Alone in the pew

Growing up, like many Christians, I attended worship services with my family. Church was never something I did alone; it was a shared rhythm of life, deeply embedded in family routines. When I began studying at a Christian university, I either returned home on Sundays to worship with my parents or attended a local church with my peers. In both contexts, I was surrounded by familiar faces.

The experience of church being a shared activity all changed when I entered graduate school and moved several hours away from my home community. For the first time, I experienced what it meant to walk into a church alone, without the buffer of family or friends. Despite the warm promises emblazoned on church signs, such as “Everyone welcome” or “Come as you are,” the reality of entering a new congregation as a single adult was daunting. Western church culture, despite its aspirations toward hospitality, remains deeply shaped by the nuclear family.

The new guy

Until I left the comfort of my religious cul-de-sac, I hadn’t realized how much I had taken for granted the Christian Reformed bubble in which I had been raised. I quickly realized how much I missed not just the spiritual experience of worship, but the social security of sitting with people who knew me. Alone in a new sanctuary, I felt overwhelmed with the anxiety of needing to make small talk with strangers. When I expressed these feelings, they were often treated as trivial by church enthusiasts who loved to remind me that I go to church to meet Jesus, not friends. However, the social anxiety of being the outside stranger in a group where everyone seems to know each other can feel all-consuming.

I agree that when choosing a faith community, we too often focus on non-critical matters that have little to do with the most important points of theology. However, the way we feel when coming to church has everything to do with human vulnerability. The church, for all its sacred purpose, remains a communal space. A holy gathering, yes – but still a deeply human one. And entering any human space as an outsider, especially alone, is difficult.

As a single man who regularly attends worship services by myself, I’ve had my fair share of awkward, painful and discouraging church experiences. Some were so off-putting that I never returned. But I’ve also experienced moments of grace that became the deciding factor in where I ultimately chose to stay.

I want to share three awkward and painful experiences I’ve had as a visitor at churches.

‘This parking lot is not for you’

When I first moved to a new urban center to live with friends, we made a mutual commitment: each of us would attend a different church. The goal was twofold: to give each other space and to ensure our community expanded beyond the four walls of the house we were renting. I chose a local congregation affiliated with the denomination in which I had grown up. I felt confident in my decision; I was familiar with the liturgy, and I even knew a few people who attended.

Despite my comfort with the denomination, on one of my first visits, I made what I would later realize was a near-sacrilegious mistake: I parked in the small lot adjacent to the church.

Before I had even turned off the ignition, I could sense I had committed a serious faux pas. The elderly woman parked beside me looked over with a glare that felt less like a glance and more like a silent rebuke, the kind that makes you instinctively check whether you’ve sideswiped someone’s mirror. I took a breath, stepped out of my car and steeled myself for what I can only describe as a parking lot throwdown.

The woman wasted no time. She lit into me for parking in a lot that, according to her, was clearly reserved for seniors, and, as a person obviously in my 20s, I had no business being there. When I hesitantly defended myself, she informed me, with righteous certainty, that the restriction was printed in the bulletin.

We then had the distinct discomfort of walking side by side into the sanctuary. I spent the next hour not in worship or reflection, but in deep contemplation of my parking crimes. During the sermon, I scoured the bulletin, looking for the parking lot commandment.

What I did find was a lingering sense that I did not belong. If parking in the wrong spot could elicit such an intense response, what would happen when I inevitably made one of the many human errors I’m prone to making? It became clear that this church operated by unspoken rules – rules that newcomers were expected to intuit. And I, not being able to decode those rules quickly enough, decided it was best not to return.

‘Where is your wife?’

After the parking lot debacle, I set my sights on a church I could walk to. This new church belonged to a more conservative tradition, but its doctrine was broadly aligned with my own, so I decided to give it a try. Wanting to blend in, I dressed accordingly.

As I entered the sanctuary, it quickly became clear that I was in the minority. Row after row was filled with large families – some with five, six, even eight children, all lined up neatly beside their parents. I found a seat near the back and joined in the worship service. The theology was familiar and sound. But church, as I was taught growing up, is not just about liturgy or theological alignment; it’s about communion, in the truest sense of the word. It’s about the fellowship of believers, the community of the saints, not just a building or a sermon.

