I feel like I need to write a disclaimer every time I write a post that is critical of the institutional church. I write about my experience over several decades, both very much inside the church and outside of it. I am not mad at anybody. There are no “sour grapes.” My opinion is just my opinion. I don’t belittle those who differ. Several people I love are very much a part of the institutional church. I do believe it is correct to address someone or something you love when you see it headed in a dangerous direction. In fact, it would be unloving to do otherwise. Please, do not mistake my concerns as a rejection of Jesus or the idea of church, a community vibrantly representing Christ in the real world.
As my relationship with the church and my religion came into question, my world unraveled, because church was my world. I was a pastor for over twenty years and loved all things church. I constantly read books about how to do church better. My friends were all church members and pastors, and my life was consumed by church services and church meetings and my pastoral calling was my north star in life.
What happened? Through the years, one-by-one cracks began to form in the relationship between me and the church until finally we went our separate ways. Those cracks were quiet questions that I did not allow myself to pursue.
As I pastored a fledgling church in a small town already saturated with churches of the same denomination, I wondered, “why so many churches?” A crack began to form.
I could have had a great career at another church, if I just pandered to folks with some old-fashioned preaching and music, and back-slapping. I couldn’t do it. It seemed they wanted all the ministry directed toward themselves with little concern for those outside the fold. The crack was getting more defined.
I felt I needed a more serious congregation with more involved leadership. That desire took us to a church in a large suburb of Chicago which had become an Anglo Island in a Hispanic community. It was a congregation populated by seminary students, old fundamentalists, and younger evangelicals. With its inner division and transitioned neighborhood, it was a nightmare to lead.
Finally, after several painful years and several existing members leaving, it became an authentic ministry with great community and an updated worship style. Yet, as a Hispanic congregation shared our building and thrived, it was obvious we were in the wrong location.
During our move to temporary quarters in a more suburban and English-speaking setting, a key couple took it on themselves to share their discontent with others. It resulted in our small group becoming even smaller. After some time of meeting in our home, we disbanded. The betrayal pried open the crack even further. For the first time in my adult life, I was not a pastor, and I was undone.
In the years after, we hosted a house church of young adults in our living room, attended another house church, helped-out a couple churches with their welcoming ministry and community-wide outreach. Eventually, it seemed unlikely that I would ever find a church that aligned with my vision. That vision included a heart for the outsider and a willingness to try new avenues of acceptance and community.
The crack had become a gaping canyon.
Also published at Done with Religion
