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I have sung in many a choir, and even though it’s been a long time since I have harmonized with fellow choristers, some of my most enduring memories are of standing in front of the altar, and singing music that touched my soul. From singing in the “Budlong Harmonious Trio” as a teenager, belting out songs from “Sister Act” and “Sounds of Blackness” - to singing in church choir at Christ Church in Bristol (in the UK), to Gospelfest here in Barbados as recently as 2018. 

Music has always moved me - as a singer, as a flautist, and as someone who has been an avid lover of all kinds of music from the time I was a child. And the music that has moved me most of all has almost always been the type of music that is sung in church. I think one of the reasons that I have such strong and powerful memories of singing in church, and feeling touched by the music, is because I spent over half of my lifetime in church, and I can’t honestly say that much else felt like it could reach me the way the music did. 

I can’t tell you if it was the swell, the vibration, the harmonies, or the lyrics, or all of the above. But I spent most of my time in church feeling as if I was searching for God, and during the music was when I got a glimpse. Outside of that, I had a complicated relationship with church - from learning about the so-called biblical basis of the Slave trade, to some of the pretty dreadful things I read about in the Old Testament. And on top of everything, aside from when the music was playing, I can’t say I ever felt connected to a God that people kept trying to convince me was omnipotent, omnipresent and all about love, but who seemed to only deem certain folks worthy of that love, and in the meantime sit idly by while the world went to hell in a handbasket. 

In case you can’t tell, I left the church a long time ago. And I don’t have any regrets as such. If you want to read more about the reasons why I left (and continue to stay gone) I wrote a number of blog posts on the subject. But recently I was reflecting on the fact that growing up in the church had a big influence on the person I am today, even if I have let go of so many of the ideas I tried to cling to while I was there. 

Leaving the church was made easier for me by the fact that I had always struggled to feel as if it was real - a relationship with a God that felt utterly distant, and who didn’t make it easy to connect, the influence that he had on the world which felt like it arbitrarily blessed some folks while others were allowed to suffer. I stopped wondering what was wrong with me that everyone else seemed to be having these transcendent experiences, while I was just pretending, with my eyes squeezed shut, my hands in the air, waiting to feel something. 

Anything. 

Yes - leaving the church was easier than it could have been given that I spent half of my life there.

But some of what I learned in church has stayed with me, and I realize recently that there are a number of things that I miss about church, and about God. I know so many folks who have left the church for one reason or another, some after very hurtful experiences. 

However, I wanted to normalize the fact that even if you make a decision that you are pretty sure was the right one, that sometimes you can still miss aspects of it. It is a part of holding both of those things. I left the church, and I still love Church buildings; the solemn stillness. I have given up much of what I learned in the church, but I have also held onto much. Some days, I wonder if I gave up too soon. Other days, I feel like the Church is a tool of the patriarchy that has oppressed women and enslaved my ancestors. 

It’s complicated. And it’s normal.

While I am unlikely to return to the church, sometimes I still listen to my friend preach a sermon, or play my gospel playlist. And some days, I miss God.

I miss the hope I felt for a better world. Seeing so many around me experiencing God, and having their lives transformed gave me hope for the world, and hope for myself. I was waiting for the day when God intervened and the world finally became fair and just and beautiful. I also figured that one day, I would tap into the secret and feel that overwhelming sense of love, and it was something to look forward to. Some days, I miss feeling that sense of hope and anticipation. I miss having something to look forward to.

I miss the community. I have been ultra fortunate to have sustained relationships with almost all of my favourite people. I won’t lie, faith was something that helped to bind me to so many of the friends I made at school and at university. But when I left the church I was relieved to see that it wasn’t the only cord that kept us together, and our friendships have remained strong - sometimes getting even better. 

I think that a part of that was because I definitely became way less judgemental after I left the church. I can’t speak for anyone else (and I am not attempting to) but I became so much more accepting of myself, and subsequently of others. I found that I much preferred the belief that we all have good in us, and assuming good intent, than believing that everyone (including me) deserved to die for our sins. So leaving the church, I started to feel differently about myself and about the world.

That being said, even though I have maintained many of my closest relationships, I miss the feeling of a group of people coming together with the common purpose, and being a part of that group. I have so many fond memories from teaching Sunday school and weekend retreats, sharing meals while diving deep into a bible passage or verse, and the silence of the sanctuary after a sermon. Something that I have held onto even now is that there is so much that connects us to one another, and to me there is almost nowhere that felt as true as it did in church.

I miss the ritual. Even though prayer always felt empty to me, and it felt more like a monologue than a conversation with God, there was often deep comfort in the familiar words of hope and devotion. The music enveloping me, and the familiar scent that the church had - an old building that smelled faintly of wine and incense. The rhythm of making the sign of the cross. The feeling like I was just on the cusp of something incredible. I miss those and so much more of the rituals that I learned in church.

I miss church buildings. The way the light looked as it streamed through stained glass. The acoustics as the voices rose up into the rafters. The solemn stillness that I felt I could almost always count on. Some days I still believe that if I am going to find God anywhere it would be in that beautiful still silence. In those rituals that felt like home. In the music that touched me to my very core. I still get goosebumps when I hear ‘Make me a channel of your peace’, ‘As the deer pants for the water’, ‘Joyful joyful’, ‘I can only imagine.’

I miss church itself, and many of the times I had there. 

I miss Christmas in church. For years after I left the church, I would attend midnight mass, to sing the familiar songs, and hear the miraculous story of the virgin birth, and the baby who came into the world. I miss Lent, and the solemness that represented a journey into the wilderness, which is how life can feel - often. I miss youth Sunday, and the young people showcasing their talent. 

I miss my belief. Because even though I can’t honestly say I ever felt that I experienced God, or felt any comfort in my faith, I believed that if others could find peace and joy in their faith, then maybe one day so could I - if I worked hard enough at it. And some days, believing in nothing feels hard.

And sometimes, I miss the version of myself who was so involved in the church. Who had the discipline for 7am prayer meetings. Who studied the bible with such fervour, hoping to find God in the pages. Who cooked dinner for almost a hundred people so that strangers and friends could break bread and talk about faith. Who held teenagers as they wept, confused at the surge of emotions and hormones that arrived - the very teenagers who eyed her with suspicion for a whole year until they were sure she wasn’t going anywhere. She was so hopeful, and devoted and sometimes I miss feeling that way.

It’s ok to give on something up and move on, while still missing the good things about it, and who you became when you were there. It’s ok to have been hurt by a place or person, and sometimes still miss the good times. 

And that is where I am today. Even though I have left the church, some days I miss God.

I haven’t ruled out that one day I might find him, but I have also oddly made peace with the possibility that I won’t. None of us know what will happen in the future, and so right now, this is where I am. Missing something I am not sure I ever had, and so many of the things it represented, and writing about it.

 I will close with one of my favourite passages, which I still love to this day - the prayer of St Francis. (Thanks to Loyola Press)

 Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen.

Thanks for reading! And I send you big love from a small island.