Why I stopped going to church

After spending eight years going to church, one day I made the decision to leave and not go back. I didn’t want pomp and circumstance. I just wanted to slip out the 75th Street doors and be done with it. I even told a bit of a fib to make sure that I had an easy exit. It’s too far to drive, I said. Really, I’ve been looking at other churches closer to home.

I hadn’t. I wasn’t planning on it. I was too scared to enter another community of faith after I felt that I didn’t belong in the one that I joined. Set myself up for that again? No. I had to get right with myself and right with God before I went through that again.

So no, it had nothing to do with my faith or belief in God. I’m still a believer of some sort — agnostic, at least — but I think I’ve been burned by organized religion. 

In the end, I just didn’t feel like I ever really belonged.

[Note: Some of you have heard part of my faith story. I’d like to share parts of it here again because I’m finally comfortable to speak about the end of this chapter some two years after it happened.]

Even though I grew up in a small town, I wasn’t raised in the church. I was baptized in the Lutheran (ELCA) church as a baby and remember going with my mom a few times in childhood. I don’t think this had any serious negative consequences for me as a kid — I was raised to be moral and ethical without a grounding in the Bible. Yes, it can be done. It happens all the time.

The one set of religious influences in my life were my maternal grandparents, lifelong Lutherans who truly lived out their faith. Unfortunately there is a sense that those who are religious and faithful are conservative — perhaps even bigoted and judgmental, at worst. My grandparents were the model of Christian love — they were always helping out people who were less fortunate than them. They were also really (radically?) liberal — my grandpa would listen to public radio out of San Francisco and get off on some tangent on this or that. After they retired, they spent a significant time working with refugees from Southeast Asia who had recently come to the United States. I have many childhood memories of meeting people they were helping — they even served as foster parents for three siblings so that the kids could stay together until they were adopted. They never hesitated to take someone to the doctor or help them with groceries. 

Church, then, was a semi-foreign place with lots of singing, children’s bulletins complete with Jesus-themed word searches, funny-tasting grape juice (why is it that all church wine tastes so awful?), and mint BreathSavers for the sermons. I still have fond memories of peeling back the foil wrappers to reveal a fresh white, green-centered mint.

It was in college, though, when I decided to go to church. My grandmother told me over Easter that she wished I would give church a try. I remember her words so clearly. “Sarah, go find a nice Lutheran church and see what you think of it.”

I did. For some reason, I felt at home, even though nothing was further than the truth. I felt like I was surrounded by all of my relatives.

Mind you, my Biblical education was limited to sneaking into our spare bedroom at home and reading parts of this Bible book. It seemed forbidden. I think I waited for the moments where everyone was downstairs so I had enough time to slide it back onto the shelf.

Advent

This means that I was the one who got to ask all of the newbie questions in my adult catechumen program at church. Afterwards, I hightailed it to the U-Village Barnes and Noble to buy a Bible for myself. I was proud that I had researched the “right” version for my denomination — the NSRV at last check.

Looking back on it, it’s not so surprising after all that I took to religion. It had a lot going on for a 20-year-old who was still more or less on her own in a big new city. It was a time of so much growth and change and confusion that having something so stable to turn to was quite literally a blessing.

My religious experiences were pretty limited, so the Lutheran ways became the norm for me and, as with all groups, you get some in-group pride. We were much more liberal than the Baptists or the Catholics, but we had a rich tradition dating back to Martin Luther. We were the original Protestants, for goodness sake. We had rituals— order, patterns, and predictable liturgy (parts of the service). 

Rocking my choir robe. Photo from 2006 or so.

And as a music-lover, I loved being Lutheran. I spent most of my eight years singing in church choir which, despite the fairly awful robes, was such a wonderful musical outlet. Let me tell you, we rocked that church in a very classical way. In a four-part, church-appropriate, backed by the power of the organ sort of way. I love rocking the harmony when I sing.

No swaying or clapping, please. We aren’t from the Church of the Nazarene.

