A Place I Call Home

Dear Church,

I cannot remember many Sundays when I lay in bed willing myself to go back to sleep because I did not want to step into your hallowed halls. There have been but a handful.

Through teenage drama, sickness, cradling a new baby, caring for a sick toddler, and very rarely, the desperate desire for sleep—you have always been woven into the fabric of my being.

I remember a Christmas service bathed in bright lights, the fragrance of jasmine filling the air. Garlands of flowers hung from walls and chandeliers, and women were draped in colorful silks, gold glistening from their necks and ears.

It was earlier than dawn, and people hastened into the pews. Mothers rushed little children, dressed in their newest clothes—tired but excited—and settled them before the organ began to play. I wanted to stay awake so badly, but sleep overtook me. Holding my dolly in one arm and a hymn book in another, I nodded off between my mother and grandmother (or Pattiamma, as I called her).

My mother had a towel in her tote bag, and she spread it on the floor in front of her, almost under the pew before us. She laid me down and told me to sleep while the adults attended the service. I remember dozing off, listening to the familiar Christmas songs being sung in harmony. People walked down the center aisle to the front altar to partake in Communion, all while the fragrant smell of jasmine flowers floated down from the garlands above and the braids of the women surrounding me. It was a simpler time. 

I remember feeling safe and secure knowing that Church was a place where one worshipped God and rested in love, all while the people surrounding me would care for me just like my mother and Patiamma did. Church was home. 

As the years passed, I grew up alongside my church, and she became an integral part of my life. I vividly remember the seasons of my childhood that unfolded within its walls—from playful moments in the main hall with friends to singing in the children’s choir; from carrying the velvet offertory receptacle as a teenager to standing beneath stage lights during Christmas pageants, a sacred part of our midnight carol services. These experiences were not just memories but were woven into the very fabric of my being.

My journey with the global church traversed extraordinary landscapes—from jasmine-scented sanctuaries in Chennai built during the British Raj to multi-purpose buildings in Oman nestled between minarets and the Islamic call to prayer. I’ve worshipped across diverse denominations: Pentecostal, Assemblies of God, Methodist, Lutheran, Anglican, and Episcopalian, ultimately finding myself in the theater-style, performance-driven services of evangelical Christianity in Dallas. My path has been anything but conventional.

I remember feeling safe and secure knowing that Church was a place where one worshipped God and rested in love, all while the people surrounding me would care for me just like my mother and Patiamma did. Church was home. Share on X

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I realize now that I viewed the church through rose-colored glasses for decades, but experience has gradually shifted my perspective. I recognize that my relationship with the Church is nuanced, complex, and challenging. I consider myself fortunate—while I’ve experienced seasons of disagreement and tension, my journey has not left me deeply wounded nor emotionally fractured.

With the perspective that comes with age and hard-earned wisdom, I’ve come to see the church as one institution among many. While deeply meaningful to me, I’ve learned to approach it with a more realistic eyes, resisting blind allegiance. In the past few years, I have noticed a growing distrust and a subtle, but growing, feeling of disconnection. These experiences have cultivated significant questioning and deep reflection.

Church, you were my first sanctuary, the place where I understood unconditional and divine love.

Here, I discovered a God who listened to me, loved me with no boundaries, and heard me during the tumultuous season of teenage uncertainty. When I felt most alone, most misunderstood, you became my refuge. Through choir, Sunday school lessons, and youth camps, you offered me more than just religious instruction—you provided belonging. In your embrace, I found acceptance when I felt most vulnerable. You saw me completely, welcomed me unconditionally, and gave me a sense of identity when my world felt fragmented.

My first encounter with the American evangelical church was intoxicating—a sensory and emotional experience that drew me in with an almost magnetic intensity. I found myself returning, again and again, seeking that initial spark of connection.

My children were almost adults before I fully comprehended the depth of my engagement. Though we remained part of a small diaspora church, the mega-evangelical landscape became the primary architect of my spiritual formation. I eagerly enrolled my children in every available program—summer camps, youth nights, worship sessions, Bible studies, and movie nights. My motivation was both selfless and deeply personal: I wanted my children to know the Bible and grow in their faith. Most importantly, I wanted them to find a sense of belonging that I long sought.

