I Hate My Church

What do you call a church that feels more like a courtroom?

Every Sunday is basically hell for me. I wonder how I survived 19 years going to such a toxic place.

Church was supposed to be a place where I would be happy to go, a place to connect with my Father. But for me, church became a courtroom. A place where my life was constantly monitored, where I was expected to submit a weekly report sheet of how I’d lived.

Instead of peace, I got questions:

“Are you a virgin?”

“Do you have a boyfriend now?”

“Why are you wearing short clothes?”

“Doyin, you now wear jewelry o.”

I answered every of them with a forced smile, never daring to confront or even look up at them. I was never enough in church. Always too rude. Too proud. Too something. They claimed the reason I didn’t associate with my mates was because I was full of myself apparently, coming to church and minding your own business is a sin.

When I didn’t pray aloud or when my mind drifted, they concluded I was lazy in prayer. Here, praying silently is not considered prayer at all.

Over time, I learned how to mold myself. Even though I was still not enough for them, I learned to ignore the side remarks. I tried to fake confidence, even though their stares made my heels shake. I never missed the early morning elders’ greetings, always answering their fake caring words with a smile. I carried the grandmamas’ bags after service, always wondering where their own children were. I nodded at comments I didn’t agree with. I became quiet, invisible but not too invisible. Obedient. I even forced myself to talk with my so-called “mates” who once bullied me, thinking maybe then they would stop looking at me like I was a problem that needed fixing.

But the truth is, in that space, nothing I did would ever be enough. The clothes I wore were never appropriate. The confidence I tried to show was mistaken for pride. The silence I kept was seen as disrespect. And deep down, I knew most of their comments came from envy, not care.

I carried that weight for years. And it made me question not God, but the people who claimed to speak for Him. How could a place meant for healing make me feel so wounded? How could people who preached love make me feel so unloved? How is it that every week I came with a smile on my face, but always went home sitting in silence about the pastor’s comment about me?

It took me 19 years to see it clearly: going to church was not the same as worshiping God. I wasn’t going for Him. I was going for them, for their satisfaction. So I wouldn’t be blamed for missing a Sunday service. So I could a new dress that no one could complain about. So I could please my parents. So I could fit into a place I was born into but never belonged.

I want to leave that place, but the truth is I am still scared. Scared of what my parents will say, scared of the endless questions. For now, I stay quiet, but in my heart I know I’m done.

Whatever that place is, one thing is certain it’s not where I’ll find Him anymore.