The last part of the church experience that has altered me profoundly was the attitude and practice of service. Never have I been with a group of people who were so devoted to helping others, whether at church, through many of the social outreach ministries, or just in everyday life. I became a kinder, gentler person through serving. I developed greater patience (the virtue that is still most lacking for me, unfortunately) and a greater spirit of generosity. That service mindset deepened my empathy for others and, in its secular forms, exists in my practice as a consultant and coach. 

But then the disillusionment came.

I never really belonged, I told myself. I just wasn’t churched enough. 

There were many strikes against me, or that is how I felt. I didn’t grow up in the church — I didn’t share a lot of the experiences of most of the people in my young adult peer group. This actually made me more hungry to learn and ground myself in research and literature. Ever the nerd, I overdid it (of course). I guess most people weren’t interested in modern Biblical criticism, the mystery of the Gnostic gospels, or slogging through thick books about relating the underlying principles in the Bible to today’s times.

We started with a different background and added my uncool desire to know more. Heap on top of that my far away geographical location relative to most folks — I was never around for casual gatherings. And to make it worse I had a pretty demanding career that came with lots of travel — more inside jokes and experiences missed out on.

Dressed up for
Easter.

It was like high school — cool enough to avoid being in the rejects group but never in enough with the coolest kids. 

That’s part of the ugliness that happens in organized religion. I say this with some generalization because as I have shared this story with others I have heard their stories about similar in- and out-group behavior. It’s natural and human and it happens in any social group, so this is not an indictment of anyone. Goodness knows I bought into it as well. I relished those times that I too was cool, that I had relationships and was on a first-name basis with many of the folks in my rather large congregation. I liked those moments -- had pride in those moments -- when I was cool.

But with church it is so much more awkward. Not only can you not acknowledge what is so obviously happening, but because you should be acting out of hospitality and Christian love -- we are all equal, we are all welcome, and we are all included -- it becomes so much more complicated.

Simple example — What is the right response when someone joins the church choir who can’t carry a tune? As evidenced by American Idol, there are a surprising number of people who love to sing and think they are good at it but decidedly cannot keep on pitch. If the choir advertises as open to all but Bill or Jane is throwing everyone else off, what happens?

Are all included? Or are there boundaries and requirements?

(By the way, the Lutheran answer seems to be that there are many talents and gifts that we have been given and we can find what ours are and use those to serve. Or something like that. It's completely non-confrontational and not at all helpful.)

Always singing! 

When it comes to including everyone, there was a persistent message of doing this at my church. Lutherans are really heavy on the New Testament (generally at least two NT readings per OT reading at any service). We are more of a loving, forgiving God kind of denomination as opposed to fire and brimstone and eternal damnation sort of people. I learned my parables well in eight years of sermons, and a core message was loving and accepting everyone, no matter who they were (the last shall be first sort of thing).

This showed up in other ways — not only in the church, but in the prayers part of each service, for example. The ELCA is one of the more liberal church bodies in the US, being one of the first to roster gay and lesbian ministers (both those who are single and who are in committed relationships). So much of what I saw reinforced the words that I heard.

Except when it didn’t.

It was always awkward when someone didn’t follow what we were supposed to do. “Supposed to” is my favorite phrase, according to Sergio. I’m starting to understand how church was one place where that idea was reinforced. This could take lots of different forms. Maybe it was people who were too demonstrative and emotional at a service (remember, we’re not a jump-up-and-down group). Or it was people who didn’t serve enough. Or a family when one parent was only an Easter/Christmas attendee. Or when people got divorced.

That is what spooked me in the very end.

There were a few couples that I knew from church that went through divorces and I never really knew exactly what happened (gosh, no wonder). It wasn’t only that — they more or less disappeared entirely from the congregation, never to be seen from again. They looked for that 75th Street exit and rushed out before the door caught them — or someone saw them leave. 

