When Church Hurts

It's Sunday morning, 6:20am, and I can't sleep.

The wind picked up again in the night and it must be straight out of the north as the house is freezing cold. Again.

I was lying in bed, eyes wide open, thinking about what I need to do today to get ready for church.

My hair needs washed, and lunch needs planned.

As ideas and details floated around, I found myself replaying my church journey.

I grew up in Crosshill Mennonite church. This morning I was remembering the straight backed wooden pews, the green carpet, and the hymns we sang in four part harmony without a piano, guitar or drums.

This is not a photo of the pews at Crosshill Mennonite. Our pews were much simpler.

The man who pastored Crosshill Mennonite when I was born was chosen by lot. He picked the hymnbook that had the longest straw in it and he became the pastor. He had no formal training. I believe he made his living as a farmer but I'm not sure if that is right.

When we lost my dad to an accident in 1971, I think some form of pastoral training would have been helpful.  It is my mom's story to tell but it is safe to say that the church didn't handle things then as they would now.

I think if you pressed my dear family, I believe we all carry some scars from the aftermath but perhaps the biggest lesson to learn revolves around the words grace and forgiveness.

Crosshill Mennonite will always be my church home. Always.

It shaped me, formed me and it has my heart.

Down the road from Crosshill Mennonite is the Lichty Beechy Amish  church.  It is where my Grandma and Grandpa Jantzi on my dad's side are buried. in 1987 I was allowed into that church for my Grandma Jantzi's funeral.

I remember the wooden pews that seemed too close and the wooden floor that seemed too hard as I tried to maneuver my body around in order to kneel and pray like everyone else was doing. I'm not sure if I understood what we were praying as we may have been praying in German (Pennsylvania Dutch). I remember the prayer book was written in German but I'm fuzzy on if the prayers and the sermon were in English.

I do remember walking out to the cemetery which was right next to the church and feeling not quite welcome, as my family wasn't dressed like everyone else. The women who greeted each other with a holy kiss, wouldn't kiss my mom because her hair was cut and her dress wasn't plain.

It all seemed so silly when we got to the grave-site and saw my grandma's simple white headstone with her name, her birthday and her death day written on it.

A life lived. A whole life lived between those two dates.

Shortly after that I moved to California.

There was a church I went to with Ruby, a gal I had met on the campus of Cal-State-Fullerton University. She was an aspiring actress and actually played a hooker in a movie with Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell. She lived in West Hollywood with her brother.  My friend Amy and I would drive in to Hollywood from Fullerton on Saturday nights and hang out with her.

She was a new Christian and had a past quite different from mine. She was having trouble finding a church but one night she called us and was very excited to tell us that she had found a church and wanted us to join her. We drove in Sunday morning and worshipped with Ruby at her new church home that wasn't actually in an enclosed building. It was some structure with a roof, in the middle of a warehouse district. I remember rows and rows of Harley Davidson motorcycles and most of the members of the church wearing leathers, chains and bandanas. We didn't sing hymns but we did sing Eagles songs. Some of the words had been changed, some not.

Next came Iowa churches.

The first church we attended we were eventually asked to leave. Apparently what Farmer Boy and I believed about baptism was not accurate, and so after all the time we spent in the nursery, the Sunday School classes, and as a deacon (Farmer Boy of course), we were asked to leave.

The second church we attended freaked me out from the start.

Early on we attended a 'get to know the Pastors' lunch. They provided the food and then each of the four pastors got up, introduced themselves, their wives, their five, six, seven or eight children and talked about how they were a homeschooling family. Their wives stood in the background, smiling quietly, holding one, two or three babies and nodding.

We were still reeling from being asked to leave our first church and so because we didn't know what else to do, we stayed.

About four months in I got a phone call from the head of the Women's Ministry. She asked me to meet her for coffee.

I remember being curious and excited. I thought maybe she was going to ask me to be involved in the ministry somehow since I love Jesus.

Nope.

She wanted to discuss the state of my heart. Apparently I had said or done something while serving with her in the nursery that made it clear to her that I was not submissive to my husband.

I still have no words. I didn't know it was anyone's  job to know my heart except for the one who created it.

We stayed at that church for ten years. Did I mention we love Jesus?

But eventually we did leave and found our way to another Iowa church.

I took a paid position at this church.

I strongly suggest you never work at the church you attend.

I was a ghost writer while there. I would write response cards to people's prayer requests. I wrote the note, pastor signed them.

It worked well for a time and then it got complicated. I would turn around in church during the 'meet and greet' time and shake hands with someone I had never met. They would shake my hand, say their name and I would smile, nod and carry on an inner conversation.

Should I tell them who I am? They think I don't know them but I do. Oh boy do I.

Do I ask if things have changed for them or improved? No. You can't do that. They have no idea who you are and that you wrote those words. Keep your mouth shut. Smile. Nod. Turn around and sit down.

They had no idea I was writing the words. Should I tell them? I was shaking their hand like a stranger and yet I had prayed over them with a pen in my hand.

So weird.

I went to pastor and asked if I could write my own name on the cards so I could stop feeling sneaky.

After a couple of turn downs I did manage to write a few cards with my name on them. The permission came with a chin tug which was an interesting experience as a 47 year old woman. It's a long story that I am not going to tell here but just a note to all of you male employers out there  - do NOT grab the chin of any one. Ever. It is disrespectful and demeaning.

Shortly after I was given permission to sign my name to my words, I was called into pastor's office and told I wasn't needed anymore.

That hurt. I cannot lie. I'm trying to be done with it, trying not to feel belittled and unnecessary, but it is still sitting with me.

So we are church homeless right now and it makes me sad.

Of course we still get up every Sunday and go to church, but I am growing weary.

I am weary of the taglines and the branding.

I am weary of the praise songs that are basically the same song with different words.

I am weary of church leaders who haven't hit the age of 40.

I am weary of all the church activities, and all the church programs. There is a lot of activity and yet there seems to be so many who are naked and hungry and who aren't invited. Church makes it difficult for them to join and to feel accepted and I can't figure that out.

I don't have answers.

I do have Jesus.

I meet with him almost every morning. I sit in my room under the soft light of my bedside lamp and he comes and leans over me. He reads the words I write and never shames me for them. He sits with me in silence. He speaks and tells me that if I hold on too tightly to my life I will lose it, but if I lose my life for his sake, surrender to him, then I will gain life.

The older I get, the more that makes sense.

And so I will wash my hair this morning, figure out what to throw in the crock-pot for lunch, and head to church.