The desire to write this post has been
in my mind for months, but I’ve struggled in finding the appropriate words for
what I’ve been thinking. Even now, I’ve
typed and re-typed a dozen different lines, still grappling with what I actually want to say.
I was introduced to Jesus when I was
five years old, and I surrendered my heart to him at the age of seven. I’m now twenty-five, and in the last twenty
years I’ve spent a lot of time with the church.
I’ve also been spiritually abused by the church. Purity culture told me that I was worthless
unless I was a virgin, and that if I dared to masturbate, I was defiling myself
and deserving of God’s disapproval. I
also learned at the tender age of fourteen that it was my responsibility to
keep my body covered so that I did not become a stumbling block for teenage
boys. Time and again, I found that “protecting”
the spirituality of others was more important than fostering my own. When I tried to kill myself at sixteen, the
church was silent. And those who did
speak up, only offered empty words about how I would get better if I only had
more faith. “You can move mountains with
your faith,” they would say, “This is just a test, read the book of Job. Let that fill you with hope.” But it didn’t fill me with hope. It just made me feel shittier.
I am desperately seeking a place where
the community looks at my brokenness and says, “Me, too,” rather than offering a
religious Band-Aid. I am so tired of
religious platitudes uttered by my well-meaning brothers and sisters that wind
up hurting more than helping. I need
authenticity and grace. I need a space
full of safety and warmth. I need a
refuge that will welcome me on the days when I am bubbly and outgoing, but will
also fully embrace me when I’m bitchy and difficult. Most of all, I need a community of messy
people who work toward creating a better world in ways that are both big and
small. A place that will never expect me
to pray my depression and anxiety away, and that will never tell me I need to
cover up, lest I lead my brothers in Christ to falter spiritually.
I am finished with churches whose pews
are full to the brim every Sunday morning, and whose members profess their
closeness to Christ without ever pursuing a community outside the
sanctuary. I hate all the show. I hate the pretense. I hate that Christians are obsessed with
scrubbing our dirtiness away; constantly pretending that we aren’t ugly and
weak. I am dirty. I am broken.
I will not hide these things from God, and I will not hide them from
humanity. I will not pretend that my
weakness disappears simply because God is the most powerful. God is with us in the struggle; but the
struggle does not disappear. I will not
hide my doubt, and I will not refuse to question. I will not be so consumed with living a sin-free
life that I neglect to use my talents and strengths to glorify my Lord.
I am afraid that if I open myself to
church, I’ll spend another ten years fixing spiritual damage done by in the
name of God. I have faith in my God, but
I have lost any affection I once held for the church. I hope that one day I find my way back again. I pray that one Sunday morning I’ll walk
through the doors of a sanctuary and simply feel
the love of Jesus. In the meantime,
I will pray for grace, a heart that forgives, and a mind that is open to the
body of Christ.