No farewell ceremony for me, thank you. These were an incredibly sweet ritual our church when the congregation said a blessing for a departing person or family. It always involved lots of crying. I wasn’t up for that. I was at a point in my life where I spent most of my private times in tears, and I couldn't bear to cry anymore. 

What stung the most for me, what cut me so deep was that no one noticed enough to even offer it or mention it. No one said to me, “Hey Sarah, we will miss you.” Or “We appreciate all of the times you served on the Eucharistic Guild” or “You always spoke with conviction when you were the Assisting Minister” (yes, always front and center — that’s me). “We will really miss you in choir.”

Eight years. Yes, I ran for the exit. Yes, I was afraid. But I cried and cried. I was about to go through a painful divorce. And I felt alone. Was that what eight years of being in a community will give you? Purely HYPOTHETICAL — if I left my job next week after eight years at Google, I know I would hear some kind, parting words from coworkers. I know that in my heart to be true.

I thought that was true of my faith community. That hurt the most.

Even if you've not experienced this sort of struggle in a church, we all know what it is like to feel like we're not fitting into a group. We all want to be accepted and loved by others for who we really are. Over time, I felt who I was was starting to move away from who I had to be to fit in. I could change myself to fit in; I could live with the disconnect; I could leave. I chose the third option.

Brene Brown talks about fitting in versus belonging. Trust me, I am an expert at fitting it. Why do you think I was so eager to study, to volunteer, to look like a Lutheran? I wanted to be legit like everyone else and by picking up the behaviors, I thought it would follow. At the end of it, though, I needed to stay true to myself -- and that meant leaving.

For the last two years and change, I debated over whether I wanted to say anything, write anything, share this with anyone, or something else entirely. I kept asking myself -- what is my purpose in sharing my story? What do I hope myself or others will gain? I had a really good relationship with our pastors, one in particular, and part of me wanted to write a letter — a confession, in some ways. I assume they heard about the marriage that fell apart (thank you, social media). Was it closure I wanted? Did I just want to be seen or acknowledged?

I waited to long to write these words because, honestly, I didn't know. I didn't have a clear, clean answer to that question. Now I have that answer -- now I know what I want to come out of telling this story.

It is that there are always lessons in every experience, even one that was as painful as leaving a faith community the way that I did. It is that despite the hurt and the pain, I feel I was blessed through this experience. Those are the lessons that I took away. But for anyone else reading, it is that faith is not only a complicated thing (not a surprise, I take it), but it often gets so tangled up in religion. My faith took a huge hit because of my challenges with my church -- both the congregation and the larger organizational body -- that had nothing to do with God himself. As I was stepping into one of the most tumultuous times in my life, I had lost a touchstone that had become very important to me, and I know this was one of the factors that contributed to my anxiety coming to a head.

In my life, I'm no longer willing to be inauthentic to fit in. Period. End of paragraph.

Two years later, I feel at peace with my decision and with all of the people from this story. It has been that long since I have any amount of contact with any of them, and there are times this makes me very sad. I often wonder how everyone is doing and wish them nothing but the best. However, I have come to accept this chapter in my life is over, and I don't need to re-open it again. I can look at photos without feeling the pain wash over me, and I can abstract experiences or thoughts or ideas and find ways to apply them to my current situation.

It has taken me this long to let forgiveness into my heart. I know there were no bad actors in my story. I know the decision was mine to make and that there would be consequences from it. I take responsibility for my own mistakes and for running for the door.

At the end of it all, I am not just another person who disappeared -- I knowingly thought about my decision and chose to move on. In deconstructing the experience, I've come to realize that I can't be perfect through any amount of trying or ritual -- that those of us who look the best and the most sinless might be those who suffer the most to keep a good face. And that is what both scared me away from religion and shook my faith to its core. I want to be part of a community of people -- religious or otherwise -- where I feel comfortable as the authentic me, without the mask and with the complications and the messiness. It takes work. I'm building that community person by person, day by day. I have faith that it will happen.

Thanks for reading.

xo,

Sarah