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Why I Stopped Going to Church

If you’re a Christian who doesn’t go to church, I bet I can tell you why. Because I was one…for a while.

We had just left pastoring a church because of a death in our family. My brother-in-law had been killed by a drunk driver, so I quit my job and moved my family for us to be near his widow and 3 sons.

When we got to our new town, I was frankly sick of church. I’d pastored one church-startup for 5 years, then pastored an innercity church for two more. I was experiencing burnout and wanted little to do with the local church.

In our new town, I got two jobs. I sang at a Christian theatre at night, and worked at a ministry giving food, clothing, and furniture to the poor during the day. The first weekend we were there, we reveled in the freedom of staying home on Sunday morning. We slept late and enjoyed brunch around 11am. I did not miss church, at all.

Until the next Sunday. My vacation was over. We were back in church and kept going until we moved away 8 months later.

What I felt that first Sunday at home was more than guilt. Part of my problem was I knew the Bible. And the Bible has some very specific things to say about being part of a local congregation.

“And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near” – Hebrews 10:25

That passage was not talking about neglecting “hanging out and watching the game” together, nor was it warning against forgetting to attend Bible studies or watch Christian TV. It was talking specifically about something that even some Christians are giving up on these days…

It’s talking about being an active part of a local church body. Period.

Notice it didn’t say “it would be great if you tried not to neglect it” or “do your best not to neglect it”. The writer is giving a command. “Let us not” may sound polite, but it’s much the same way your high school teacher would say, “Let’s all sit down, take a #2 pencil, and begin the exam”.

It was not a suggestion. It was a politely-stated command.

Lots of people evidently stopped going during the pandemic and never came back. Frankly, I don’t think their churches miss them much. The way I figure, they were only going because it was the socially acceptable thing to do. As soon as they got a good excuse, they stopped. And the fact they’ve never returned is pretty good evidence of what’s important to them.

Before you accuse me of being judgmental with that last statement, ask yourself this: if someone loves high school football, where do they go on Friday nights? If they love big epic movies, where do they go to see them? And if someone really loves Jesus, where do they go so they can be around other folks who love Him too?

Some folks have told me they just don’t get anything out of church. I find that funny, since I didn’t know church was supposed to do something for you. I’ve always understood church as a community to which I was supposed to contribute something. While we attended that church in our new town, I started singing in the choir. Why? Because Christians go to church not to receive, but to give.

Some try to spiritualize their absence, saying Sunday is their “day of rest”. After I roll my eyes, I remind them that the purpose of that rest was a rest from your job so you could specifically focus on the Lord. It’s not so you could focus on your couch.

There was little Sunday rest for the early church, who met for the first couple of centuries on Sunday NIGHTS. Why? Because Sunday was still a work day. So they came together, after a long day of hard work, in the evenings for a common meal and worship. It would probably be a bad idea to suggest to those early Christians that Sundays are tough for you. They didn’t think it was too “tough” to face the lions and suffer death for their faith.

Why did I not want to go to church? For me, it was negative experiences with people. That’s the reason many cite when they stopped going to church too. However, I’ve also had negative experiences at the grocery store. A clerk was rude to me, or another shopper bumped their cart aggressively into mine.

Funny thing, I never stopped going to the grocery store. Why? Because despite rudeness, I still needed to eat.

And despite whatever has happened to you, you still need spiritual food. But this is when you remind me that there is great teaching on the internet to enjoy in the privacy of your home. True, if the whole purpose of church was just to teach you the Bible. But this leads to the scariest reason some Christians don’t really want to go to church…

Accountability. In other words, they don’t want anyone with any spiritual authority (pastor, elders, teachers) to be able to tell them “no”.

Though I wasn’t a “pastor” then, I was working in a ministry during the week. So I was around Christians and doing “good works”. However, that’s not the same as “church”. Church is being part of a community of believers. As messy as people are, I don’t get to follow Jesus on my own terms. Real Christianity is always a “team sport”.

And since I was trained as a pastor, I could have argued that I knew enough of the Bible that I didn’t need to hear some other guy preaching it to me every Sunday. Ah, but how arrogant that would have been!

I needed accountability to other Christians ESPECIALLY since I was a pastor. That’s the great thing about churches – the church members hold the pastor accountable TOO! Since pastors are human, it works both ways! No matter how much spiritual knowledge we have, we always need mature believers speaking into our lives and telling us when we are headed the wrong way.

Everybody needs somebody who can tell them NO!

What happens when someone with a gift for speaking is allowed to use their gifts WITHOUT that kind of spiritual accountability? That’s easy. I’ve got two quick names for you:

David Koresh and Jim Jones.

Both were knowledgable in the Bible, and both had gifts to speak. But both isolated themselves from anyone who could discipline them. They set themselves up as spiritually superior to others, and insulated themselves with sycophants. When people tried to stop them, they isolated their communities from family and friends and brought death and destruction on their “yes men”.

When that second Sunday after moving rolled around, we found ourselves back in church. Why? Because I would have started a cult without it? Because I just had to hear the latest Chris Tomlin chorus made up with the same 4 chords again?

No. We got involved in a church again because God said in Hebrews we needed to do it. Quite simply, God wants EVERY SINGLE BELIEVER in church every Sunday they are able to go. The church is God’s best plan for every Christian. It is His “Plan A” to save the world.

So much of what I learned in those months just being a member of the congregation has informed how I minister today. It was an invaluable experience, and one that ended up helping me more than I ever helped that church.

And despite the joys of sleeping in and every excuse in the world, I discovered for myself why the Church is God’s “Plan A”. Quite simply, there is no “Plan B”.

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Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.

Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.