Why I Go To Church

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of an intermittent series on the topic of attending church—or not attending church. The series was suggested by contributor Diane Davis: “I hope each person reading this will be inspired to write their own ‘Why I go to Church,’ or maybe ‘Why I don’t go to Church,’ and send it in to Melanie at the Practicing Presence blog Submissions.  I’m betting we have a treasure trove of ideas about this and it would be fun to see what’s out there in The Abbey-land.”

By Cori Coburn

There was a season in my life when everything looked full, but felt empty.

I was working, producing, leading, showing up. My days were structured and meaningful, at least on the surface. But much of my life had shifted into something quieter and more isolated than I realized at the time. Conversations happened through screens. Relationships were maintained through quick messages and scheduled calls. Even moments that should have been shared deeply were often experienced alone.

I didn’t notice what was missing right away.

Over time, I began to feel it; a kind of distance, not just from others, but from something within myself. A longing for presence. For connection that wasn’t filtered, delayed, or distant. A quiet awareness that something essential in me was going unattended, waiting to be acknowledged.

And then life slowed me down in a way I could not control.

I walked through the loss of my husband. Shortly after, I found myself standing in the long shadow of my mother’s illness, and eventually, her passing. These were not moments that could be managed through productivity or pushed aside with busyness. They demanded something deeper. They asked me to sit with grief, with questions, with silence.

In that space, I realized something important: I could not carry it all alone. Going to church became more than a routine. It became a return.

At first, I didn’t go with answers. I went because I needed somewhere to be. Somewhere I didn’t have to explain everything. Somewhere I could sit in the presence of God and others, even if I didn’t have the strength to speak. Somewhere I could be held without having to hold everything together.

What I found was not perfection, but people. People who were also carrying things. People who were trying, in their own ways, to live out the teachings of Jesus. People who showed up not because they had everything figured out, but because they needed grace just as much as I did. That mattered more than I expected.

I come from a tradition where we were taught to “leave it at the cross.” And I still believe that. But what I’ve come to understand is that sometimes, leaving it at the cross isn’t just about letting something go, it’s about staying there long enough to be changed. Church gives me a place to do that.

Church gives me a place to be still in a world that is constantly moving. A place where I can step out of the noise and into something quieter, something deeper. In the midst of prayers, music, silence, celebrations and shared presence, I am reminded that God is not distant; that God is here. And that I am not alone.

In a time where so much of our lives have shifted behind digital screens, church offers something that cannot be easily replicated: embodied community. There is something powerful about sitting beside someone, hearing their voice, exchanging a glance or a smile, and knowing that we are all here together: seeking, hoping, believing. It reconnects me not only to others, but to myself.

Church also reminds me who I am trying to become. Following Jesus is not easy. It calls me to love when it is difficult, to forgive when it feels undeserved, to remain faithful even when life feels unfair. Being in community with others who are also trying (imperfectly and honestly), keeps me grounded in that calling.

It strengthens me.
It challenges me.
It carries me when I don’t feel strong enough to stand on my own.

I’ve come to see that church is not just a place I go to receive something. It is also a place where I bring myself, my story, my pain, my growth, my faith. Even in quiet ways, simply showing up becomes an offering. A reminder to someone else that they are not alone either, even if no words are exchanged.

I don’t go to church because everything in my life is resolved. I go because it isn’t. I go because I need to be reminded again and again, that God is present in the middle of it all. That healing doesn’t always come quickly, but it does come. That love is still at work, even in loss. I go because Scripture calls us to gather, but more than that, because I have experienced what happens when we do. Matthew 18:20 tells us: “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”

We are strengthened.
We are seen.
We are held.

In a world that often pulls us apart, church becomes a place that gently brings us back together; back to God, back to one another, and back to the truth that we were never meant to walk this life alone. And in that returning, week after week, I discover that the very places I thought would break me have become the places where God meets me most. I remember that I am not alone, and I never was.