Un-Churched
I wasn’t raised in a church. I have vague memories of going to Sunday school a few times with my sister, bringing my bunny purse with coins and plunking them into a plastic, white, church-shaped bank. Aside from this offering, I don’t remember what was discussed or who my teacher was, just that the hallways were long and lined with dark red carpet.
Not being a “church family” and living in a small town placed my family in a category I didn’t fully come to understand until my later years of elementary school. Everyone in my town was “churched,” and if you weren’t? Well, you were a heathen, an outsider, a sinner. You didn’t dare leave your house on a Sunday morning when the “good people” were in church. That only brought unwanted attention and solidified the judgements already made about me and my family. Every Monday morning, I would arrive at school to hear kids talking about what happened yesterday in Sunday school. I would slink to my desk and sit quietly, hoping no one would look in my direction with their judging eyes. I never considered myself an anxious child, but looking back, those Monday mornings were some of the most worrisome of my youth.
In sixth grade, my teacher made it her mission to recruit me to her church. Every week she would encourage me to come to her church on Sunday, and every week, I would let her down. I’d arrive on Monday mornings with eyes downcast, full of shame knowing I had disappointed her. I lived with this embarrassment my entire sixth grade year, too young to know that she had blurred the line between caring and judging, between expectations and disappointment. My academic ability was quickly overshadowed by my human inability.
For the greater part of my youth and young adult life, I lived in fear of religion. I would tell people I was “spiritual, but not religious,” as a way to hide behind the fact that I knew very little about religion, didn’t belong to a church or specific denomination, that the Bible was written in a foreign language. I would marvel at my peers who could recite scripture as easily as reciting the ABC’s. I knew the Christmas story, and that was just enough to allow me to enter a conversation, drop the tiniest words of wisdom, and then run like the wind. In other words, I was way out of my league, feeling that at my age, I was supposed to be a knower not a learner.
Ten years ago, after my first son was born, my husband and I decided we needed to find a church home, a place where our children could grow up, a place where we could find a sense of community. We found what we were looking for and were immediately offered a seat “at the table.” We got involved, started volunteering throughout the church, sent our kids to Sunday school, made our presence known. And I shared my story. The story about not belonging, not knowing, not being “churched.” I have to admit the first (and second, and third) time I told that story to one of our pastors, I was fueled by fear and anxiety, awaiting the judgement and harsh words that were certain to come. I mean, the people of my hometown had made it very clear that the “unchurched” were going straight to hell, so wasn’t this perception universal? But instead of judgement, I was greeted with these affirming words: “I love your story.” No one had ever loved my story! I was encouraged to speak it to others, to not hide behind my truth or my experience. My perceived weakness had been transformed into a strength that could - and should - be shared with others.
It was this response, this validation of my experience, that confirmed my desire to stay at our church…and ultimately, to begin working for our church. I often joke that I’m learning alongside my kids, when in reality, it’s not far from the truth. I can’t recite scripture from memory or quote specific Bible verses. I can pray out loud (although reluctantly) using child-like prayers, but anything deeper requires something pre-written. I get anxious when discussions become too scholarly, too “Bible-y,” working hard to ward off my “fight or flight” response. But I keep trying, keep putting myself out there, surrounded by patient, understanding people who realize I am far from a knower, but who support me as a life-long learner. And who, above all, accept me, in spite of the story I have to tell.
