

Again, that doesn’t mean a blanket acceptance of every woman in a given role – or of every man in that same role.

The key is to be mindful of the role of God in our lives, and to recognize that His power is greater than anything else; that which He chooses to be is not ours to fight.

And our natural bent and desire for power does exactly that.

Shalom.

Originally posted on January 5, 2012.

What does it mean to be focused on Christ?

One of the things that I like about the church that I currently attend is that it maintains a very tight focus on Jesus – but what does that mean?

Well, the church has two primary focuses, two goals.

One is to make the body larger, to bring people to Christ. The other is to strengthen the body, to make it stronger, to make the body more knowledgeable or more spiritual – to educate.

Making the body larger is a matter of communicating that Jesus died for your sins and mine, that man is sinful and in a fallen state, and needs Christ to enter into the presence of God. This is what people traditionally think of as the purpose of the church, to make the body larger. It fulfills the commandment to go speak to people around the world, found in Matthew 28:19, and really is the primary mission of the church.

This is a good thing.

However, the church that focuses only on making the body larger is, while a good thing, a seeker church. My family and I have attended seeker-oriented churches and greatly enjoyed them; there’s nothing wrong with them. However they tend to have a basic focus, a tendency to refer to very basic things; man is sinful and needs Christ, over and over again.

For one who isn’t a seeker, it can get a little… tiresome, even while the energy and excitement can be infectious.

For one who wants to become a mature believer, seeker churches tend not to be the ideal place to spend the rest of your Christian life. Because the focus is on bringing new Christians in, the learning tends to be very basic, very introductory.

Again, there’s nothing wrong with that.

Some churches go the other way and don’t focus on seekers at all; they focus solely on maturity. They tend to be fairly conservative, and take a lot of things for granted that new believers might have a hard time understanding at first. That isn’t to say that new seekers can come to Christ in such environments but it’s a little bit harder because the energy is different. The knowledge that leads one to Christ is assumed, rather than continually illustrated.

There’s nothing wrong with this, either.

However, there is a medium.

You can focus on Jesus Christ without being solely maturity-focused; you can also focus on Christ without being purely seeker-oriented.

You can actually serve both audiences – the ones who need to grow stronger as well as the ones who need to join the body of Christ – without losing either one and it’s actually one thing that our church does very well.

That’s what being Jesus-focused is really about, being focused on what’s important – pointing everything to Him.

That can present difficulties for people like me.

As a writer, it’s very easy to present my point of view, just like in this paragraph, and therefore, it’s very easy to allow the focus to stray away from Jesus and perhaps on to what Jesus has done in me, without properly focusing on Jesus in a way that illustrates Him to others. It’s a very fine line to cross. I find that many of the things that I do artistically focus on effect rather than cause and that is not really what I want to have happen in a Christian expression.

Consider this expression: “I feel wonderful because Christ is in my life.” Is that a Christ-focused expression? It could be. However the primary focus of the expression is not Christ – that’s the cause. The effect (“I feel wonderful”) is the main things in the expression.

Perhaps it would be more Jesus-focused if it were to be expressed as: “Christ is in my life, this makes me feel wonderful.”

However, I find this wanting as well. It still focuses on me, more than it should. It would be better if I were left out of it and perhaps it focused on us: “Christ has come to us. This is wonderful.”

Now it’s an expression that leaves me, as the believer and author, out of it; it now focuses on the beginning and end of what’s important: Christ.

Shalom.

Originally posted on January 4, 2012.