An Attempted Return

I did try to go back.  Really.  I decided to clear my mind of all previous ill conceptions and misgivings.  To christen my fresh start, I chose to attend a church to which I had not previously been, to trying to vanquish any negativity.  I set out with my designer handbag, crisp heels and completely coordinated outfit; because certainly one must dress the part, and walked into a semi-mega, family-oriented, nondenominational powerhouse.  The lights were low to create the right kind of ambiance, and the seating was plentiful and plush.  I sat alone and watched numerous others filter by, some coming to sit.  Nobody spoke to me and with all fairness, I returned the favor. 
More time passed and the service was getting ready to gear up.  The worship team gathered near the front stage.  Young, eager, good-looking and seemingly fabulous enough vocalists to pass the music minister's litmus test.  One stylish 20-something singer, with a skirt short enough to be street hooker length, seductively flipped her hair over her shoulder and feigned a conversation with another woman, all while stealing glances around her to see who might be watching. She stepped confidently onto the stage after the service began and immediately switched into full performance mode and did her worship team best.  She thrust her arms into the air and turned on the emotionality, complete with closed eyes and trance-like swaying to and fro.  It was a moving performance, with the music so loud I couldn't hear my own vocalizations.    
After the moving and intensely emotional stage charade, it was time for the please-give-us-money pleas.  With the crowd's sensitivies heightened from having their musical and emotional brain centers stimulated, the timing was perfect to hit them up for some cold cash.  Part of the financial prodding included a heart-tugging cry for food stuffs for the inner city homeless.  Awesome.  A dual deal for both eats for poor people and moolah for the pastor's paycheck at the same time. I clutched my purse closer as the plate passed, hoping God wouldn't stike me that afternoon for my miserly ways.
The pastor's sermon was next and I was poised with pen in hand, ready for some serious note-taking for what I hoped would be a raking exegesis. What I encounted instead was a sweet, smooth and soft motivational talk on how to fly higher as Christians, repleat with plenty of hair flipping and fingers raking through his shoulder length locks.  70's rock oozed from his pores.  The motivational incentive and tempo of his exposition increased as he moved to speaking about the church acquiring a parcel of land adjacent to their current churchsite.  Property acquisition was now frontstage and it was a heavy full court press for a new, larger space for their growing numbers.  Of course, more money was needed for this venture.  After the cash press, the pastor made sure to leave his complacent, yet attentive audience with a positive refrain.  He challenged the crowd to "fly like geese" in the upcoming week, honking encouragment to one another as they fly in 'V' formations.  I looked down at my notes saw one lonely verse notation given for the entire 23.5 minute soliliquy. 

After the pastor exited stage left, flashing a wonderfully white toothed smile, the crowd began to disperse. Nobody spoke to me as I left.  I returned the favor.  I clipped along to my car in my cute shoes, holding my great looking handbag, wondering where I could find a goose Scripture reference for all of the V formation flying that I was supposed to be doing in the upcoming week.  Nobody honked at me as I left the parking lot. 

I couldn't have been more disappointed by my attempted return to my roots, to the culture which I had always known, the church.  Had it always been this way?  What was at the core of my frustration and hurt at what I had witnessed that day?  What I did know in that moment was that what I had previously known and what I thought was correct and honorable had turned sickly and ugly. I was severing ties and walking away for good.    

The first few weeks, well more like months, brought waves of guilt.  But then, it was nice to be able to sleep in on Sunday mornings and have lazy breakfasts.  It felt rather indulgent.  I thought, "So this is what all of the non-church goers experience each week."  In fact, it was so nice that I started to understand why they would rather stay home than show up for all that fellowship and togetherness that churches purport is so necessary and amazing.  
The initial guilt floods were furthered by my mother's phone ramblings and tirades on my wrongness.  However, there was also a sense of liberation in seeking to explain my new found beliefs to her.  Not that she cared to listen, mind you.  Oh no!  I was wayward and out of line.  Yet, being able to vocalize and give my thoughts a outward path brought resolve.  At several points I tried to go back, but didn't at all feel as though I fit in any longer.  Not to mention that the now previous guilt had been replaced with a burning anger and indignation at the now glaringly obvious inconsistencies. 
I walked out the door and down the stairs 4 years ago.  I really haven't looked back and that is initial guilt is long gone.  I wouldn't go back for anything now.  I believe in my decision.  Yes there has been a cost: emotionally, socially, familial, relationally and perhaps even financially.  Yet, I have never been one to make decisions based upon the potential cost.  I only make bold moves when I believe it is the right thing to do.  That has always been my modus operandi and I have never been one to follow the herd.  The lifelong familiarity of standing alone and apart made my decision easier, I suppose.  My mom believes that I'm a sheep gone astray.  I think that her flock is about to take a nosedive off a cliff and I'm simply one of the lucky ones that got away.  Nonetheless, I'm gone.  I left church.