Walking Off a Collapsed Bridge

I don't go to church anymore. Kinda ironic, since I married a guy who is about to enter the pastoral ministry. 

I stopped going several weeks ago. I woke up one day and told my husband, I won't be going to church for a while. I'm not sure how long. I just wanted to let you know. I think, after years of pretending and being a cliche, I had decided enough was enough. I refused to be my mother: sitting in the pew, tight smile across her weary face as her lying pastor of a husband preached to the congregation. I had to be genuine to myself and my feelings and right now, I wasn't feeling church. 

I was fed up with the liturgy; fed up with the fake shallow greetings from people who didn't give two hoots about you; fed up with the canned sermons, show off special musics, and endless announcements from people who loved to hear the sound of their own voice. I was fed up of living in a strait-jacket spiritual world where we were called Beloved of God (the very title made me cringe) while at the same time treated as if we were below them. I could no longer go to church because when I went there, I couldn't find God. His soft whisper was drowned out by the hubbub of the moneychangers. 

I had a vision in my mind of what church really was. A large room, places to sit, a reverent feeling, singing, a prayer or two, a Scripture reading, then testimonies or a reflection on the reading. No piano, no parade onto the platform, no announcements, no special musics, no bobbing up and down multiple times for songs and prayers, and no extra activities (health ministries, colporteur ministries, Pathfinders, personal ministries). Just a simple opening of the heart to God's Word, sharing the power of His Spirit in our lives, and to close, a meal together. 

Now, my husband went to church alone. I knew how lonely that felt; I'd done it for two and a half years before we started dating. I knew people were talking, wondering where I was, gossiping about whether we were having marital problems, or, most likely, not even noticing. I didn't care. I had reached my limit of what I could handle and church provided no outlet for my feelings of being overwhelmed in life—it only added to it. 

I'm not sure I can go to heaven without attending church. Apparently we are saved by faith but judged by works so I guess believing in Jesus is not enough. And maybe what little belief I have in Jesus is not enough either since I struggle to trust in a God Who stands by while the innocent suffer. My mom said God in His mercy does not let the wicked go to heaven because they wouldn't be happy there; maybe she was right. Maybe if I cannot get my answers here on earth; I would be equally as unhappy living in a heaven where I cannot understand why. Supposedly the millennium is intended to answer those questions but I don't think a thousand years will be enough. Because the tears of a million children are drowning me and their cries are echoing in my ears. 

Maybe I don't believe in God anymore. Or maybe I don't believe in the Seventh-day Adventist Church. I'm not sure if it's possible to separate the two; though I still have enough of a fight in me to want to do so. I've grown up with so much screwed up theology as a result of people in that church that I fight daily against what I perceive as wrong. And then I wonder if I am the one who is wrong and I won't be in heaven because I didn't go to church every Sabbath, pay offerings, wear a long skirt, or only eat a vegan diet. But I don't want to be in that kind of heaven anyhow. The heaven my father told me I would not be able to go to because I was taking communion with a rebellious heart that refused to reunite him and my mother. 

Maybe all I can manage today is a prayer. God, help me. I can't breathe.