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There is something different about going to church now.
For years, church was simply part of our life. We went every service: Sunday school, morning service, evening service, Wednesday nights. It was what we did. And for a long time, there were parts of it we genuinely enjoyed. We looked forward to Sunday school, and I loved playing in the orchestra and singing in the choir.
But even with those things, after we left and came back things had changed. If I’m honest, looking back now I can see that we had stopped wanting to go for quite a while. We still went, but it felt more like going through the motions, something we were supposed to do rather than something we were drawn to. There was a quiet sense of obligation in it.
When our Sunday school teacher, who was also the music director, announced he was leaving, something shifted for us. It became a kind of quiet countdown. We talked about it and realised that our last Sunday would likely be his, or close to it.
Because when we really thought about it, I was only still going for Sunday school and the music, and my husband was mostly going for me.
And neither of those are reasons to stay.
After we left, I expected something to feel different. I thought Sundays might feel empty, or that I might feel like I was letting the Lord down by not being in church. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt… normal. If anything, it felt like something had been lifted.
That was one of the first things that made me realise just how much had changed before we ever left.
Since leaving, something else has stood out as well. Every time we’ve gone to a new church, we’ve been ready early, early enough that we often arrive and sit in the car for a few minutes before going in. Before, we were always rushing and running in just on time or even a few minutes late.
I used to say it was the devil hindering us, trying to keep us from getting to church. But one Sunday, sitting there early at a new church we were trying, I said to my husband:
“Maybe this should tell us something.”
And it did. Perhaps it wasn’t resistance that made Sunday mornings a rush. Perhaps it was that we simply didn’t want to go anymore.
Now, when we visit churches, we are not looking for the same things we once were. We’re not looking for activity or familiarity.
We’re looking for something harder to describe. A sense of rightness.
We notice things more now: how people interact, how the service feels, and whether the message actually reaches us. One of the things we’ve realised is that we don’t want to be overwhelmed when we walk in. Some churches were very welcoming — almost aggressively so — with people coming up immediately, asking questions, and wanting information.
There is nothing wrong with that. But for us, in this stage, it doesn’t feel right.
We are just trying to see if a place fits.
The churches we’ve returned to more than once have something in common. They let you sit. Perhaps one person says hello, and then you’re left to take it in. That feels better to us.
Recently, we visited a Catholic church, and it was completely different from what we were used to. When we walked in, it was quiet: no music, no greetings, just people sitting, praying, and reflecting.
It felt like people had come there for the right reason. To worship.
We didn’t understand everything — the kneeling, the sign of the cross, the structure of the service — but something about it drew us in.
And we found ourselves wanting to understand it.
The readings were laid out clearly, and we felt connected to what was happening. We were engaged in a way that felt different from what we had experienced before. And the message stayed with us. We talked about it afterward and found ourselves continuing those conversations during the week. That hasn’t always been the case.
The more we’ve gone through this process, the more we’ve realised something else. Our faith hasn’t changed in its foundation, but we are re-examining things we were taught, especially about other denominations. It makes us wonder if some of what we were told was shaped more by keeping people within a certain church than by truth itself.
And in a way, this has brought us closer to God. We talk about faith more now than we did before. We think about it more. We are more intentional.
We don’t know exactly where we will end up yet. But we do know what we are looking for.
And that is a place that feels right. A place that draws us closer to God.
And this time, it isn’t about what feels right for anyone else.
It’s about what is right for us.
And trusting that God will lead us there.
— Kate
There is a kind of grief people don’t often talk about.
The quiet grief of leaving a church you once believed would always be your church home.
For many years, our lives were deeply connected to one church. We didn’t just attend on Sunday mornings. We were there for Sunday school, morning services, evening services, and Wednesday nights. I sang in the choir, participated in specials, and played in the orchestra. Our daughter went to the school connected to the church.
In many ways, our lives were woven into that place.
And for a long time, it felt right.
We had joined not long after beginning to attend. The sermons were meaningful, the people seemed welcoming, and our daughter loved being there with her friends. After leaving another church where we no longer felt connected, it truly felt like we had found where we belonged.
For years we were all in.
But sometimes things change slowly, almost quietly, until one day you realise something feels different.
For us, that shift began with a situation involving the pastor’s family many years ago. It was handled in ways that raised questions for us. At the time, we tried to move past it and continue focusing on our faith and the good things happening in the church.
But when trust shifts even slightly, it can change how you hear things afterward.
Over time we began noticing other things more clearly.
The turning point came during our daughter’s senior year of school.
The pastor’s wife was coaching the volleyball team. Throughout that season, our daughter was placed under increasing pressure as the only senior on the team. She was told she should attend practice even when she was sick because she was supposed to be the leader.
At the first home game of the season, she was not named captain. Instead the captains were the coach’s daughter and her best friend. During that game our daughter made a diving play and was immediately criticised by the coach and removed from the game.
After the game the criticism continued.
I was so upset I had to leave the gym. My husband stepped in to support our daughter while the coach continued speaking to her.
What followed was a meeting with the pastor and his wife that felt less like a conversation and more like pressure for my husband to apologise for disagreeing with how things had been handled.
That meeting changed something permanently for him.
Respect once lost is very difficult to rebuild.
After that point, he continued attending Sunday school with me because we loved the teacher and genuinely felt we were learning there. But his trust in the pastor had been broken.
For a while we kept attending anyway.
Sometimes people stay longer than they should because leaving feels harder than remaining.
Eventually I realised something I hadn’t wanted to admit.
The only parts of church I still felt connected to were Sunday school and the music ministry I loved being part of. When our Sunday school teacher announced he would be leaving for a job out of state, it forced me to admit something to myself.
If the only reasons I was still attending were Sunday school and music, then perhaps I was no longer truly part of that church.
And church should never be reduced to a schedule of activities you feel obligated to attend.
So we left.
Looking back now, something else stands out to me that we didn’t fully recognise at the time.
Toward the end, getting to church had begun to feel like something we had to push ourselves to do. We were always there, but often rushing in at the last minute. Sometimes arriving just as things were starting.
Since leaving, something curious has happened.
On the Sundays we do attend church somewhere, we are ready early. So early that we often arrive and sit in the car for a few minutes before going inside.
Recently I mentioned that to my husband. I said perhaps that tells us something about the church we left.
He thought for a moment and said something that stayed with me.
“Toward the end it started to feel like a job. Like keeping up appearances. Not like going to worship.”
And hearing him say that made me realise he was probably right.
When we stopped attending, I assumed at least a few people might reach out.
After all, we had been deeply involved for years.
One person did.
Just one.
It was not the pastor, not the assistant pastor, and not anyone in church leadership.
Another message came months later, but it felt less like concern and more like someone confirming something they had already heard.
And that silence told us something important.
Perhaps the sense of family we believed existed there had not been as real as we thought.
Even so, leaving did not damage our faith.
If anything, it clarified it.
Our faith was never meant to be tied to one building or one group of people.
Faith is something steadier than that.
We still attend church most Sundays, visiting different congregations and learning what we can along the way.
We haven’t found a new place to call home yet.
But for now, that feels alright.
Because sometimes leaving a place is not the end of faith.
Sometimes it is simply the beginning of seeing it more clearly.
— Kate
Kate Alderwick 