For years, my relationship with the Church was fundamentally transactional. I consistently examined what I could extract from the experience, never considering what I might contribute. I failed to recognize that the Church is more than just a personal spiritual sanctuary—it’s a collective journey of growth, connection, and learning to love God and people well.

On the surface, our gatherings appeared communal. We moved in synchronicity during services and participated in shared programs, yet our lives remained strikingly isolated. Our connections were superficial, confined to Sunday mornings or carefully orchestrated church events, lacking the depth of true community.

My journey with the Global Church traversed extraordinary landscapes—from jasmine-scented sanctuaries in Chennai built during the British Raj to multi-purpose buildings in Oman nestled between minarets and the Islamic call to prayer. Share on X

Contemporary worship has transformed into a carefully choreographed sensory experience. With precise lighting, carefully curated music, and cinematically angled camera work, these services fundamentally alter our engagement with spirituality. We become careless consumers of an experience, often more captivated by the presentation—the fashion, the staging, the performative elements—than the underlying spiritual message.

We enter our churches with a profound, almost primal longing—seeking an emotional sanctuary that can momentarily eclipse the harsh realities of our existence. The worship becomes a carefully constructed balm, a 90-minute reprieve where perfectly orchestrated music and carefully crafted sermons offer a brief illusion of transformation. Pithy phrases and strategic quotes create a landscape where our pain seems manageable, where we can feel momentarily connected—to each other, to something greater than ourselves, to a sense of hope that feels tantalizingly within reach.

Solitary worship offers the seductive alternative—the path of least resistance that allows us to experience a manufactured spiritual high without confronting the inherent messiness of human community. It is far more comfortable to consume this curated spiritual experience than to sit with the discomfort, complexity, and genuine tension of authentic human connection.

The illusion shatters the moment the sensory experience ends. As the lights rise and ambient chatter replaces carefully curated music, we immediately retreat. We long to escape back to our sanctuaries—our metaphorical dens and burrows—where we can shroud our authentic selves from the potentially judgmental gaze of those around us. This instinct of self-preservation runs so deep that we would rather withdraw even from those we nominally call friends.

We seek a rush of spiritual ecstasy that transcends our everyday existence. Our motivations are layered: perhaps rooted in childhood formations, possibly driven by a deep, almost visceral recognition of our human fragility. At our core, we understand a desperate need for something beyond ourselves—for Christ, meaning, and His redemption.

Yet the intellectual and emotional desire for spiritual connection starkly contrasts with the challenging reality of the human community. Wanting Jesus is a pure, uncomplicated impulse. Navigating the intricate, often messy landscape of human faith and fellowship? That requires an entirely different kind of courage.

In retrospect, I recognize a profound disorientation that defined nearly a decade of my spiritual journey.

My love for the Church remained constant. Yet, somewhere amid elaborate worship productions and carefully curated spiritual experiences, I had become a passive consumer rather than an active participant.

Over many years, the modern evangelical church became my spiritual narcotic, offering an exhilarating but ultimately hollow simulation of genuine faith. Increasingly, I saw it as a performance, a spiritual production that seduced me with precision and perfection. Every element was carefully curated, from the programmatic structure to the musical arrangements. I was captivated by the surgical precision of worship, where the bass rhythms pulsed on the beat, and vocal harmonies seemed engineered for maximum emotional impact.

At our core, we are tribal beings driven by an innate desire for connection and belonging. We yearn to emulate those around us, find meaning through shared narratives, respect leadership, and continuously expand our spiritual understanding.

Modern ecclesiastical institutions have expertly co-opted this fundamental human need. What was once a spiritual community has transformed into a carefully branded experience. Whether disguised under the euphemistic titles of ‘Communications’ or ‘Marketing,’ contemporary churches have become masterful architects of tribal identity—selling not just spiritual experience but a package of lifestyle and belonging.

