On staying

This May, I have an anniversary. Well, actually, I have a couple of anniversaries, including Caleb's and my dating anniversary.) But today I want to talk about a ten year anniversary... with my church.  

In 2006, I took a class in college called "Music of the church". The class was fabulous. We talked about church history, and listened to old recordings. Toward the end of the semester, we talked about the "Emergent Church" movement. These were churches that wanted to keep the best of the ancient practices, while also maintaining the freedom to do new things. As someone who had grown up with liturgy, but at the time wasn't finding it particularly compelling, I was fascinated. It turns out there was one in my home city. 

After the semester was over, I headed to the church the first weekend I was home, with my dad. I felt like I had come home. I took pages of notes from the sermon, from the song lyrics. Everyone was friendly and welcoming, but there was a feeling of authenticity that I hadn't felt in a church in a long time, maybe ever. 

The church was a bit far from my parents' house (about 40 minutes) so I didn't go every week. I went when I could, when I was home from college. I was hooked by the authenticity, the words they used to talk about things, the fact that some of my favorite authors visited (over the years Lauren Winner, Doug Pagitt, Tony Jones, William Young, and more), the music - most of which was written by people within the congregation, and some of the ancient rhythms incorporated into life. The church went on a pilgrimage together for a weekend each year, over the summers, I participated in groups that biked, practiced lectio divina, or just gathered once a week for Compline. 

Over the years, though I did not attend regularly, I made a few friends, met them for coffee or dinner. I even went on a few dates, discovered music, borrowed books I never returned. (If you're out there, I still have your books and I'd like to give them back!) I attended the church pilgrimage, and had conversations with a variety of people. 

The second year I went to the Pilgrimage, my life path was altered. That year, they had a Friday night 70s dance party. The costumes were unbelievable, but not very many people were dancing. I happened to love dancing, and so I decided to just go for it. On the dance floor, I ended up in one of those little mini circle things that happens. After the three of us had been jamming for a while, one of the guys stuck out his hand and said over the music, "I'm Jon." "Ellen" I yelled back, next shaking hands with Eric. And that was the start to how I met a group of people - including one that I would eventually marry - that I would meet with over the next several years, until the group organically came to an end. 

This is actually the Pilgrimage dance party one year after that original dance party, but we danced together again, This one was 80s themed.  

Can you spot Caleb?

Caleb and I started dating in the church parking lot, he proposed to me in the church basement. Our story is inextricably tied to this church. And I love that. 

This used to be where we always sat... until I started to only feel comfortable sitting in the back, for reasons described below. 

But somewhere along the way, things started to change. I went through several life and career shifts. The church went through a time of transition. Staff came and left. Suddenly, I found myself mostly irritated by the loss of practices that had been meaningful to me and a few other changes that seemed to be replacing them. My journey didn't seem parallel the church's journey. And it hurt. Even the music seemed louder. I mentioned it several times to several people until a pastor told me that I should just get some earplugs and recommended a brand. 

The earplugs I wear every week at church

I was in a new job, one that had me constantly questioning and tracing out power dynamics, then trying to advocate for the side of the least powerful. I heard terrible, tragic stories, and would sob through many church services, frustrated by how irrelevant they seemed to me and the brokenness of the world. Ferguson happened. Trayvon Martin happened. Racial tensions blew up, and I followed the stories with my power dynamic lens. I ached for hymns and lectionary, and the authenticity that had originally drawn me in. Nothing felt genuine anymore, and I couldn't tell if it was because of me and my struggles, or just that the church was growing and changing. 

We talked about leaving, going somewhere else. I wanted to find solace in liturgy the same way I'd found it back in college. And yet, somewhere deep down, I also wanted to stay.  I wanted to see if I could ride out the season. I wanted to not be a consumer of churches, leaving when it didn't suit my needs anymore. We committed to a new small group, I committed internally to keep trying. 

Last fall, we did a burst of sermons on justice, and my heart sang. I felt like the season had lifted. And maybe it did. But since that ended, I've continued to be in this hard place, continuing to commit, continuing to try, waiting, waiting, waiting and hoping, hoping, hoping. 

Some days I'm frustrated. But some days, a little sliver of God pokes through the clouds and reaches me, and I press on.