To sum up how my faith in church was broken, here’s an essay I wrote on the subject:
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I was a senior in high school, had a job, a car, and was passing all my classes with flying colors, except for Geometry. I had just parked my car in the parking lot for my church. I had been attending the Smyrna Church of Christ since a few months into my freshman year of high school. The friends who had introduced me to the church, Micah and Kathryn, were not able to attend that day. I walked into the building and during that sermon I decided I would stop attending the church.
Although in reality a lot led up to my decision, the final straw that broke the camel’s back happened that day. Several people influenced my decision, but only one person made me realize that I was unimportant.
Growing up, I did not go to church often. I occasionally went with my mom when she found a new Catholic church to try out, but since they never worked for her, we hardly ever went back. One year, a few neighborhood girls took me to their church, but after a few months of going with them, they ended up moving to another state. In fact, the only reason I went with Micah and Kathryn one Wednesday was because we were hanging out before hand and they could give me a ride. After that first time I ended up going with them almost every week I could. I even went when they weren’t there. It was the first time I had a church that I felt at home in, and not just a visitor. If someone asked what churches were in the area, I could actually say, “Well, there’s a few, but my church is not too far from here.” I felt I belonged.
One thing I had always loved about my church was that there was an equal share of singing and preaching. In fact, the majority of the way we worshipped was through song. Singing brought God and I closer in a way that was only passed by nature. Hearing the church sing and praise made all my worries go away and always cheered me up. The minister, Tim, was a fascinating orator and told what he believed, gave you facts about the subject at hand, and encouraged everyone to make their own educated opinion. The youth group where I went every Wednesday had some of the nicest, sweetest, funniest people I had ever met.
Despite all the good of my church, it made me feel unimportant in a way I tried to look pass. When the youth minister still mispronounced my name after two years, I just shrugged it off. When I sat by myself every Wednesday night that Micah could not go to, I just ignored it and focused on the teacher. When I would greet people before the sermon on Sunday who gave that vague smile and looked for someone they recognized, I pretended not to notice. For the most part, it was a happy place, and it was only when I was depressed from other aspects of life that I felt the church didn’t know me. For the longest time I thought it was just my own insecurities eating me alive.
It went on that way for a while. However, the second semester of my senior year, things changed. I started my job and worked five or six days a week. I was only given Sunday nights off because I had asked for it specifically. Occasionally, I would have a Tuesday or Wednesday off, but not often. On weeknights I would work from five o’clock to eleven, and then have to get up for school at five or six am. Friday and Saturday I would go in at seven am and get off at three in the morning. Sometimes I was not allowed to leave until almost four on those nights. Understandably, it was hard to make it to the Sunday morning services. More and more often I would have to miss church to do things such as homework, chores, laundry, and so on.
That is why on that Sunday, I was so happy to be at church. I had missed the singing, the people, the sermons. I walked towards the auditorium to find a seat. The elders at the door passing out various sheets of paper smiled at me as I started to go through. Then one elder stopped me and said, “Would you like a visitor card?”
I was so taken back I just stared at him for about thirty seconds and then said, “No thanks. I don’t need one.” When he smiled and went on the next person, I all but stumbled to a pew and sat down. I could not focus on the service. I spent the entire hour replaying the incident in my mind.
This was a man Micah and I had walked by numerous times. We smiled at him, and he at us. He had greeted Micah by name while I was right next to her. I had greeted him numerous times over the years. Maybe not verbally, but I smiled and waved at him, made eye contact with him.
Yet he had failed to recognize me, had asked if I needed a visitor card.
I walked out of church that day and have only been back a handful of times, and only when Micah asked me to go with her. I could deal with them mispronouncing my name; I could deal with sometimes sitting alone. At least those people acknowledged me, cared how I was, and recognized me. We had entire conversations.
Even those facts could not have made up for what this elder did. I could never trust any of them again. I would wonder if they actually recognized me, or just pretended to. Did they actually care, or was it because they thought it was the Christian thing to do? I could not trust the majority of the people there anymore. I could not be myself, because they did not know me. After almost four years of going to church, singing with them, sharing their faith, they did not know me.
I miss church sometimes. I miss some of the people. I miss the songs and feeling that close to God. Even though I long for someone to help me with my studies, even though I have almost forgotten the words to the songs, even though I wish to belong to a fellowship again, I cannot go back. All my memories are now tainted bittersweet, all my emotions about the church are sad or angry, and I am hesitant to be put in that position again, whether it is with my church—funny how I’m still possessive about it—or with any church. My faith withstood the situation once, I do not know if it could stand me being ignored again. While I am now just cynical of most people, Christians or not, I am afraid a repeat situation might cause me to be cynical about God. Years of doubt and hurt caused by a piece of paper and a silly old man.
