From Institutions To Tables of Grace
If you’re here, there’s a good chance you’ve stepped away from what’s been called “church,” thought about it more than once, or never saw the appeal in the first place.
Maybe it felt off from the start.
Maybe you gave it your all and burned out anyway.
Or maybe you’re just curious—because even with all the noise, something about Jesus still draws you in.
Wherever you are, you're not wrong.
You're not broken or crazy.
And you're definitely not the only one wondering if faith was supposed to look… well, different.
Because here’s the thing: it was.
Somewhere along the way, the life of faith Jesus gave got hijacked—
replaced with an idea of Christianity that sounded noble, but quietly swapped freedom for pressure and peace for performance.
How did that happen?
It didn’t start with bad intentions.
It started with something way more relatable: insecurity. That low hum whispering, You’re not okay. Not enough. Not safe.
So we chase control we mistake for relief—hoping for peace through:
Significance – If I’m right, I’ll be okay.
Success – If I’m enough, I’ll be okay.
Solidarity – If the right people accept me, I’ll be okay.
And because we’ve all been shaped by a conditional world built on if-then promises, people started building faith systems to reflect that same logic.
They called it church.
But instead of setting people free, these systems confused grace with grind, turned growth into a guilt trip, and swapped friendship for programs.
It’s what happens when you don’t trust grace to be what it is.
Because real grace?
It’s a menace to church growth plans.
It doesn’t boost metrics or sell discipleship packages.
It doesn’t reward effort, create tiers, or stroke egos.
It just sets people free—no strings, no steps, no system to credit.
And that’s bad news for anyone trying to monetize holiness or manage outcomes.
So we traded in freedom for something with handles—
rules, roles, measurable results.
Because when insecurity is the engine, control always looks like faith.
But it isn’t. It’s just fear in a ministry polo, keeping the machine running while grace takes a smoke break.
So what do we do now?
Well, maybe we start by seeing the Church the way Jesus did.
Not as a brand or building—but as a body with snacks.
Seriously.
In the New Testament, the Church isn’t a place you go.
It’s people—flawed, ordinary humans learning to trust Jesus.
“He is the head of the body, the Church…” (Eph. 1:22)
“You are the body of Christ…” (1 Cor. 12:27)
“In Christ, we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.form one body…” (Rom. 12:5)
Those early letters weren’t written to churches the way we see them now.
They were written to the Church—singular—spread out through everyday people in different places.
Even the word many translate as “church” (ekklesia) wasn’t a religious term. It was a common Greek word meaning “assembly” or “gathering,” often used for civic or military meetings in Greek and Roman contexts.
So when the early Church gathered in homes, the Bible didn’t call it a worship service. It just called it what was: people meeting.
No stage. No slogans. No 501(c) status.
Rome wasn’t handing out building permits to people who said, “Jesus is Lord.” They were handing out arrest warrants.
And Jewish leaders weren’t offering rented space at the synagogue to people claiming, “Jesus is the Messiah.” They were plotting their murder.
So what did the early Church do? Exactly what Jesus did: they gathered around meals, around a scandalous story—the Kingdom of God is here.
Not a system to maintain.
A story to trust.
A treasure to pass on.
A table to toast around.
And if that feels too small, too casual, too normal—you’re in good company.
The early Christians wrestled with that too. That’s why Hebrews 10:25 says:
“Do not abandon meeting together…”
Not because skipping the Sunday service was a thing or a sin.
But because grace—shared over backyard dinners and driveway talks—can feel a little too unspectacular compared to the synagogue.
But look at the next line:
“Encourage one another.”
Not “attend weekly.”
Not “sing louder.”
Not “sit still and take notes.”
Just… encourage one another.
That kind of encouragement doesn’t come from a stage.
It happens on porches. In park benches and long drives and weird text threads.
It happens when someone finally goes first.
When one person says, “I thought I was the only one.”
When someone helps you live free—and you help them right back.
That’s the Church gathered.
And when we let it be that simple, we stop trying to build a church community—and start being the Church right where we are.
And when that happens?
People get creative.
They open homes.
Share what they have.
Start tutoring groups, write rent checks, launch meal trains and health clinics.
Not because they were told to.
But because they’re free to.
So if you’ve been told to love harder, serve better, change the world—
maybe it’s time to trade that faithless project-of-self for faith in the Person of Jesus.
The One who already made His home in us (John 14:20).
The One who already finished the work (John 19).
The One who calls you to trust, treasure, and toast.
That’s the swap that changes everything.
And it’s already yours to make.