How to do this thing called church again

We were already late when we pulled up to the house. Not just a little late, we were more than thirty minutes late. Late enough to feel embarrassed, late enough to be the last ones to arrive. As I shifted the car into park, I realized we’d forgotten the one thing we really needed to bring. We didn’t have the wheelchair ramp.

“Sage, we’re gonna have to just carry you in and find a place for you to sit, ok?”

She started crying.

“Ok, how about we try to get the chair inside, but if it can’t go in we’ll carry you.”

She agreed to this plan, which meant we came up to the front door (which obviously had too big of a step for Sage to enter), not only late but with a wheelchair that obviously couldn’t make it through the door. We said awkward hello’s as Bryan lifted Sage up onto his shoulder and I headed back to the car with the wheelchair.

Once inside, we made plates of food and ate quickly. They were about to start.

We introduced ourselves and I avoided making eye contact, shifting attention to Bryan as quickly as possible. We listened as they shared the history of the church, a bit about what they believed, a little about the leadership, and their vision for the future.

Toward the end, I tried to discretely wipe tears out of my eyes as they talked about community, getting involved, and as they closed the time in prayer.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve been to a church’s informational meeting, but it might be the first time I cried in one.

We’ve been going to this church off and on for a while… at least a year, maybe two, or has it been three? We’ve been tithing there for at least a year maybe more. We haven’t been going anywhere else for probably close to two years at least. But, it’s only been the past three or four months that we’ve really started being there consistently every Sunday.

And this week something shifted.

We were ready to stop sitting on the fence. We were ready to invest a bit of ourselves in this community. We were ready to say, “This is our church. We are part of this particular, local, expression of the body of Christ.”

If you’ve been around this blog for any length of time you’ll know I used to write a lot about church. When I first started this blog it was almost exclusively what I wrote about. Some of it was criticism, some of it was just thoughts on ecclesiology, some of it was processing my own internal hurts and experiences related to church.

I’ve been pretty silent on church over the past few years, but my own internal struggle with the subject has continued.

We’ve been on the “wrong” side of church decisions, we’ve been part of churches that have fallen apart, we’ve been close friends with people who’ve been asked to leave a church, we’ve watched churches split, we’ve been hurt by pastors. We’ve offered our gifts only to be pushed into things we weren’t ready for. We’ve hidden our gifts and had no one see us, or call us out of hiding.

We’ve been loved well by churches and pastors alike too.

We’ve felt like we belonged and we’ve felt like outsiders within the church — sometimes both at the same time.

Within all of that though, it has been more than ten years (and at least four different churches) since I’ve been at a church where I really felt like I wanted to bring myself, wanted to be seen, wanted to invest my heart into a community and group of people. In fact, in my adult life, there’s only been one church that I’ve been at where I truly felt known, seen, and comfortable bringing all of myself and my gifts.

Until now.

I cried during the meeting because I felt that burning in my stomach, that sensation that tells me I need to speak up, I need to say something. And I did eventually.

We may have been the last to arrive, but we were also the last to leave. We talked briefly about some of our church histories. We talked a bit about women in the church and my own baggage with that.

I shifted my weight and moved my gaze around the room, trying to find something comforting to look at as I shared, “I don’t feel like my gifts fit with what most churches want from me. I don’t know exactly where I fit in the church.”

I said, “I don’t know” a lot.

Because I don’t. I don’t know what my relationship is with church anymore. I don’t know what it is I can offer the church or what my gifts are exactly.

Here’s what I do know…

I know that the Spirit has been prompting me to be more present, to invest a bit of my heart in this space, to lean in, to speak up, to try. I know I’ve cried more often at this church than any other. I’ve probably smiled more too. I’ve felt the Spirit’s presence, in the simple and sacred moments of communion taken in a school cafeteria.

And I know that I don’t want a church that is a production, a show, not that there’s anything wrong with that expression of the body — there was a season of my life when that appealed to me because I knew it appealed to others.

But now, I’m at a season of my life where I want life, in all it’s awkward, simple, messiness. I want to experience the Spirit of God not in the dim lighting, or perfect music, or because of a powerful orator. I want to find God in the awkward, in the messy, in the simple, in the uncomfortable, in the school cafeterias, and the family rooms with kids interrupting every few minutes.

Because this is the God I believe in… The God who can and does break into our ordinary, our mundane, our normal everyday life with Love. The God who takes our simple offerings and multiplies them into something sacred and holy. The God who shows up not just in the cathedral, but in the kitchen, on the street, in the hospital, and everywhere our feet touch. All the earth is holy ground. This is the truth I want to permeate my life and I believe this is the church body that is going to help me with that.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done more than just show up at church, a long time since I’ve wanted to do more than just show up at church, since I’ve wanted to pour myself into a place and people, be part of shaping something and investing some of myself into a community, but I feel ready for that in a way that I haven’t for a very long time.

There is something exciting and freeing about that — and also completely and utterly terrifying.

I have lots of internal stories I tell myself that serve to keep me small, that have served to keep me from leaning into a community in the past, and I’m feeling them rise up and revolt against me this week especially.

Stories that say…

“I’m too much for people to handle.”
”I’m a burden.”
”There’s a reason for the pain and hurt I experienced at other churches and it’s ME.”
”I’m a disease that will weaken and damage a healthy church.”
”No one will want what I have to offer.”
”My ideas will be rejected, or, if I’m empowered to try them, they’ll fail.”
”No one else likes the things I like or want to bring to the community.”
”People won’t show up for the things I plan or ideas I present.”

There are also still (even after years of study and knowing better), voices inside me that say…

“Women shouldn’t lead or speak.”
”Women should be quiet.”

These are not soft voices or subtle stories. They have deep roots, some which stem from truth, or at least true experiences. But, I am not the person I was ten years ago, or five years ago, or even one year ago. Does that mean I’m completely healthy, and in right standing? Hell, no! I’m broken. And when it comes to church I’m a little extra broken. But, God has never disqualified the broken, just as he has never shunned the outcast.

I don’t know what’s in store for Bryan and me at Desert City Church. I do know I feel like it’s where we’re suppose to be right now.

I don’t know what it means to move into more commitment to the church and lean into bringing my heart and gifts to this community. I do know that I’ll stumble. I’ll probably fall, and fail, and make a mess. But, I feel like this is somewhere that might, just maybe, create a safe place for me to do that, hold my hand as I fumble my way through, and help me to learn how to do this thing called church again.

Grace and peace,
Bethany