The past 8 years have been a slow wrestle with what church really means. I’ve carried questions, disappointments, and also sparks of clarity. And while I don’t want to sugarcoat the weight of these experiences, I don’t want to write from bitterness either. This is less about one place or group of people, and more about the bigger picture — about “Church” with a capital C.
When I think about this part of my journey, the word that comes to mind is landmines. Walking into certain church communities, I’ve felt like no matter which way I turned, something was waiting to go off. Gossip. Factions. That slow exclusion that leaves you questioning yourself. Sometimes the way people treated me reminded me of Celia Foote in The Help. Misunderstood, misjudged, left on the outside without a valid reason. And in those moments, you realize how powerless you feel when a community has already decided something untrue about you. Or, it could even be something stupidly trivial but with such toxic impact. Maybe you just look different. Maybe you talk different. Maybe people just don’t like you. And, you have to deal with it. Even if you speak up, it gets twisted. A loop you can’t escape. And then there’s the spiritual language. The way it can be twisted to justify things that should never be justified.
I have wrestled in tears with this. Why does this happen in the church? Why do I feel more loved by non-christian communities?
For me, music has also been tied into this story. I spent years trying to belong in worship spaces, only to be met with closed doors. Invited, sometimes, but never fully accepted.
Sometimes the reasons were never spoken, sometimes I was told I sang too loud. And in the same week, I’d hear the literal opposite feedback. You sang too much. You sang too little. Sometimes it was that my voice was not a good fit for female worship vocals. Sometimes it was that someone else was “more anointed” (literally have been told this). The contradictions left me confused and eventually, I gave up. After enough closed doors in that world, I realized I needed a shift. I paused to explore the question, why is this happening? To accept that maybe church worship, at least in the professional sense (I know, ew, but I don’t know what else to call it), wasn’t the path for me. My life is still worship. But I no longer feel called to pursue worship in the way it has become structured, marketed, and performed. I still draw from it and am inspired by it, but personally, I just can’t reconcile carrying the weight of money and industry in the same breath as worship.
Still, I believe in the Church. I believe in what it was meant to be. And part of my healing has been going back to the original design of the Church. Early communities that gathered in homes, shared meals, lived life together, and carried one another’s burdens. It wasn’t about buildings or organizations or non-profits. It was about presence, love, and belonging.
And even in the hardest seasons, I’ve caught glimpses of that. Not often in the community as a whole, but in individuals who showed kindness, who saw me clearly, who reminded me what love inside the Church could look like. These outliers keep my hope alive that the Church can still return to something simpler, more true to its beginning.
I don’t know what my next steps look like when it comes to a local church body. I do know I want to be a part of one, but not at the expense of my wholeness. I’ve learned I always have a choice. I’ve spoken up many times before behind closed doors, and I pray and hope for positive change. But for my life, now, I’m moving forward with healthier boundaries. All the while, continuing to meet in homes, break bread, and remember. Remember. Remember. Remember.
Unlearning, releasing, freeing. Closed doors sometimes force you to open windows.