The following article is a part of the “Letters to…” series written by the 2023-2024 SOLA Writing Cohort, composed of college students and recent grads receiving mentorship to grow in their ability to express their faith through writing. The cohort members were given various prompts with the challenge to write an open letter to a specific recipient but one that would encourage and challenge a broader Christian audience. The prompt of this article is “Writing a Letter to Friends Who Stopped Going to Church in College”.
Hi,
It’s been a while. How are you? How have you been? What have you been up to?
I’m not going to lie, it feels odd chatting without addressing the elephant in the room. I think that might be one of the reasons why it’s been so hard for me to find the courage to reach out first and reconnect. On one hand, I want to ask you all about these last five years: how everything has been, what you’ve been up to lately, and where your faith is now. But I know in many ways, I also represent the very things you stepped away from—the things that might’ve hurt you, the things you disagreed with, and the things you’ve outgrown. I wouldn’t blame you for being skeptical of me or for asking yourself, “What if she’s trying to convince me to come back?” If anything, I think I’m just as terrified and anxious about that question as you are. I don’t want you to feel like I’m reaching out with an ulterior motive; I want to reach out because I still care about you.
I won’t deny that I want you to come back, but what that may look like is unclear. Just like how you and I have changed, the church has changed as well, and this “back” that I reminisce upon—the old times and the old spaces we shared—doesn’t exist in the same ways anymore.
It’s not so much that I want to bring us back to what was, but rather, I pray that you haven’t given up on your faith after all this time. I hope that in these last five years, in all the things that you’ve done, all the experiences that you’ve had, and all the opportunities that have come your way, you’re still struggling with God, that you’re still making sense of what your faith is and that you haven’t let that go. If anything, it’s the desire to continue growing alongside him that I hope we still share.
It feels a little ironic to ask why you left or what the tipping point was that finally had you get up and go. I don’t think it takes a lot to figure out what might have pushed you (and many others) to leave: The pressures to serve, the expectations to be a certain way or fill a certain role, the constant giving but lack of receiving ultimately culminating into the loaded questions of “What am I even doing all of this for?” and “Why am I still here?”
Even I find myself having these thoughts, and it’s in these moments of dwelling that I realize how little I actually knew about you. We grew up together, we served in the church together, and we even watched each other get baptized, but I feel like that gave me a false sense of confidence. I knew you—the physical being that is you—but I didn’t know you and all the things that mattered to you and that shaped who you are.
While I have my reasons for serving and staying (albeit after attempting to leave a few times myself), I can’t say I know yours. If anything, I feel like I missed out on so many parts of your life, from the mundane, everyday shenanigans to the pivotal, life-changing events that impacted you in both little and big ways. I feel like I wasn’t a good friend to you and that I wasn’t there to celebrate the joys and blessings or to stand firm with you in him during moments of hardship.
I can already hear you say, “It’s not you. It was much bigger than that. You didn’t do anything.”
Of course, you’d say that.
But I am sorry.
I’m sorry I didn’t do anything. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry if you felt like I didn’t care about you. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to reach out and check in when you first left. I’m sorry I’m still scared to ask now, five years later.
As for me, I’ve had my fair share of moments asking myself whether or not I should leave—be it the church or God himself. However, it’s these moments that encouraged me to seek him out in spaces outside the church, like on campus, at work, and in the mundane everyday. Reclaiming my faith as my own changed a lot of things for me. It’s still a struggle, but a really rewarding one and one that’s very different from the lives we felt expected to lead as kids.
I’m no longer seeking comfort, validation, or security like I used to, be it from the church or from the world. I’m learning to embrace the discomfort that comes with doing this “Christian life” thing and to appreciate the growing pains when I’m put in times of struggle rather than bargain my way out with God. I ask him what he wants me to see, learn, and listen to instead of groaning in frustration and anger at yet another trial. It’s about pursuing him by investing in my relationship with him and making time for him and not just finding time. It’s about not letting my faith be dictated or mediated by anyone else while making space to receive loving truth from those supporting me and who care about me.
I know all of this probably sounds weird and overwhelming, so how about we start with this: Let’s go grab a coffee. There are so many stories I want to share with you about the things that have been going on, and I hope that there are just as many stories you want to share with me. We don’t have to jump into this whole “faith talk” thing right now, but maybe one day, we can talk about life again without the elephant in the room: of you being the one who left the church, and of me being the one who stayed. That we can just be two friends sitting in a coffee shop, sharing space and doing life together again.
Much love,
Emily