One of the quiet realities of church life is how easy it is to leave.
Most of the time, leaving is not outwardly dramatic or marked by a formal goodbye. It happens gradually — through withdrawal, disengagement, or quiet detachment. A frustration here, a disappointment there, and eventually the gravitational pull shifts.
I know this instinct well. When expectations go unmet, when relationships feel strained, or when something in the life of the church feels off, I can quickly begin to interpret that discomfort as a direction to be discerned. Leaving, somehow, begins to feel like clarity. It feels like wisdom. It even feels, at times, like obedience.
And yet, for all our language about calling and belonging, Christians rarely talk about how difficult it actually is to stay.
Remaining sounds passive. It sounds unimpressive. But in the life of the church, it is anything but.
Commitment becomes fragile under pressure. Remaining is not natural for most of us.
Apart from the ordinary inconveniences of church life — rooms that are too hot or too cold, broken fixtures, early mornings — there is a deeper discomfort. The church is filled with people. People bring expectations, wounds, and the ways they’ve learned — often imperfectly — to make sense of one another.
When expectations are unmet and misunderstanding occurs, being charitable is not my first instinct. Sometimes my instinct is defensiveness. Sometimes it is withdrawal.
Then something quieter begins. I start to scan. To observe. To take mental notes. I become more discerning in ways that feel justified, even wise. I begin to measure, to critique, to pull back just enough to feel protected. What I call “discernment” can, over time, become distance.
The difficulty is not just that church is hard. It is that we are. We bring our histories, our sensitivities, our expectations, and our limits. We want belonging, but not always the cost of it. We want community, but not the friction that makes it real.
Which is why, if remaining depends on our strength or clarity, most of us will not remain for long. Clarity is not a guarantee. And left to ourselves, we will often call our leaving something else entirely.
In my work as a trauma-informed mental health professional, I have worked with individuals who experience phantom limb syndrome. After an amputation, the body continues to register sensation — sometimes even pain — in a limb that is no longer there. The absence does not erase the connection. The body remembers what belonged.
The church, as the body of Christ, bears a similar mystery. When a person withdraws — quietly, gradually, or abruptly — the absence is not neutral. It is felt: a voice is missing from the prayers, a presence is missing from the pew, a particular way of reflecting Christ to others is no longer there. The body continues — but it also carries the quiet imprint of what is no longer present. Like phantom pain, the absence can register as a subtle thinning of communal life, a quiet loss of relational depth, a gap where mutual recognition once lived. Not because God is diminished — he is not. And not because the church ceases to function — it does not. But because the church is a living body, ordered for relationship, participation, and mutual upbuilding.
Often, the one who leaves feels this absence too — though it may take time to name.
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Leaving is rarely as simple as it first appears. It may feel like clarity or relief in the moment, but it often gives way to something harder to articulate — confusion, disconnection, or a lingering sense of unfinishedness. There are, of course, real reasons to leave a church. Discernment matters. Safety matters. Wisdom matters. But much of the time, we leave not because we have carefully discerned a call elsewhere, but because something became uncomfortable, unresolved, or painful — and we did not know what to do with it.
We do not always handle one another carefully. Words are said, or left unsaid, and sometimes people are made to feel as though their presence is optional.
And still, leaving is never as clean as it seems. It rarely affects only what we think it does. What we leave behind is not just a place. It is a web of belonging, slowly entered, and often without realizing it.
Families do not move in and out of churches as if sampling products. They entrust their children to baptismal waters, their marriages to pastoral care, their grief to liturgy, and their names to the prayers of the faithful. When a family leaves, it is never merely logistical. It is relational. It is ecclesial. It is a tear in a fabric that was meant to hold.
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If remaining depended on our own steadiness, few of us would remain.
We are called, instead, to receive. But receiving is not as gentle as we imagine. What we are given is not always what we would choose. We are given the cross. St. Thérèse of Lisieux once wrote, “Love is the cross, and the cross is love.” The cross is not abstract. It is not symbolic in the way we might prefer. It is hard, weighty, and often unwelcome.
Left to ourselves, we would not choose to receive the cross — we avoid it, reinterpret it, or quietly decide it must not be ours to carry. And yet Christ says, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Mt 11:30). The paradox is not that suffering disappears, but that we do not carry it alone — even when we are not entirely sure we want to carry it at all.
The life of the Christian is not sustained by what we construct but by what we receive, return to, and remain within over time.
The call of the Christian is not to visibility, status, or constant activity.
It is presence.
It is participation.
It is petition.
Presence anchors the weeks and months and years in a rhythm of returning. It quietly strengthens the worship of others. It reminds us that good people exist in the world — even when we are not sure we are one of them. Participation draws us into embodied faith. We stand, kneel, confess, and receive. In the Eucharist, we do not simply remember — we are given something, whether we feel ready for it or not. Petition draws us into the needs of the world. We pray not because we are strong, but because we are not.
None of this depends on us being particularly impressive. Most of it happens when we are distracted, tired, or only half-present.
The Strange Work of Bearing With People
“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another … as the Lord has forgiven you” (Col 3:12–14).
This kind of life does not come naturally. People at church will hurt our feelings. Pastors will say things we do not like. Believers carry stories we do not fully understand, and we often respond to one another without knowing the weight behind what we see. Even when we know parts of someone’s story, we rarely grasp its full depth.
To bear with one another is not to excuse everything or ignore harm. It is, however, to remain in relation where we can, to extend patience where we are able, and to recognize that we, too, require the same mercy we are being asked to give.
Staying does not come naturally to us.
To remain when it would be easier to leave. To receive what we would not have chosen. To participate in the life of the Body. To offer prayer for the sake of the world.
We resist what we cannot control. We avoid what exposes us. We reinterpret what feels costly.
Even our presence is partial. Even our participation is distracted. Even our prayers are inconsistent.
And still, over time — often imperfectly, often reluctantly — we find that something is being formed in us that we could not produce on our own. We do not merely attend. Somehow, against our own instincts, we keep returning. And in that returning — however uneven, however unresolved — we begin, slowly, to recognize that we are being held.
Anne Chester, LCSW, is a therapist and writer based in Southlake, Texas. A student at St. Paul’s House of Formation, she writes about grace, formation, and the quiet work of remaining in the life of the Church. In her free time, she enjoys being with her husband, two children, two miniature schnauzers, and her very opinionated cat, Stella.
NOTE: This essay reflects the author’s perspective as a clinician and is offered for educational and reflective purposes only. It is not a substitute for professional mental health care.