After the service, I lingered for a moment, hoping to engage in small talk. I struck up a conversation with a few people and, in one exchange, was met with a jarring question. One of the fathers, standing with a horde of children in tow, looked me directly in the eye and asked: “Where is your wife?”

I was in my late twenties at the time, but his tone carried the weight of assumption, as if to suggest that if I was single, there must be something wrong with me. In that moment, I was not a fellow believer at best or a guest at worst; I was an outsider.

For single people, questions like these cut deeper than it might seem. Many who desire marriage already carry that hope with a quiet ache. To have our singleness called out, particularly in spaces which are made in the image of the Western nuclear family, can feel isolating and even shaming. It’s a public reminder of a private longing, and for some, a source of pain with which they are wrestling.

‘How can you believe that?’

After two discouraging attempts at finding a church home, I accepted an invitation from a friend to visit a local congregation where a mutual friend of ours was guest preaching. After the service, we stayed behind to mingle. We were clearly visitors, and soon enough, we caught the attention of a young man across the room.

He made eye contact and came bounding over with enthusiasm. At first, he seemed warm and curious, asking where we were from, what we thought of the service, and which Christian traditions we came out of. When my friend mentioned that he was a Baptist from Europe, the tone of the conversation shifted almost immediately. What followed was less a conversation and more a theological inquisition.

The man began challenging my friend, not merely asking clarifying questions, but interrogating how he could possibly believe something so “clearly unbiblical.” His body language and tone made it obvious: this was not about dialogue. He wasn’t looking to know us, he was looking to correct us. Despite standing in a fellowship hall meant for connection, the experience suggested to me that the way a person was measured in this church was not by their inherent dignity as an image bearer of God but by how many doctrines on the theological checklist they could check off.

Of course, I believe in orthodoxy. The Christian tradition holds essential doctrines and moral convictions that cannot be compromised. But I also believe the Christian community should be the best at exemplifying what author and theologian Richard Mouw calls “uncommon decency,” the ability to disagree charitably. Not every first interaction is the time to litigate someone’s beliefs. Especially when those beliefs aren’t related to salvation, we would do well to prioritize listening over debating, and presence over precision.

This experience reinforced a growing sense I’d carried throughout my visits that for many single adults, the challenge isn’t theological misalignment. Rather, the challenge is cultural and relational disconnect. We’re not looking for perfection. We’re simply looking for a place where we can belong without being scrutinized, corrected or reduced to a theological project.

‘Do you want to sit with us?’

After a multitude of disappointing church visits, I entered a season where attending church felt more like a chore than a joy. I found myself making excuses to skip Sundays. The emotional toll of feeling unwelcome had quietly eroded my desire to engage with local church life.

One afternoon, I came across an Instagram video that gently reminded me of the importance of regular worship. It wasn’t particularly profound, but in that moment, it struck me as a subtle nudge – maybe even a sign from God – that it was time to return.

I chose a congregation that met in the chapel of a nearby Christian school. I knew very little about it, aside from confirming the service time on their website and noting they were affiliated with a denomination closely aligned with the one in which I had been raised.

Still, when Sunday morning came, I was filled with anxiety. I almost didn’t go.

But as I walked through the hallway into the church building, something unexpected happened: my anxiety lifted.

An older couple approached me with warm smiles. “Hey, you must be new,” they said. “Would you like to sit with us?”

That simple act changed everything

In many churches, seating is an unspoken ritual. People can occupy the same pews for years. For someone visiting alone, one of the most anxiety-inducing moments is choosing where to sit and wondering if you’re intruding on someone’s unmarked “territory.” Add to that the challenge of making small talk with strangers, and it’s easy to see why so many single adults struggle to feel comfortable entering a new church alone.

But this couple’s invitation did something sacred. It acknowledged both my presence and my vulnerability. It reminded me that hospitality is not about flashy welcome teams or perfectly brewed coffee – it’s about making space for others to belong.

That one small gesture – a seat offered, a welcome extended – reminded me that our comfort both in life and death and within worshiping community is that we belong to Jesus Christ and his church.