Just Another Sunday

Several years ago, when writing was my closest companion, I penned out my feelings concerning Sunday’s, church, and my lack of going. It was filled with hurt and disdain for everything that went along with my idea of this body of believers. See, I grew up on a church pew. I spent my days playing church and my nights doing church. Sunday’s were not an option- Sunday school, church, youth group, bible study, special services, volunteer work and other activities. It wasn’t odd to me- that was just…Sunday…but all week long.

After my divorce, I left the place I had been worshipping and never heard from the church family. My husband was a pastor here and the idea that his wife would leave him was just too much for people to handle. No one bothered to ask and I, quite frankly, was so tired of the truth in my head- I had no desire to search people out to tell them. I figured that sooner or later, his truth…his life…would show itself to those around him. I didn’t care to bring him down…I knew him too well and was confident that he was his worst enemy.

Needless to say, no one ever cared to reach out to me. After giving my life to the ministry…after sitting outside of the judgmental walls of hypocrisy- even when it wasn’t convenient…after giving to others only because that is what I knew to do…I found that the reciprocation from my “brothers and sisters” was all but nonexistent. I received judgment and cruelty…period. I received back-biting from my friends and lies that circulated faster than the measles spread. I didn’t shed a tear over this rejection. I couldn’t let these people, who claimed to be touched by grace and mercy, affect my well-being or the great relief I felt in being free from this man who was my husband.

I say this to say…6 years ago…I stopped going to church. Not because I believed any less in God or His grace. Not because I believed less in the purpose of the church. But because I did not believe that the church could redeem itself and restore my belief in it. On any given Sunday, I would have told you that you would find safety and solace in this place. I would tell you that it didn’t matter where you had come from, what you believed, what you had done or hadn’t done, or where you planned on going…if you came here- you would find love…you would find renewed strength. I do not believe this anymore.

I went to church on occasion over the years- you know, the typical Easter or Christmas service. I would hear the word and would feel softened by it. But I just couldn’t bring myself to stay. Because of hurt and, as it grew, shame…I could not feel at home in the place that I had spent my entire life.

Now, I am in a new place in my life. I have left behind some pretty big pieces of my life. I have made some changes that were necessary in order for me to move forward. I told myself when I moved here that I would find a church. Or at least, I would look for one. I am still hesitant. I am not sure what I am waiting for. It’s only Monday now. But looking at the coming week…I don’t want just another Sunday. I want my faith restored.