I came across a beautiful poem by Irish poet Dennis O’Driscoll entitled simply, Missing God. It’s about the societal drift away from God and all the things we lose in that journey. One verse reflects on how different civil marriage ceremonies feel as they avoid words like “everlasting” and “divine”:
Miss Him during the civil wedding
when, at the blossomy altar
of the registrar’s desk, we wait in vain
to be fed a line containing words
like “everlasting” and “divine”.
If society misses the signs of the Divine it once paid close attention to, it’s also true to say that the Church is dramatically poorer because of the many people who have left – most often not because they have a gripe with God, but because at some level they felt that they didn’t belong or were not fully welcome. Many churches have a back door that is wider than its front – and despite all the efforts to be welcoming, many slip away through the ever present back door.
I’ve been thinking of some of the people I have known who left church – some many decades ago, others more recently. Each had their reason. Some were emphatic that they were far more likely to draw close to God outside church than within it; others had been deeply hurt; others felt their presence was at best tolerated – and that their absence would be welcomed. A handful no longer believe, or certainly not in a creed affirming way that allows for no questions or serious misgivings.
Let me tell you of a few of them. Naturally I’ve changed names – though some of the stories go back decades, and I doubt any of them would care if their name triggered a brief moment of memory – perhaps even nostalgia.
There was Pete… question everything Pete.
He was studying engineering at the local university and had one of those infinitely curious minds – at 21 he asked “why?” more often than your average 3 year old. Some found it disturbing, an assault on long settled views and beliefs – but I think he was just curious and wanted to make sure that the implication of each belief had been carefully considered. He was far more interested than those he questioned, who once the novelty had worn off started to find his probing questions annoying, a challenge to their serene assumption that they were right. It extended into the political realm, and in the days of Apartheid South Africa, well – this was a topic guaranteed to divide even the most pious church community. It didn’t go down well.
In spite of his many questions, or perhaps because of them, Pete loved the local church he attended and asked to become a member. In those days membership applications had to have the approval of the majority at a membership meeting. In theory, any believer who had been baptised should have been accepted, but theory and practice don’t always fit together, and Pete’s application got the thumbs down. It was a clear statement of where he stood in the popularity stakes.
He was devastated. As he said it, “Obviously I’ve got to leave. Should I go and be a nuisance somewhere else, or just leave everything altogether? Apparently I make people feel uncomfortable, but that’s never been my intention.” In the end he slipped quietly away. Strangely he didn’t ask many questions about why his application was turned down. Instinctively he knew the answers would be far too hurtful for him to manage – and he also knew they wouldn’t be honest. After all, how do you justify telling someone that they can’t be a church member because they ask too many questions and people don’t like them much? Today we would probably say he was on the spectrum, but we didn’t use that vocabulary back then.
And I’m missing Pete – missing him, and missing all he stood for. His questions weren’t comfortable, but they were valid. Now far too few ask them.
I recently sat through a denominational assembly where its work for the year was reviewed. It was such a tame affair – barely a question asked, everything passively accepted. It was pleasant enough, but there was no Pete, or clone of Pete there. I’m not sure we thought deeply, or that we thought well. That’s not to criticise anyone who was there – it’s just to lament who no longer comes… those who have given up. Those who find their questions unwelcome. We are poorer because of their absence. Some gaps aren’t filled when people leave.
I’m also thinking of Blake – funny, witty, musical Blake. His coming to faith had been like finding home – the kind of home he had always longed for, the kind of home he had never had. I’d actually pointed him to Jesus – my first convert – if we are allowed to claim converts for ourself! He took part in everything and delighted in it. No one promoted the work of the local church more than he did. But he did live with a shadow. In a world where being hetero was critical, he was homo. After privately agonising over this, he went public, and got one person after another to pray for him and for his healing. When big name healers came to town, Blake was there, keen that their special gift be used to cure him… but that’s not what happened. In the end he simply slipped away – well, not entirely. He left with another member of the choir and they set up together for a while. And then that broke up and I don’t really know what happened after that except that I heard he had died – the implication was that it had been of AIDS, although the message bringer wasn’t entirely clear or sure.
I’m thinking of Blake, and thinking of how much I miss him – his funny ways, his desire to please, and his unheeded advice that I take more care about the way I dress (“Those purple pants and that red shirt do not work. What are you thinking?” – and yes, I did once own a pair of purple pants!) He added so much to all we did, yet we could find no place for him in our small world. I think we are poorer for it. And I miss him. Some gaps aren’t filled when people leave.
Then there was the family who always opened their home to new migrants – they had a special heart for them and did all they could to make them welcome. For them it was a natural ministry. They had been migrants 20 years earlier. English had been a second language – but they were bright and flexible and fitted in easily. They wanted to help others for whom it was not as easy. He served on the church leadership team for a while. And then they just stopped coming. At first we thought it was a busy time of life. One of their teenage children was doing well at sport – which was wonderful, but meant they were forever lifting her from one event to another.
I went to see them. They accepted my request that I visit reluctantly – it gave the clue that something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. A cup of tea was offered and then the wife rushed into speech. “You’ll be wondering where we’ve been. I guess we should have told you. Don’t really know how to say it so I’ll just say it, but we don’t believe anymore. It’s a lot of nonsense. We wanted to believe, we really did, but it’s better to be honest – we don’t. We think Richard Dawkins is right. We were suffering from a God delusion. But we are over it. We will miss the friends we made and haven’t got anything against what you are doing – but facts are facts and that’s where we are.”
The apologist in me wanted to rear up and answer back – to engage with whatever questions they thought were unanswerable, and to woo them back with reason. But it was clear they would have none of it. I don’t really know why they never wanted to chat about their doubts, or to explore if there were other ways of seeing things, but it was clear that something deep had shifted within them. They wanted to close the “belief” chapter of their life. I sensed that they now championed “unbelief” as vigorously as they had once championed belief. And they were not for turning. And I miss them. And I’m sorry that for whatever reason they didn’t feel free to share their doubts and misgivings within the community, because I don’t think that doubt is the opposite of faith. To the contrary, I think certainty is the opposite of faith – because certainty renders faith redundant. What’s there to trust if you are certain? They are wonderful human beings and I am so glad that for a chapter they poured themselves into our community, but now they are gone… I miss them, and their generous way of looking out for those on the fringes, and including those who might otherwise be overlooked. Some gaps aren’t filled when people leave.
Is this just a nostalgic post – a hankering for each departee’s pre-crisis time when some unresolvable questions were less obviously haunting them? Perhaps. But deep within I sense that there was a better way to deal with each – we just didn’t find it. And we are so much poorer as a result.
I am delighted for every person who comes through the front door of the church. But I am mindful that each church has a back door. Some wonderful people have slipped out through it – and I for one miss them. And I want to think more deeply about the “why” of the back door, and am not willing to accept that that’s just the way it is, or that that’s the way it has to be. I don’t claim to know the answer, but I think a start is to feel the pain of each departure – for some gaps aren’t filled when people leave.
Nice chatting…
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