A Church Girl's Lamentation

I love church, I do.I love the smell of a good ole’ sanctuary.

There’s something sacred about it—the soft scent of wooden pews, the echoes of hymns past, the feel of the worn crimson cushions under me as I settled in, week after week. I remember flipping through the thick hymnals, eyes scanning titles like “Blessed Assurance” or “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior,” and feeling like I was exactly where I belonged.

The altar—“In Remembrance of Me” etched into polished wood—stood as a holy reminder. Communion wasn’t just bread and juice. It was a moment of collective surrender. A hush that fell over the sanctuary as we all remembered. And the pastoral team—when they walked out, I leaned in. I wanted to know who would feed our souls that day. Would I laugh? Would I cry? Would I see Jesus in a new way?

I miss that sense of belonging. That shared rhythm of life. Church wasn’t just Sundays—it was life. It was stopping in the grocery store to hug someone who prayed over me last week. It was Sunday dinners at someone’s house and not needing to call ahead. It was being known.

I am a church girl.Deeply.

My parents went to Missionary Baptist Convocation for their honeymoon. That’s how committed they were to the faith—and funny enough, that’s how my big sister came to be. Church is in our DNA. It’s in the marrow of my bones.

But here I am, with tears in my eyes and a torn spirit.

Because the church I loved...isn’t the Church I see.

Not here. Not now. Not in this American Christianity that wraps itself in flags and false power.

It breaks my heart to say it. But the church—at least the one with buildings on every corner—is not always the bride of Christ I fell in love with. It’s become a machine. A brand. A business. And in many places, it no longer smells like reverence—it smells like rot.

Prosperity has taken the place of humility.Performance has replaced presence.Power has eclipsed peace.

And behind the pulpits are too many who cover abuse, ignore injustice, and praise systems more than they praise the Savior.

Today, pastors have turned from being humble servants—gentle shepherds devoted to the flock—to manipulative predators cloaked in designer robes and charisma.

They’ve traded servanthood for celebrity.They no longer wash feet—they exploit souls.

And let’s be clear: the church has not been safe.Not for women.Not for children.Not for the vulnerable.

From the pulpit, they’ve weaponized Scripture—using it not to heal, but to control.They’ve twisted faith into fear, convincing people to vote against their neighbors in the name of "God."They’ve seduced congregants into silence, shame, and secrecy.

And all the while, they’ve built their platforms from the brokenness of others—especially the rich and famous—turning sacred spaces into stages, and suffering into spectacle.

I can’t stomach it.I’m sickened by it.I weep over it.

Because I know Jesus wouldn’t stand for this.He never did.

He flipped tables in the temple not because people were gathering—but because people were profiting off the gathered.

And if He were here in the flesh today, I believe He’d walk into many churches and do the same.

I am waiting.

I am waiting for just one sermon—one holy moment in the house of God—where abuse is addressed with righteous indignation.

Where someone stands at the pulpit, not to entertain, not to manipulate emotions, not to water down hard truths, but to denounce the evil hiding in pews and pulpits alike.

I am waiting for a sermon that names the trauma so many carry silently. That refuses to protect predators and instead chooses to protect the wounded. That tells children: you matter, you’re safe here, we believe you.

I am waiting for sermons that rebuke domestic violence—loudly and unapologetically.

Because God is not honored when we stay silent. God is not glorified when the church protects abusers and silences victims. And God is not mocked—He sees it all.

Where are the pastors who will call this out?

Where are the shepherds who will throw away the script, turn off the lights, and lay bare the truth that too many churches have become complicit in covering sin instead of confronting it?

Where is the outrage?Where is the repentance?Where is the justice?

I’m not asking for perfection—I’m asking for courage. For conviction. For Christlike compassion that doesn’t turn away from hard things, but enters the pain with healing in its wings.

I am still waiting.

I’m waiting for Children’s Church and Youth Group to be more than babysitting with a Bible verse. I’m waiting for it to be a safe haven—a refuge for the little ones Jesus said the Kingdom belongs to.

I’m waiting for church to be a safe space for people who are different—not just tolerated, but welcomed. Celebrated. Loved.

I’m waiting to walk into a sanctuary and not feel disgusted by what’s beneath the surface.Because right now? It’s not holy. It’s leprosy.

Yes, leprosy—that’s the vision God has placed in my spirit.American Evangelicalism is diseased. Numb.A body in decay, pretending to be alive.

Racism is tolerated.Police brutality is excused.And churches are partnering with organizations like Turning Point USA—a group that cloaks white supremacy in patriotism and dares to call it Christianity.

How can the Church claim to follow Jesus while aligning itself with those trying to free Derek Chauvin—the man who murdered George Floyd?

How?

That’s not Christ.That’s not justice.That’s not love.

It’s leprosy.

And until we name it—until we call it what it is—we will never be healed.

The Church cannot be salt and light while it’s rotting from within.

And the disgust? It runs deeper than the scandals and silence.It grows into a sheer hatred for the nationalism that now parades through pulpits in place of Jesus.

I am sick—sick of watching churches turn their sanctuaries into stages for American empire, waving flags higher than crosses, singing worship songs with one breath and defending oppression with the next.

This isn’t love for a country—it’s idolatry of an administration.It’s not reverence—it’s religious cosplay draped in red, white, and blue.

What we’re witnessing isn’t patriotism—it’s the golden calf of our generation.

They worship power.They worship whiteness.They worship a version of “God” that doesn’t resemble the one who was born into poverty, executed by the state, and resurrected in defiance of empire.

I will not pretend that this is Christ.I will not bow to nationalism disguised as holiness.

I don’t know if church will ever be simple again.

I don’t know if we’ll ever lose the coffee shops in the lobby, the million-dollar light rigs, or the stage smoke that rises like performance but leaves no incense of worship.

I don’t know if we’ll ever stop idolizing “worship artists” or following pastors more than Christ.

I don’t know if we’ll ever return to the upper room—to the Spirit falling on ordinary people in ordinary places.

I don’t know.

But what I do know—what I cannot ignore—is this:

I’m disgusted.

And maybe that disgust isn’t the end.Maybe it’s the beginning.Maybe it’s the holy tension before the turning.Maybe it’s what lament feels like before revival comes.

So here I am.Still a church girl.Still in love with Jesus.

But grieving.Longing.Lamenting.

Waiting on the Church to return to the One it claims to follow...

To Be Continued...

Happy Easter!