I’ve been thinking a lot about folks that leave church. I don’t know anybody who spends a lot of time at church that hasn’t driven home on Sundays muttering, “Why do I keep doing this?” I do know that most preachers have asked this question again and again.
There are a multitude of reasons why people shake the dust off their feet and leave. Sometimes the church gets so chaotic that you just cannot stand it anymore. Sometimes it’s the preacher—I’ve lost my share of folk who could not swallow what I was saying. They always hurt—even the difficult ones. I heard lately about a family who had gone to a church for years. The husband had a serious heart attack and was moved to a hospital an hour and a half away. The Pastor visited the family in that far-away place. But because he did not drive all that way every day to comfort them they left the church. Phone calls didn’t help and prayers didn’t count. They wanted to see him in person not thinking of all those others in his flock that also had needs. Sometimes the pain in one’s life is just too much and you can’t stand the hymns, all those people especially if the Reverend is up there smiling, smiling, smiling,
I am an enormous fan of Barbara Brown Taylor. My, my but she has lifted me up a zillion times. But several years ago she wrote a book called Leaving Church. Out of her own experience she
just had to leave. And most of us preachers understand this completely. But Barbara didn’t stay away too long. She found herself back at conferences and church and writing books about many things that matter. She took a sabbatical I guess—but it did not last. Good for her.
I guess I want to say to all those that can’t come back—I understand. Most of us have enough pain and hard knocks in our lives and to have a church that adds to our pain is not a good place to be. Carlyle Marney once said, “The church has dirty underdrawers.” Not a church—the church. And he’s right. Paul reminded his discouraged friends that “the treasure always comes in an earthen vessel.” And we all get the treasure and the vessel mixed up. I know I have. But Marney kept preaching and helped a whole lot of us preachers and laypeople.
Years ago I went through a bad patch in church. Many reasons—some my own—some the church’s. I was ready to give it all up. It was a time when AIDS was raging and much of the church did nothing but judged. And some young men in great pain about being gay would pour their hearts out. Some preacher had told them they were going to have to “stop being Gay”—their words. Some parents never wanted to see them again—Good Deacons and Elders and even some preachers hough they were. But all this is only background.
In that hard time the downtown Episcopal minister asked me and several other ministers to participate in an healing service for people with AIDS. At a certain time in the service we ministers would stand at the altar rail and people would come and kneel for healing. There must have been a hundred people with AIDS in that room that night. Looking out you could see some very sick folk scattered in pews. When it came time for them to come forward I listened to many requests. ”I am dying and I need love.” A parent whispered, “My boy is dying and it is killing me.” “I am thinking of taking my life.” “Do you think I will go to hell.” “ReckonGod loves me—I’ve lived a helluva of a life.” I was overwhelmed by that stream of pain I heard that evening. I have never forgotten that service.
That event would have never happened without the church. I know our record on dealing with homosexuality has been lousy many days. And yet—like a beacon of light—here and there the church—the church—has opened its arms and taken broken folk in. But not only gays—but alcoholics, drug addicts, people with messy lives of all sorts. I know one man whose picture was plastered all over the papers because of sexual abuse years before. He lost his job. He lost his status. He nearly lost his family. He was behind bars for a long time. And when he finally got out of incarceration he found a church that puts its arms around him and his family. And the healing began. He’s there every Sunday.
I bumped into a quote lately. Paul Scherer the great Lutheran preacher said, “When you see him (her) going to church it isn’t a mask he’s (or she) is wearing; it’s a battle he (or she) is fighting.”
All over are little tiny churches and big that provide light and help and love to people desperate and needing. So—on Sundays I put on my clothes and head to church. It isn’t a perfect place. Far from it. And sometimes the dirty underdrawers still show. But this I know: the treasure only comes in some earthen vessel—and if I am lucky—sometimes on Sundays when I least expect it—I find myself dazzled by a transcendence that only comes from God. And when that happens I go out again to do what I have to do even in a world that sometimes breaks my heart.
—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
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