Do I Belong in Church?

The full version of this article was originally published on the author’s blog, Nordic Prairie Life. 

I’ve had an aversion to structured religion since my late teens. It wasn’t always that way. I grew up attending Gaetz United Memorial Church in Red Deer. I went to Sunday school, participated in youth events, and for a time felt religion deeply.

As I got older, I became more aware of the harm churches had done to Indigenous communities, LGBTQIA+ people, women, and children. The idea of worshipping a male figure in whose name wars had been fought, who was used to justify women's subservience, and under whose roof so many people had been assaulted became repellent.

In my early thirties I attended a history class where the instructor argued that academics often dismissed the church's role in Canada's early years. While many students rolled their eyes at religion, he pointed out that churches also provided community, sanctuary, and belonging.

I knew that wasn't true for everyone. People who were Indigenous, LGBTQIA+, or considered sinful weren't welcomed equally. Still, I'd never thought of church primarily as community. I'd always seen it exclusively as a place to find God.

My mom was religious, although her beliefs are difficult to define. Our family drifted away from church as I became a teenager, though I held on the longest, finding comfort in the belief of something outside myself as I weathered bullying and other challenges. 

She expressed her faith quietly, saying "Oh my Word" instead of taking God's name in vain. When I challenged her beliefs, she always came back to the same point: God was love. Once in my teens, she told me that the Bible was not a literal retelling of events but a series of metaphors, allegories, and lessons on humanity and life. No one, not in Sunday school, or out in the world had made that clear to me. To this day, I wonder what percentage of Christians think that the bible is a literal retelling and what percentage think it should be interpreted and contextualized.

My grandma seemed much the same. She believed in God, rarely attended church, and, according to my cousin, read the Bible every night. I suspect they both believed God existed everywhere, not just inside a church.

A few months ago, while driving around Edmonton, I passed Robertson Wesley United Church. We were still relatively new to the city, and I was struggling to find my people. A sign advertised a community dinner, and what caught my attention wasn't the meal but the word "community" and the abundance of pride flags. Not a token rainbow flag, but progressive pride, trans, and non-binary flags. It felt unapologetically inclusive. Online, I discovered a church deeply involved in supporting both its congregation and the wider community throughout the week.

The following Sunday I took my daughters to church. It wasn't the sermons that spoke to me. It was the building, the ritual, and the people. Some of it was nostalgia: snowy Sunday drives, being knee-high among adults in their Sunday best, and the familiar scent of perfume as people greeted one another warmly. After every service there was coffee hour. One Sunday I left with a gallon of coleslaw; another with a bag of clothes headed for the thrift store. People looked after one another, even the newbies.

A few weeks later I accidentally wandered into the AGM after coffee and stayed because I couldn't make a graceful exit. I was surprised to learn the church wasn't just inclusive of LGBTQIA+ people and women; it was actively removing colonial language from its documents and working toward offering ASL during services. 

That surprised me. Decolonization still feels rare outside performative statements. This church wasn't simply responding to changing expectations—it was actively trying to make spiritual community accessible to everyone. Apart from all the Jesus talk, it was exactly where I wanted to be.

Then my mom died.

Before she died, I told her I was wrestling with returning to church. She mostly listened as I talked myself in circles.

Eventually I realized my beliefs had become threefold. First, divinity exists within all of us; it isn't something that can be gatekept. Second, church is less about finding God than finding each other. Third, whatever we believe, we're meant to take care of each other.

At my mom's funeral, the family member delivering her eulogy spoke about my belief that we are living divine lives. I found myself wondering if I'd actually said those words. I had told him about my threefold beliefs and he had understood that if divinity is within us, we are living divine lives. I've been returning to the idea ever since, and wondering if it changes everything. 

My mom's funeral took place at Gaetz United, where my parents were married and where I spent nearly every Sunday of my childhood. When their minister wasn't available, I emailed the reverend at Robertson Wesley (despite barely knowing her) and asked if she would lead the service.

She immediately agreed and I felt like I could bring a piece of my own life into that day instead of relying on a stranger. She led the service with compassion, intuition, and grace. Weeks later, people were still telling me how much they appreciated her.

I attended church on national Indigenous People’s Day.  It is also Pride Month. The entire service was based on Indigenous teachings with Ojibwe author Richard Wagamese’s book of spiritual reflections Embers being centred. They referenced the great spirit, the divine, and how God is in everything. It felt absolutely divine. 

"Nowadays, I figure life is pretty simple: Creator is everywhere and divine light shines through everything and everyone all the time. My work is to look for that light. In those fleeting, glorious instances when I see it, I am made more, right then, right there."— Richard Wagamese

—Shara Cooper is a writer and editor who lives in Edmonton, Alberta. She is lives with her two daughters, a canine (The Mediocre Gatsby), and a feline (Princess Roseabella the first aka Rosie). She blogs about Scandinavian culture on the Canadian prairies in Nordic Prairie Life and is writing a memoir. 

The views contained within these blogs are personal and do not necessarily reflect those of The United Church of Canada.