On Leaving Our Church of Two Decades

I DID NOT leave my church on a whim.

It actually took me and my spouse two years to slowly rip the bandage off and leave. After more than a decade of sitting on the left side of the sanctuary, serving on the worship team, starting a drama group, learning the language of the denomination and congregation, pricing countless items at the annual rummage sale, and teaching confirmands, we decided it wasn’t the church. It was us.

It wasn’t about what was said or wasn’t said on a single Sunday after yet another national tragedy or shocking event. It wasn’t one sermon or one congregational prayer. It was a long silence over years—silence from the pulpit, silence from the hymns and contemporary love songs to Jesus and God, silence from the congregation even when the denomination tried to make a sound, silence as #BlackLivesMatter trended, silence after #Charleston.

The silence was so loud, it almost drowned out the painful words that were spoken. They attempted to diminish and ignore the pain that was real for us and our family, week after week, month after month, year after year. We were asked to bring a dish for the cultural potluck, but not too much, so our feelings wouldn’t be hurt if people didn’t like what we brought. (I’m sorry: If you are going to pit Korean pot stickers against rice pudding, I’m putting my money on my store-bought pot stickers. Every. Single. Time. Veggie pot stickers with rice paper dough, just so you know.)

We were told to be patient while also being asked to read the Pentecost passage in Korean—you know, for diversity. We were told in so many little ways, over long years, that our presence was welcome, but a little uncomfortable.

But we stayed. We desired to be rooted in a local church where our children would, and did, see classmates on Sunday and at school. We wanted to be rooted in a local church even though we knew anything remotely local meant white suburban. We stayed because we thought we knew what we signed up for. We stayed because the family of Christ is imperfect, but full of grace. We stayed because we made friends and lost them when they left. We stayed because there was genuine loss and joy. We stayed because we are imperfect.

And then the straw that broke our hearts was the 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Va., where white supremacists armed with torches marched and chanted, “White lives matter,” “You will not replace us,” and “Jews will not replace us,” while police silently watched. President Donald J. Trump’s comments condemned “hatred, bigotry, and violence on many sides” as well as chided that there were “very fine people on both sides.” The optics of white crowds carrying torches surely would not be ignored.

So we went to church that following Sunday, hoping—as only Jesus followers can hope—to hear words that would acknowledge our pain and grief. But we didn’t hear those words. Maybe others did, the others who have stayed and flourished. We didn’t, so we left. It was us.

We got a card in the mail the other day, handwritten by someone on behalf of the church, which we left a year ago. A year of silence finally broken.