I Don't Believe in the Church Anymore

I never imagined myself a pastor's wife. I grew up in a pastor's family and had vowed never to marry a pastor since I saw what the church expected of one. Family was much more important to me than committees and visitations and hosting out-of-town church leaders who expected the royal treatment. Then I went and married a pastor-in-training. And for the first time, I felt confident about being a pastor's wife. Not in an arrogant sort of way, but a quiet confidence that this would be where I would thrive. I was naturally nurturing, a good listener, an excellent organizer, and very capable of undertaking the many tasks that would be expected of a pastor's wife. 

Then I grew up. And even before we got our first church, I gave up. 

I never want to be a pastor's wife. I do not have the calling. I cannot handle the politics, the hypocrisy, and the dysfunction of the church systems and processes. I have no problem putting myself aside to serve people; I have every problem with erasing myself to be walked over and treated like a speck of dirt by those in leadership. 

I see my husband, earphones in, laptop open, Bible on the desk, 11:30 at night, translating for a Bible seminar. I hear him speaking to his teachers, his mentors, anyone who will take a few minutes to listen, asking them, pleading with them, to explain a Bible text to him. I see him poring over his Bible then listen as he asks me to explain concepts I grew up with since I was a little tot but to him are novel ideas. He did not grow up in this faith but his faith is much, much greater than mine. He is humble, he is dedicated, he is committed, and he is working oh so very hard. He never turns anyone away who asks for help. Even when he is tired or not feeling well or has a lot of homework to do, he answers the phone, he counsels the couples, and he gives that Bible study at 9 pm. 

My husband labours diligently night after night with few tools in his native tongue. He has spoken to leader after leader, begging for the doctrines to be translated so he can share something with his contacts. After 2 years, he still has nothing. Only a series of basic Bible studies and 5 of the EGW books. 

Jesus said that if we did not become like little children, we would never enter the kingdom of heaven. Perhaps it was because He knew that when we grow up, we lose that innocence, that simplicity, of childhood. Pride, comfort, ego, being right, are a few of the characteristics that are valued now. So no, I don't want any part of that. If those who are working hard to share the gospel with others are not supported, how can I support the system? In all honesty, I cannot. 

In the words of John Pavlovitz, "You wanna reach the people you’re missing? Leave the building."

Wearyness

I come here to write when nothing makes sense. When my world is swirling like a chocolate-vanilla cone, except deliciousness is not waiting for me at the end—just confusion. A sour taste in my belly. 

Yesterday, I left church early. Ants had found me and were swarming over my feet, in my shoes, up my beige plastic chair legs, and on the seat where I sat. I scurried faster than they to the sidewalk, vigorously thumped each shoe on the cement, then flicked off the persistent ones. I decided I couldn't manage it anymore, so my longsuffering husband took our chairs and we went home. It was not a good day. 

Some parts of days are good. Like our spontaneous falafel-and-sea adventure Friday afternoon where we sat on giant rocks and savoured perfectly moist-crunchy sandwiches as we watched fishermen throw out for a bite. But to reach the perfect rock, I had a mini meltdown because I was wearing flipflops, not gymshoes, and the cracks between the rocks scared me. I couldn't manage it. Just like most days when I cannot manage life. 

I slept most of Saturday afternoon. I cried most of today. The tears are always there. Uncertainty. Fear. Worry. Anxiety. Nervousness. Stress. Anger. Pain. Inadequacy. 

I don't like most parts of my life. Work. The community. The geographic location and all its pieces that don't make sense to my German mind. 

So I write. I eat. Most days I play Sudoku, scroll through Telegram and Twitter and Facebook, read the news headlines, or sit and stare at the wall. When I'm at work, I cry, I try to focus my mind to manage the full-time job in part-time hours, I prioritize, and I lock my door so I can teach in peace and quiet. And I eat. 

The child I will never have symbolically sits forever under my chin—a full stomach. An ugly stomach. A reminder of everything I am not and will never be. I will never be a mother. I will never be beautiful. I will never be slim. I will never be enough. 

So how do I feel? Unlike the children's song that repeats, I feel all right, I do not. I feel lost. I feel alone. I feel sad. And most of all I feel hopeless. I've lost my song and I don't know if I can ever find it again. So I struggle on. Because in the end, that is all one can do, really. Struggle on and hope that one day, somehow, there will be light. Or the end. Whichever comes first.