Grieving the Church Family

Pews don't come with tissue boxes

Photo by John Price on Unsplash

For years it was the same routine, first with my parents, later with my husband and two kids—the Sunday morning relay race of breakfast, church clothes, loading into the car or the stroller. The church doors were like a finish line: congratulations, you made it—you can stop hurrying now. Just sink into a pew and let out that breath you’ve been holding all week.

Things look different nowadays—I have to talk myself into church. Maybe I’ll bring it up at breakfast or dinner the night before. “Thinking of going to church, any takers?” Part of me is relieved when my husband and kids say no. Alone, I can go late and leave early. I can sit by the exit.

This tiny neighborhood church is the opposite of all the churches of my past—instead of organ music, incense, and robes, it’s a run-down old building attended by a small group of misfits, led by a female pastor who often pauses after giving the sermon to ask, “but anyway, what do you think?” One of my first times there I was seated next to a non-binary polyamorous Wiccan, who invited me to join them at an anti-racism work group after the service (insert Seattle joke here.)

But even though it’s basically the most non-threatening environment I could imagine, inside those doors I find so much grief arising. Normally a chatty extrovert, I’m resistant to connecting with other congregants. What will I say to them? “Don’t mind my random crying jags, it’s no big deal!” or “No, I don’t want to get coffee! What if we become friends and then you trick me into a harmful belief system!?”

If grief and mistrust were all that I felt, I would just quit and never look back. But there are parts of church I still like—sermons that give me food for thought, the way people listen carefully to each other’s prayer requests; communion feels like being fed, like being cared for. I want time and space to focus on spiritual things, I want to be among people who are striving for justice. More than anything, I wish I could find a way back to the security I once felt within these walls.

I used to love the parts of a service where the congregation moved, sang, and spoke together—many voices blending into one; the physical embodiment of rituals: the standing, sitting, kneeling, the laying on of hands. But now these corporate elements leave me the odd man out. The little congregation may be singing about joy—everyone singing, swaying, clapping, playing honest-to-God tambourines, while I sit there, scrunching up my eyes so the tears don’t fall. I scan the room, wondering if everyone else is feeling joy or whether they’re just going through the motions. Are they judging me for sitting out, for not at least feigning gratitude?

Gratitude is an important practice, I know that, but when I’m in church, I cannot access it. In church I feel mostly loss, interspersed with anger at god—an emotion, I’ve learned, that makes Christians deeply uncomfortable.

The last time I was part of a regular Bible study group, we were reading the story of Jesus and Nicodemus. In the story, Nicodemus questions Jesus and rather than answering directly, Jesus spouts some vague metaphors and then basically dunks on him for not understanding. In my memory, everyone else in the study group was oohing and ahhing over Jesus’ response and I said something to the effect of, “Jesus seems like a real jerk here. Why doesn’t he ever give anyone a straight answer?” The looks on their faces made me think I might just be too much for Lutheranism.

Then came time for prayer requests. I shared that I was going through a very rough time with my family-of-origin. Several of my family members suffer from substance use disorder, and I was dreading an upcoming Christmas visit. My nice little Bible study seemed flummoxed. People tried to be kind, but it seemed clear that nobody really knew what to say—the vibe was deeply uncomfortable. The church has scripts for dealing with some problems—if I’d gotten cancer, I’m sure I would’ve received prayer and anointing and people to watch my kids and a meal train. But no one brings a casserole when your brother goes to rehab.

Mental illness and addiction are incredibly common, yet I can only think of one instance where they were spoken about during my 30 years’ worth of church attendance—a suicide prevention video we watched in youth group. Imagine 24 churchgoers seated in pews—on average, 4 of them are taking antidepressants and 3 of them meet the diagnostic criteria for alcoholism. Think it doesn’t happen in your church? Think again. For all that Christians love to talk about being a “church family” it’s clear what sort of people and problems the church is able to deal with, and which they aren’t. Many churches host 12-step meetings at their facilities, but other than a brief mention on a building use schedule, there’s no crossover between the congregation upstairs and the alcoholics in the basement. Unless and until churches start getting real about these issues, people like me will continue to be pushed out.

The other week I read my kids part of the Book of Job. They wanted to hear about the Leviathan, they didn’t count on the whole Job backstory. They half-listened, playing Legos as I rambled on. Skimming the book, I was reminded how fucking terrible Job’s friends are, and how, despite their lesson, we often meet the suffering of others by a.) offering unsolicited advice or b.) discounting the problem entirely. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to be authentic in church—people, in general, are bad at bearing witness to each other’s pain. Job gets no real answers for his tremendous loss, which is annoying, but maybe fitting—maybe there is no rhyme or reason for our suffering, it just is.

I went back to church this week, hoping for some bolt of insight as to why church makes me so sad and what I ought to do about it. The church was convening in a borrowed space—they agreed to have their sanctuary torn down and rebuilt with the church on the first floor and affordable housing above (try a little harder to win me over why don’t you?) Anyway, the temporary space has no bike rack. As I was surveying places to lock up, another parishioner arrived on her bike. Hesitantly, I offered to let her lock her bike to mine. It was the safest approach, even if it also precluded any chance of sneaking out early. To be honest, it felt a little too on-the-nose, this manifestation of our interdependence. During the service, I still cried and felt awkward about it, but afterward the other biker and I chatted about biking with kids and how Google Maps is trying to kill us—nothing earth-shattering, but nice.

When you’ve been through heartbreak, hoping is hard. I want to believe I can find a community that meets my spiritual needs while not forcing me to pretend to be something I’m not, but I’m so scared of being let down again. Still, the only way to meet people is to meet people. So here I am: prickly and skittish in the back pew—approach at your own risk.

 Journal/discussion Prompts:

·        Have you ever felt alienated from your spiritual/religious community?

·        If you were honest with god/fate/the universe, what would you say to them?

·        What’s the least awkward method for crying in church?

Next week’s topic: I read Blue Like Jazz so you don’t have to