My first encounter with the American evangelical church was intoxicating—a sensory and emotional experience that drew me in with an almost magnetic intensity. I found myself returning to that initial spark of connection. Share on X

Like any insular community, we unconsciously cultivated a linguistic tribalism that makes it effortless for “birds of a feather” to cluster together, effectively creating spiritual echo chambers.

We have transformed worship into another item on our productivity checklist.

When did simplicity give way to spectacle? When did we decide that authentic worship requires professional lighting, fog machines, and cinematic production? Our sanctuaries now resemble entertainment venues, and our services are meticulous stage performances. Where is the raw, unfiltered human connection?

Have we become so focused on running efficient churches that look attractive to the outside world that we have forgotten the Church’s fundamental purpose?

Are we so hyper-focused on marketing that we’ve lost sight of what truly matters: worshipping God, growing disciples, and creating spaces of genuine belonging? We’ve replaced communal confession with individualistic experiences and traded shared vulnerability for polished presentations. The Church was created for spiritual growth, community, and belonging, but now, the modern evangelical iteration often resembles an exclusive club! We find ourselves more committed to institutional identities than the transformative spiritual principles we claim to embrace.

Today, my relationship with the Church has become a landscape of complexity and contradiction. There are moments of desperate longing, followed immediately by a desire to withdraw. Walking into familiar spaces now feels like navigating a performance—something choreographed rather than genuine. I find myself questioning the institution that once felt like home: Do I genuinely need the Church? Can it still offer the respite and hope that it once gave to sustain me?

And so, critical questions emerge:

• To what are we genuinely pledging our allegiance—the essence of faith or the comfortable social structures we’ve constructed?
• Can my faith survive without the elaborate institutional scaffolding I have helped create?
• Is Christ still the foundation of my faith, or have I relegated Him to the background while I march to the rhythm of my drum?
• If stripped of everything I hold dear regarding the contemporary evangelical church–the orchestrated music, meticulous planning, and program-oriented schedules–what would remain of my connection with Christ?

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I often dream of a radical reimagining of the Church—a genuine community stripped of unnecessary trappings. A gathering of imperfect individuals, each carrying their brokenness, united not by performance, but by a shared, humble desire to understand Divine love and human connection. A space where difference is not merely tolerated but celebrated, where breaking bread together means genuinely seeing and hearing one another.

What if the Church became simpler in her very essence, stripping away the complex layers to reveal her most fundamental purpose: A place where we worship God, learn to love Him well, and love each other well.

In our world, the Church is a rare sanctuary of potential radical inclusivity—if we commit to that vision. It can be a haven for the wounded, a place of unexpected acceptance where diverse individuals pause, listen, and genuinely see one another. Here, people from diverse backgrounds, political landscapes, and cultural contexts can engage in vulnerable dialogue, understanding that disagreement need not dissolve our fundamental human connection.

I have hope for the Church. I see a future where the Church transcends its current limitations. More importantly, I see people who genuinely love God and love each other with radical, transformative compassion. 

The Church is not a building. It is not a set of programs or a curated social media narrative. It is a living, breathing community where messy, imperfect individuals gather, worship, and truly see each other—united not by perfection, but by a shared journey of faith and human connection. I genuinely believe we can get there once again: a more simplified way to build a community filled with authentic and vulnerable relationships. A place where loving God and growing in the knowledge of Him leads to loving the nations well, so that we can resemble the church Christ always intended us to be.

~EL Sherene Joseph

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*Editorial Note: Letters to the Church is Missio Alliance’s newest long-form series. The latest letter to our growing collection will go live each Friday throughout the rest of 2025. We invite you to prayerfully listen to the Spirit as you read, asking God what you might say to the Church in your own voice. ~CK

“Anyone with ears to hear must listen to the Spirit and understand what God is saying to the churches.” (Revelation 2:29)

I often dream of a radical reimagining of the Church—a genuine community stripped of unnecessary trappings. A gathering of imperfect individuals with a desire to understand Divine love and human connection. Share on X