In fact, I haven't really been going to church at all, lately.
No, it wasn't because of anything I wrote in "Why is Church Cliquey?" Parts 1-3.
And I know, breaking up with your church or your religious faith in general is the trendy, millenial thing to do (my soul, my choice). And yes, I keep telling people that it's because I'm too lazy to go church shopping: I want to roll out of bed, put on yoga pants and a hoodie or shorts and a tank top, drive to the same part of town, arrive the same 15 minutes late, drink the same coffee, see the same people, sing the same worship songs that I've sung for roughly three and a half years.
No, it wasn't because of anything I wrote in "Why is Church Cliquey?" Parts 1-3.
And I know, breaking up with your church or your religious faith in general is the trendy, millenial thing to do (my soul, my choice). And yes, I keep telling people that it's because I'm too lazy to go church shopping: I want to roll out of bed, put on yoga pants and a hoodie or shorts and a tank top, drive to the same part of town, arrive the same 15 minutes late, drink the same coffee, see the same people, sing the same worship songs that I've sung for roughly three and a half years.
But you know what, that's not the truth. Or at the least the whole truth.
The truth is, I'm emotionally devastated. And with all the emotional motility of a snail who has just consumed an entire cheeseburger, it's taken me more than a few months to even get to this point.
As this blog will attest, I've always been ambivalent about Church in general and my church in particular. I've always felt like an outsider and like I don't belong, etc. etc. But at the root of all that ambivalence and outsider posturing, I think there was more to it than that. Hope. Expectation. Longing. Maybe even love.
Love.
That's the only way I can explain the grief.
Hope.
That this time would be different. That this time I would be loved and accepted as I am now, right here, in this moment.
Painful, vulnerable, terrifying hope.
Love.
That's the only way I can explain the grief.
So if there was more to it than I thought, and if I cared more and felt more and hoped more than I ever admitted to myself--what's the point now that it's over?
There's that familiar narrative we tell each other after a breakup: Time to move on. You can do better. There are plenty of denominations in this diocese, or something like that.
And I feel a bit silly. Like I'm all torn up over a breakup where the guy was never really that into me in the first place.
This is what hurts the most:
And I feel a bit silly. Like I'm all torn up over a breakup where the guy was never really that into me in the first place.
This is what hurts the most:
When I felt threatened by an abusive ex-boyfriend who also happened to be in leadership at my church, I wanted someone to stand up for me. Scratch that. I wanted someone to give a ****. Like, just a little bit. Just a little tiny bit.
And when that didn't happen, or didn't seem to happen--
I feel let down. I feel horribly abandoned.
And when that didn't happen, or didn't seem to happen--
I feel let down. I feel horribly abandoned.
...emotional motility of a snail eating a cheeseburger.
So I broke up with my church.
Why is Church Cliquey? Part 5
