Church was never meant to be a place we go, but a way we live. For too long, we’ve equated faithfulness with attendance—filling pews, nodding through sermons, and calling it “community” while remaining largely unknown to the people sitting beside us. The early church wasn’t centered around a stage or a pulpit, but around shared meals, mutual care, and Spirit-led conversations. It was radically relational, inconveniently intimate, and beautifully messy.
Imagine if the gathering of believers looked less like a weekly performance and more like a family dinner. No more passive consumption of prepackaged inspiration. No more being “fed” while never being asked to contribute. Instead, we gather around tables, not stages—where everyone brings something to share, not just food, but story, wisdom, prayer, vulnerability. Church as a way of life, not a calendar event.
What might happen if we stopped going to church… and started being the church?
A few weeks ago, my friend Neil invited me to join a small gathering at Crabtree Farms—a place already rooted in the values of growth, collaboration, and community. Around the table were six of us from different walks of life: three of us work for youth-focused nonprofits, one works directly with the City of Chattanooga, and two others run their own photography and videography businesses. At first glance, our roles seemed diverse, but it quickly became clear that we shared something deeper: a genuine commitment to supporting and uplifting young people in our community. Whether through policy, storytelling, creative expression, or hands-on outreach, we each understand that investing in youth is one of the most powerful ways to shape a more just and hopeful future.
Words like ministry, faith, and outreach weren’t just sprinkled throughout our conversation—they were threads, quietly and consistently weaving everything together. As we shared our stories, there was a sense that this wasn’t just a meeting or a moment. It was something deeper.
Another word kept rising to the surface—sacred. Not in a formal or distant way, but in the quiet recognition that something holy was happening in the space between us. The vulnerability, the honesty, the shared longing to serve and be part of something bigger—it all felt set apart.
But here’s the thing about what is sacred: it doesn’t stay that way by accident. Sacredness is sustained through continued presence, continued listening, continued showing up for one another with open hands and honest hearts. It’s not a spark we admire and walk away from. It’s a fire that needs tending.
To call something sacred is to take responsibility for it.
To name a moment, a mission, a relationship as holy is to commit to its care. Not with grand gestures or perfect plans, but with steady faithfulness. With the courage to keep coming back to the table, to keep having the hard conversations, to keep letting love lead—even when it’s messy or slow.
What we experienced, I hope, wasn’t just a fleeting moment of connection. It was a beginning. And it will only remain sacred if we continue—continue the work, continue the community, continue the invitation to let God move in and through us.
Sacredness isn’t static. It’s alive. And it’s ours to steward.
I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately—especially when I think about the intersection of my personal life and the work I feel called to do. There’s a tension our family carries, one that threads through so many areas of our lives. It’s hard to name sometimes, let alone explain. It’s the kind of tension that isn’t easily resolved, because it’s born from choosing to live intentionally in spaces that don’t always make sense to the world around us.
Someone recently described our family as “an anomaly of the human experience.” And while I don’t fully agree with that, I get where they’re coming from. From the outside, our choices may look unusual or even contradictory—but from the inside, it’s simply the result of holding multiple truths at once: conviction and compassion, struggle and hope, sacrifice and joy. It’s complex, and it’s messy, but it’s also deeply human.
Also, my husband and I, on more than one occasion, have said, “What the f&#k are we doing?” Jamie actually said it this morning.
Honestly, with the exception of our youngest, I’m pretty sure at least one of us says it every single week. Sometimes daily. But that’s what happens when you raise your kids to think critically, care deeply, and speak boldly.
You want them to question injustice… until they question your choices.
You want them to stand up for what they believe in… until they call you out for being inconsistent.
You want them to be independent thinkers… until they’re strong-willed and inconveniently vocal.
But here’s the thing: we wouldn’t trade it. Not even on the days it feels like we’re unraveling… which was pretty much EVERY. FREAKING. DAY. in July.
We didn’t set out to raise agreeable kids — we set out to raise compassionate, curious, courageous humans.
And yeah, that means living in a house where hard questions get asked, opinions get challenged, and none of us are allowed to just coast through life on autopilot.
It’s chaotic. It’s messy. It’s exhausting.
But if we’re being honest — it’s also kind of beautiful.
We’ve also noticed a striking — and sometimes frustrating — similarity between many of the conversations happening in the nonprofit world and those we encounter in church spaces.
In both spheres, there tends to be an entrenched mindset around “the way things are done.” These norms are often treated as unshakable truths, even when they no longer serve the people they’re meant to help. But if we’re truly committed to seeing different outcomes — more equity, deeper relationships, lasting transformation — then we have to be willing to reimagine the systems themselves. We believe there are other ways of doing things. More collaborative, creative, and community-driven approaches that challenge the status quo and lead to the kind of change we say we want.
And I’m not gonna lie.
There are days when I find myself longing for the version of church life we left behind years ago. I miss watching my kids leading worship — the familiarity of Sunday mornings, followed by lunch in the fellowship hall. I miss the structure: the midweek Bible studies that gave us a sense of spiritual anchoring, the weekend retreats that created space to breathe and reconnect, the occasional outreach project that reminded us of something bigger than ourselves.
But even in the midst of all that familiarity, there was always a quiet discomfort I couldn’t shake — a sense that something just didn’t sit right. So much of what we were part of revolved around an insular way of living. The rhythms and routines, while comforting, often felt closed off from the world around us.
Most of our time was spent inside the walls of a building, surrounded by people who looked, thought, and believed the same way we did. Activities were neatly compartmentalized — youth group on Wednesday, service on Sunday, maybe a mission trip or canned food drive once a year. Everything was curated to fit a spiritual checklist: attend, participate, serve, repeat. It was well-intentioned, but it often felt like we were going through the motions rather than engaging the deeper questions of faith, justice, or real-world impact.
It became hard to ignore how disconnected that model was from the messy, beautiful complexity of everyday life — and from the very people we were called to love.
Maybe that’s why we often find ourselves feeling frustrated — both with the nonprofit world and the church world. In many ways, they mirror each other: systems built with good intentions that, over time, can become more focused on preserving structure than serving people.
But for us, our motivation has never been about maintaining the way things have always been done. Whether we’re navigating faith spaces or community work, our heart has always been rooted in the same question: Is there a better way forward? One that truly centers the people we’re trying to serve — not just our comfort, our traditions, or our metrics of success.
We don’t believe there’s only one path to meaningful change. In fact, we believe real progress requires us to stay open — to question, to listen, and to imagine alternatives. There can be more than one way to move forward, and sometimes the most faithful, most impactful thing we can do is to leave the well-worn path and help create a new one — even if it’s slower, messier, and more uncertain.
Because if the outcome is greater dignity, deeper connection, and communities that truly flourish — then the risk is worth it.
Searching for Jesus in A̶m̶e̶r̶i̶c̶a̶ Chattanooga 