I spent ninety minutes on a church pew Sunday, wishing I could flee.
My youngest was being confirmed. I haven’t been in that building (or any church) for two years. The last time was at my eldest’s own confirmation. It’s a beautiful place that is painful for me. Which seems odd: I’ve spent more years in the church than out. From the womb, through preschool, grade school, high school. Slacking off a bit in college, but right back on the horse (or pew) when I married a pastor. Another 15 years. Me on the front row. Then the divorce. New choices.
Some friends and I talked recently.
“Don’t you miss church, Ronna?” “No.” There are moments when a hymn makes its way into my conscious mind, pulled from some vast chasm of memory, bringing with it a font of tears. When I viscerally recall rituals that summon up deep, but unexplainable mystery, leaving me nearly breathless.
“Don’t you miss the relationships, the community?” “No.” Certainly a few individuals, but these days, more community than I ever imagined possible.
“What about the input? The sermons? The teaching?” “No.”
But Sunday’s ninety minutes brought with them alms of ambivalence.
There were hymns. The first one sung at our wedding almost twenty years ago. There were rituals. Abby’s confirmation and re-affirmation of baptism. I handed her into the arms of a pastor, months old, almost thirteen years ago, water poured on her head. There sat both my daughters: by my side. Happy I was there. For years we sat together. Now they sit without me. There was community – faces I haven’t seen for years. Stories that have barely changed. Others that have. Certainly mine.
Beauty that aches.
Many of us have experiences of church that require a sacrificial illusion of beauty (perfection, sinlessness, relational health, eternal salvation). There’s seemingly not been much room for the offering of what aches (depression, doubt, disappointment, unmet desire). But we would be wrong to believe that authentic beauty does not dwell within either the confines or expanse of religion, churches, faith – even if we have left. Sunday, the organ, the choir, the stained-glass windows, the storied faces – each called to something in me. Beauty that aches.
What’s more, these experiences are not unique to church – the illusions of beauty we perpetuate nor the aches we deny. We must confess: the same is true in love, in parenting, in family, in work, in all of life.
I needed those ninety minutes on that church pew Sunday. Yes, for Abby; more, for myself. No escaping this sacred space that ushers me into life’s endless homily. Present and past. Choices made. Prices paid. Hymns sung. Rituals performed. Stories told. Worship. Forgiveness. Redemption. Faith. Hope. Love.
Beauty that aches. I can’t flee, even if I want to.
{ 16 comments… read them below or add one }
Feeling in my own heart and my own body the deep resonance of these words. I cannot flee either and haven’t spent the time away, but I already feel the ache, but with me still bound up by so much fear. All I know to do is sit with the dissonance, continue to hold the tension, until I find the third, the gray, the transformation…
I felt the ache, as well, Renae, far before I left…sensing somehow that it was on the way. I remember my therapist telling me that this was good; that I was already grieving what was yet to come. And for me, one who rarely grieved, this was a big breakthrough: truth felt, faith expressed, strength showing up. And in the midst, ongoing ambivalence. I’m with ya’.
Ronna, when I grow up I want to be able to write just as exquisitely as you. You have such an incredible talent and I often wonder whether you are truly aware of your amazing gift.
I haven’t been into a church very often over the past few years. Interestingly, I’m often overcome by a feeling of guilt which I quickly push away and do my best to ignore. But, when I do enter one of those buildings which are usually architecturally magnificent we refer to as a church, I also feel the beauty. And yes, it aches. But, unlike you, I haven’t quite figured out exactly why yet. Your post has certainly given me much food for thought and I’m looking forward to being consumed by it for the next while.
Thank you for always challenging me and stimulating my heart, mind and soul with your superb writings.
Your words are like benediction and blessing, Tracy. Thank you.
On some level, I love the fact that “church” has impact without the “why” answered. That speaks to its larger beauty and power; something that we can’t capture or preach or guilt another into. And when I hear this, remember this, I breathe a little deeper. Thank you, again.
Beautiful, just beautiful.
“Beauty that aches. I can’t flee, even if I want to.” To me this is the only beauty, the one that cracks my heart open again and again, wouldn’t have it any other way.
Just last night a girlfriend and I were talking about having our hearts laid open and out there on the table – again and again; about how there really is no alternative; about how excruciating this is; about how deeply we want that heart seen, cared for, protected, and loved. And still…we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thanks, Marjory.
Wow. Haunting post!
I recently revisited church for my brother’s wedding . . . that’s a surreal experience when you’ve lived outside those mindsets for years.
I’m glad you’ve found the beauty & community you needed outside of that. It’s a heart-breaking, confusing process to be sure!
xoxo
Heart-breaking and confusing. Beautiful and painful. Surreal and right-in-the-midst-of. Yep.
And heart-open. Thanks, Jess.
My initial comment is about craft – this was beautifully written, poetic. As openers go, you certainly hooked me with that first sentence (hard to turn off the editor’s eye). As to topic, my experience has been more contempt for the trappings, as the authentic beauty you reference rarely reached me – and when it did, only in very quiet whispers. Hints of a good, true thing, clouded by what I intrepreted as disdain.
So grateful for you kind words, Craig – certainly about craft and hooks, but also about beauty. Of course, I’m always grateful for a fellow truth-teller, no matter the topic. ‘Appreciate you being here.
And quiet whispers are sometimes the strongest and most powerful of voices…
Beautifully written, hurts and disappointments. Sad that the Joy so freely offered is difficult to partake of due to the space the hurt occupies.
I have done a few Beth Moore courses with our church and have loved them but the most healing one is “David, seeking a heart like His”. has left us speechless after each session and the homework which is done in private has become addictive.
Perhaps if you tried doing this course it could be balm like honey for your soul.
Love Deborah Arrowsmith. (with a thorn in her side).xx
Thank you, Deborah. I am grateful that you’ve found comfort in this place – and its Texts. New places and both ancient and new texts continue to offer me the same. Balm, for sure. But more than anything, the awareness that beauty and ache endure in all of life – church, relationships, conversation. The holy in our midst always.
I sit here tears rolling down my face and I almost don’t even notice them anymore; I simply expect them. Like you stated in your comment regarding talking with a friend, although it hurts and is excruciating at times, I, too, wouldn’t have it any other way.
This post is once again my life embodied, only this time the beauty that aches for me is regarding love. But you’re right: it’s all so similar, and I can relate to the experience within the church environment as well.
And despite the pain and sadness, I too, can’t flee, even if I desperately want to cling to those ‘illusions’ that I know aren’t right for me. As soon as I recognize them as such, it becomes too late. The process of change (and choice) has once again begun.
A beautiful post, Ronna. Thank you for sharing this experience.
Oh, Sera. I’ve sat where you are more hours than I can count; the ache just oozing out and though painful, a reminder that I am alive, that I desire, that I yet hope. Yes, change – and choice – and cost always intertwined. So grateful for you generous and kind words. They and you touch my heart in needed ways this day.
Beauty that aches- love that line. Makes me think of dancing in the fire.
A paradox, for sure, Jack. And…so is life, isn’t it? Thanks for being here.
{ 1 trackback }