You Can Go Back. But Should You?
I was talking to a friend this week about his current church situation. It feels like a drastic understatement to say his table has been decimated. I think it would be more appropriate to say his table has been decimated, and then folks who used to sit at the table with him came through with sledgehammers and smashed all the debris into unrecognizable rubble.
It’s devastating.
In my conversations with him, though, he has maintained one position: he can go back.
Where we finally found consensus was in the difference between can go back and should or will go back. Those words hold all the weight of his entire situation just like they held the weight of mine and likely are holding the weight for yours.
When we have survived spiritual abuse, church hurt, and the decimation of the table that once felt comfortable and familiar to us, the reality of the situation is that we can, in fact, go back. But the question we have to ask isn’t can we go back? The question we have to ask is should we go back?
Spiritually Homeless
For many of us, our belief is still intact even though our tables are gone.
Some of us are still going to church, sitting in the seats, and maybe even serving, but others of us are sitting in our living rooms drinking our coffee on Sunday mornings, wondering what comes next.
While our choices are different, one thread unites us: no matter where we are physically, we still feel spiritually homeless. The place where we once expected belonging no longer feels safe, but we haven’t yet found where—or whether—we belong next.
The reality is this: our presence in a building does not equal our belonging.
As I continued talking through this situation with my friend, he explained that after not attending the church for a couple of Sundays, he and his wife went back because they were scheduled to serve in the children’s ministry and didn’t want to abandon the kids in the church.
When they walked in, everyone treated them as if nothing had happened. People who hadn’t spoken to them in two years sought them out personally. It was as if the decimation of their table never even happened.
No acknowledgment. No apologies. No repentance.
Just complete avoidance of the harm.
How disorienting.
They were willing to show up for the sake of the children, but no one seemed willing to show up for them.
Whether sitting in a church with folks who don’t acknowledge the hurt or sitting in your living room, the fallout of the decimation of our tables leaves us feeling disoriented as we try to grasp the reality of being spiritually homeless.
We know we can go back, but we don’t know if we should.
Maybe you’re still sitting in the seat on Sunday morning, going through the motions in a place that no longer feels like home. Or maybe you’re on your couch with your coffee, wondering what to do with the faith you still have and the community you no longer do.
Either way, you know what it feels like to be spiritually homeless.
The Wilderness Between
I can’t help but think of the Israelites after they fled from Egypt.
These were God’s people, and they were sitting in the disorientation of the in-between. They fled what they knew in Egypt with the hope of the Promised Land. What they found was disorientation, fear of the unknown, and discontentment with the wilderness in the waiting.
They could have gone back.
In fact, they thought about going back.
In Numbers 14:3-4, the Israelites plot their return:
“Would it not be better for us to go back to Egypt?” And they said to one another, “Let us choose a leader and go back to Egypt.” (ESV)
Sometimes I think we’ve read this story so many times we forget the reality of this situation. The Israelites were slaves in Egypt. Slaves. Yet they thought about trading in their life in the wilderness and the hope of the Promised Land for a return to slavery.
But maybe there’s another reason the wilderness was necessary.
Egypt was familiar, but it was never truly home. It was the place the Israelites had learned to survive. Generation after generation had been shaped by its rhythms, its rules, and its understanding of what life could be. Before God could bring them into the Promised Land, he first had to untangle them from the place they had mistaken for home.
I wonder if some of us are walking through that same kind of wilderness now. Maybe we’re not just grieving te loss of a church. Maybe we’re discovering that the systems, expectations, and tables we thought were synonymous with God were never actually God himself.
Maybe the wilderness isn’t simply about getting us somewhere new. Maybe it’s about teaching us what home was supposed to be all along.
They could have gone back, but that doesn’t mean they should have gone back.
Church hurt and spiritual abuse are real harm. The grief of losing a faith community, the disorientation of being betrayed by people who were supposed to represent Jesus—that is not small. It does not require comparison to anything else to be taken seriously.
If the Israelites thought about—and even desired—a return to slavery, it makes sense why some of us would think about and even desire to return to the church homes we once knew and loved. We want to trade the disorientation of the unknown for the comfort of the familiar.
Just because we can, though, doesn’t mean we should.
And sometimes, after truth has been told, repentance has happened, and trust has slowly been rebuilt, the answer may actually be yes. Some people do find healing by returning. But healing never comes from pretending the harm didn’t happen. The question isn’t whether returning is good or bad. The question is whether the place you’re returning to has become safe enough to hold the truth.
Looking for the Manna
There’s another aspect of the Israelites’ journey through the wilderness worth noting: God’s constant provision.
Even when the Israelites were lamenting the loss of their food in Egypt and romanticizing the life they had there, God still provided sustenance and guidance.
He led them through the wilderness while providing manna every single day.
The wilderness wasn’t comfortable for the Israelites, but it was necessary.
The comfortable thing would have been to go back to Egypt and live how they had been living. The necessary thing was to sit in the in-between of the wilderness and rely on God to sustain and guide them.
Many of us are sitting in that very same place today.
It would be comfortable to go back to the places where our tables were decimated because the dysfunction we know is more comfortable than the health we don’t.
But maybe God isn’t asking you to go back to what is comfortable today. Maybe God is calling you to sit in the disorientation of the wilderness and listen for his guidance and trust his sustenance.
God didn’t give the Israelites a map. He gave them manna.
He kept his promise in his time, not theirs.
The bigger question isn’t whether we go back. The question is whether we’re moving from a place of discernment or a place of familiarity. That kind of discernment takes time. Sometimes it even takes forty years.
The in-between of the wilderness is not something to rush through simply because the disorientation is uncomfortable. It is the long, quiet journey toward discernment where God sustains and guides us toward an answer we don’t yet have.
Staying in the Question
My friend is still figuring out his should. Some days he thinks he knows the answer. Other days the wilderness feels too disorienting to see clearly. And that’s exactly where he’s supposed to be right now.
If you’re still in the seat on Sunday morning, that’s okay. If you’re on your couch with your coffee, that’s okay too. The wilderness looks different for everyone.
What matters isn’t where you are physically—it’s whether you’re listening for the manna, watching for the pillar of fire, and giving yourself permission to stay in the question long enough to hear an answer that’s actually yours.
Reflection Questions
Are you currently making decisions about your faith community from a place of discernment or a place of familiarity—and do you know the difference for yourself?
Where in your life right now can you identify the manna—the small, daily provision that’s sustaining you even in the middle of the wilderness?
What would it look like for you to give yourself permission to stay in the question a little longer, without rushing toward an answer that isn’t ready yet?
I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.
I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.
If you’re a writer looking for thoughtful encouragement, practical strategy, and honest conversations about the writing life, you’re also welcome to join us inside The Visible Author Facebook Community.
If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place at KristenNeighbarger.com.
