Ed Cyzewski has been doing a series on Belonging (I highly recommend following both that series as well as his Women in Ministry series). Inspired by his words (as I often am), I decided to give you a snippet of my story and how I’ve learned that I can belong in a church that hurt me.
A few years ago, our church canceled the service my husband and I attended.
A word about this service: it was more than a place that played the kind of music with which we connected, that worshiped the way we wanted to worship, that included people who looked and thought and felt like we do. It was a place of community, a place where we belonged. I hadn’t felt like I belonged in church–or really anywhere–in over a decade. But in that service, in that community, we belonged. We ministered there, and that service, which was more than a service, became the gateway to our connection with the church.
When the leadership canceled the church, it tore open old wounds and for good measure, added a dash of salt. I had worked and volunteered in churches, served and served and served and finally found that no place like home. Now it was gone.
Several people in the service left the church. Some planted a new church. Chris and I looked and prayed: where do we go?
We stayed.
We stayed because a couple of our closest friends stayed, and we stayed because we didn’t know where else to go. The new church plant was a little far and a little trendy (my friends will tell you I’m no hipster Christian). There’s nothing wrong with trendy and hipster, but we didn’t know how to serve there, how to belong there.
Not long after that happened, on a road trip, Chris and I listened to Life Together by Bonhoeffer. I remember Bonhoeffer talking about these moments when you taste eternity in community, when you meet with Christians and everything is beautiful and ideal and home. But these are not the everyday. We treasure them, we suck nourishment from them, and we go back to our ordinary, hard lives.
That service had been my taste of eternity, I thought, and now I must return to the ordinary, the hard, maybe even the place of unbelonging.
We leaned on each other and the few friends left, and we complained a lot. Sunday after Sunday, we attended service, we read the Scripture and prayed and took Eucharist with this group of strangers in this larger, stranger service. We sang to music that sometimes made me want to take a mallet to the speakers. Chris got involved in men’s ministry; I had my book club (which, in part, got me through that difficult time).
I don’t know how it happened or when it happened, but love snuck in.
One day, as I approached the altar for communion, I looked up and saw the church–followers of Christ who loved and hurt and made mistakes and sometimes hurt each other. People like me. In a mass of strangers, I saw people who knew and loved me, and I knew that somehow, in this place where it made no sense to belong, where a bookstore sold Christian kitsch next to C.S. Lewis, where sometimes the approach to missions made me want to take my theology degree and my cross-cultural studies and tell someone off (on my more mature days), where women wore wide-brimmed hats on Easter Sunday, I belonged.
Because the truth is, this church does amazing work for Christ through Christ. This church loves and serves God, hungrily leans into him and into what he has revealed about himself through Scripture and the Holy Spirit and church history.
I think of the Jerusalem church, making their way in the mess of Jews and Gentiles becoming this new thing, this Church, as fellow followers of Christ, how they both sacrificed for the sake of fellowship and unity and mission.
And I fell in love again with my church. Some days I have to remind myself of that (especially when the choir strikes up a Maranatha song again), but all I have to do is see the people who pray for me and laugh with me and stood with Chris and me as we baptized our son and rejoice with me and cry with me.
And sometimes I even like the hats because the hats tell stories.







