My wife and I had one of those raw, honest conversations recently. You know the kind—where you sigh a little heavier than usual and finally name the thing you’ve been quietly feeling for a long time.
We’re church homeless.
Now let me be clear—we go to church. Faithfully. Consistently. Same place for a couple years now. It’s a good church. A really good church. The leaders love Jesus. They love people. The kids' ministry is solid, and our boys are engaged—which honestly, is why we keep going.
Because they’re being fed. And right now, that matters more than whether we are. We’ve been at this faith thing long enough to feed ourselves if we have to. Doesn’t mean we should have to. But we can.
Still, every Sunday feels like walking into someone else’s living room where we’ve been told to make ourselves at home—but nothing really feels like home.
This past Sunday, as we were walking out, my youngest—who wrestles with doubts and questions in this beautiful, honest way—looked up at me and said:
“Dad, they said we go to church to remember God… but I don’t forget Him. So why do we still go?”
And man, that question hit harder than any sermon.
Because I’d been asking myself the same thing.
That morning we heard a powerful message on God’s relentless love—told through the story of Gomer. It’s a wild story if you’ve never read it, but it’s one that wrecks you in the best way. God loving us even as we walk away. God pursuing us even when we’re unfaithful. God showing up again and again when we’ve done nothing to deserve it.
That kind of love? It should undo us. And it was undoing me… until the message pivoted. Somewhere in the last few minutes, that love letter from God turned into a to-do list. A call to switch service times. To make room for others.
Again—not a bad goal.
But that day, what I really needed was less challenge and more comfort.I didn’t need a reminder to do more. I needed someone to look me in the eyes and remind me that I’m loved.
Mess and all.
Not useful.
Not strategic.
Not mobilized.
Just loved.
There’s a quote that’s been stuck in my head lately. I don’t even remember who said it, but it goes something like:
“The modern church has been overrun by practitioners who’ve made us better at doing church than being the Church.”
And I feel that. I feel it when I show up longing for rest and leave with a list. I feel it when I bring in wounds and walk out with marching orders. I feel it when I sit in the church seats with my brokenness and wonder if there’s still room for people like me.
St. Augustine once said that the Church is not a museum for saints but a hospital for sinners.
But lately it feels like it’s become a training center for volunteers, a showcase for excellence, or a strategy hub for expansion.
And I get it—churches want to grow. They want to stay relevant. They want to reach the lost.
But I’m struggling with this question:
What good is it if we’re so focused on the next person coming in the door that we miss the person who's barely hanging on inside the door?
Because I’m still in need of healing. I’m still in need of grace. I’m still in need of someone reminding me—week after week—that God’s love doesn’t dry up just because I’m tired, or doubting, or distant.
Like my son said—I don’t forget God.
How could I?
He’s everywhere.
I might avoid Him. I might resist Him. I might even run from Him sometimes. But I don’t forget Him.
What I need—what so many of us need—is not more reminders of what we should be doing.
We need medicine.
We need rest.
We need the kind of love that picks us up off the ground and doesn’t hand us a clipboard.
So maybe church doesn’t suck. But maybe the way we do it sometimes does. Maybe it gaslights us—telling us we’re healed when we’re still bleeding. Telling us we’re fine when we’re still fractured. Telling us to go help others when we haven’t been helped ourselves.
And again, I know it’s not intentional. I know the heart behind it is good. But good intentions don’t always land well.
So I guess this post isn’t about having answers. It’s just about being honest. I don’t know why we still go. I just know that we do. Because God is still there. And our kids are still being shaped.
And somehow—even in the tension and discomfort—He’s still working on us too.If nothing else, maybe that’s the point.Maybe the journey is the church.
Maybe these questions are part of the healing.And maybe—just maybe—you’ve felt this way too.If so, you’re not alone.And if you do have an answer, I’m all ears.
Because I’m still hoping, still praying, still looking… for home.