I’m here beside you.

I’m here beside you: as we watch a steady stream of our children and our friends and our mentors walk out the doors of our buildings, the remains of their goodbye still in our ears. Their reasons for leaving church are complex. Sometimes you understand, other times it’s confusing. And it’s hard not to take it personally. When you love something, when you’ve given your life to something, it’s hard to watch someone else walk away. I get it. It’s hard to be the one left behind.

A few days ago, I wrote to the ones leaving. I believe every word of it still – I lived it.

And today I have something to say to the ones who stay: you are doing good and holy work. Thank you for staying.

I may have left The Evangelical Machine, the cultural/political movement of evangelicalism, but who are we kidding? I’m a child of the renewal movement, I teach Sunday school, we lead a home group, we love our pastors, I sit near the front and sing my heart out. I reclaimed my place here, my roots are deep.

I came home to you.

Thank you for ministering within imperfect structures. Thank you for laying down your life to teach Sunday school and chaperone youth lock-ins, for carpooling the seniors and vacuuming the vestry. Thank you for stocking the church library and making phone calls, for doing the mundane daily work that creates a community. Thank you for meeting with college girls for coffee. Thank you for showing up when we get married and when we have our babies and when we are sick and when we are grieving. When we die, thank you for holding our families close.

Thank you for staying put in slow-to-change structures and movements. Thank you for being faithful. Thank you for taking a long and a high view of time, for waiting it out. You have the thankless job of elder boards and deacon elections, church constitutions and consensus building within community. This is not the work for the faint of heart.

Thank you for the all the work you do – seen and unseen.

Thank you for your commitment and your discipline, for the ways that you put others before yourself. Thank you for doing the work of the ministry, unthanked, often misunderstood, the convenient scapegoat at times.

You aren’t better than the ones who go, but you aren’t foolish or blind or unconcerned or uneducated or unthinking. I know this. You have weighed your choices, more than anyone will know. You chose this, you choose this, and you will keep choosing this.

I know some of us are meant to go, some are meant to stay, and most of us do a bit of both in our lifetimes.

(I want to tell everybody to relax. After all, it’s all going to work out in the end. Let people live their lives. Tend to your own knitting. And won’t we all find that we’ve seen through a glass darkly?)

Jesus isn’t an evangelical. But he lives and moves and has his being among the evangelicals, too. 

I hope you wrestle now. I hope we all wrestle. I hope we look deep into our hearts and sift through our theology, our methodology, our praxis, our ecclesiology, all of it. I hope we get angry and we say true things. I hope we push back against celebrity and consumerism, I hope we live into our birthright as a prophetic outpost for the Kingdom. I hope we get our toes stepped on and we forgive. I hope we become open-hearted and open-armed. I hope we are known as the ones who love.

Be strong and courageous.

I hope we change. I hope we grow. Let this be a time of reckoning perhaps, a time of soul-searching. I hope we push against the darkness and let the light in and breathe into the kingdom come. I hope we become a refuge for the weary and the pilgrim, for the child and the aged, for the strong-too-long and may we all live like we are loved.

I pray we all become a bit more inclined to listen, to pray, to wait.

I went for a walk in the wilderness for many years, and I still love it out there. I still like the fresh wind in my hair. I go for a walk every now and again, I hear God clearly in the wild spaces. I’ve always liked a little room to breathe. But I came home. I always come home.

I love you, Church. I love you in all the places I find you – cathedrals and living rooms, monasteries and megachurches, school gymnasiums and warehouses.

I have loved you and I will always love you. You’ve been the steady constant of my life, my witness and my guide. I see you and I think you’re beautiful for your very mess and imperfections and frustrations. Family, yes, we are.

We are loved and we are free.


In which this is for the ones leaving evangelicalism

In which I think community is worth intention, or why I still “go to church”

In which I am still hopeful

In which you gather at the homemade altar



In which this is for the ones leaving evangelicalism
In which we visit "our" school in Haiti for the first time
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