On Sunday I went to Church.

And by church I don’t mean a quiet, inconsequential church. I went to an evangelical church - one with singing and an electric guitar. A loud, unashamed church. I, however, am mortified.

Let’s be honest. It’s not like the thought struck me just in time for 10 o’ clock tea and biscuits. What started as a quiet hum grew into a desperate urge. A questioning gnaw, a soft series of questions: needing a wee but being able to ignore it, a hunger that will pass for now - that’s how it started. Standing in an evangelical church on a Sunday morning is how it ended. Or, I fear, where it is I find myself starting again.

This sense has been following me around for weeks, months. Six months. Probably longer. If I’m honest for years. Years and years I’ve been living adrift, knowing there is more and that this isn’t it. But I can’t admit that. I can’t let the church stuff win: or at least not so easily. I’ve searched ‘churches near me’, I’ve watched them online, viewed from afar. I don’t want to be them and yet I do. The feeling has haunted me, always there: it’s in my search history and sat in my soul. You really need church, that’s where God is and we know that’s what it’s time for now: God.

I’m looking over the edge of a cliff. I know if I step off I’ll be completely fine. More than fine. I edge closer and closer. But I can’t actually step off.

Church people to me have always seemed so mindlessly happy, smiling and simple. That’s not meant to be a compliment and I’ve envied them intently. Probably all my life. How do they have that? That sense of self? That warmth? Why should they have that?

Sunday morning came and I told my girlfriend I’m going to church. Her ability to refrain from judgement is saintly but this is foreign territory for her. OK baby, have fun. Don’t join a cult.

A cult would be better. More understandable. More acceptable in a gentrified bar with tattooed friends and correct opinions and well-paid jobs. I’ll have an IPA and forgiveness, please. Loaded fries and Jesus in my heart, cheers. Are you meant to tell people you feel absorbed in God’s love? That when looking out over the cracks and falls of cliffs and fields you feel nothing but sheer joy at the beauty of God’s work? Like, surely I can’t just tell people this?

My girlfriend and I bought these huge, juicy strawberries straight from the farmer: I don’t know how you can look at something so beautiful, taste something so delicious and not see it as confirmation of God. It can’t be accidental. She laughed. I love watching the blue of her eyes dance like waves when she laughs. I guess I’m just funny.

Back to church and it’s OK. It’s awkward. It fills my heart. People are nice, friendly. It’s not a church, more a community centre but they do have guitars. God why am I here. I’m standing, they’re singing. The songs are pop-filled, people’s eyes are closed, their hands are waving. I knew this would happen. I can’t join in with this, I can’t step off. I can’t leave either. I don’t want to leave. I sit back down. I listen. I question everything I hear. A voice tells my why they’re doing this, the rational answer, the cynical reason. The version that is dull, reasoned, logical. I’m not here for logic, I’m here for magic. More singing. Everyone is watching me, they think I hate it, they don’t know why I’m here. I step back from the cliff. I know what’s down there and I don’t want it.

The sermon is about being called to God. Classic, also just coincidence. It’s also about vices, modern day vices and them being false idols. We’re all slaves we just chose our master. Other people are my master, and I’m so tired. I want to look at God’s earth and feel wonder. I want to swim in the peace of prayer, taking rest in promises of destiny and obedience. I want to close my eyes - even if others don’t - and speak to God and know that God is listening, that God cares, that God hears me and knows what I need. I get lost in this, I feel that sting in your eyes and pressure in your throat and a wave of sadness and joy washes over me but then I feel a foot go and I remember where I am. What am I doing here.

There’s lots of praying here. A lot of praying. Will I need to pray this much? At the end the speaker asks if anyone would like to join them at the front in prayer. No. If anyone would like to be helped in their journey with God. No. If anyone who needs forgiveness wants to join they’d love to pray with you, with me, for forgiveness. No. No. Please - see me and know that’s what I need. I want that man, who believes so devoutly, to pray for me. That urge, that push: I have to do this. Me, please. Please pray for me. I’m standing looking over the edge of a cliff, below me is the absolute beauty of God’s kingdom and I know if I step off I will go hurtling towards peace and pure joy but I just can’t bring myself to step off.

Instead I watch and wait until it seems a good time to leave.

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