This Is Not That: Church
I can remember sitting in my office in Chicago, pastoring a big, busy, multiplying church. Email inbox overflowing. Whiteboard covered in strategies. And I’m reading the first chapter of Love Does by Bob Goff.
And I remember thinking—yes. Like—this is it. This is the picture of church I’ve been reaching for, fumbling for words to describe.
Bob tells a story about high school, about how he was terrible at school, terrible at sports, awkward with girls. GPA so low you could count it on two fingers.
And then this guy shows up. Randy. Motorcycle. Beard. Girlfriend. Basically everything teenage Bob wanted.
And Randy’s part of this group called Young Life. Not church in a pew kind of stuff—more like showing up in the real world. And Bob says Randy would just hang out with him. No agenda. No sermon outline. Just… a friend.
Which was weird. And also exactly what Bob needed.
Fast forward. One Saturday morning, Bob shows up at Randy’s house with his life falling apart. He’s done with school. Done with trying. He’s gonna drop out, hit the road, and head to Yosemite to climb rocks.
And Randy? He listens. Disappears for a few minutes. Then comes back with a bag slung over his shoulder: “Alright,” he says. “How are we getting there?” Bob points to his Volkswagen. “I got a ride.” So Randy hops in. And off they go.
They drive to Yosemite. Crash in a cheap motel. Bob applies for jobs. Strikes out at every single one. Gives up. And then they drive back home the next day.
When they pull into Randy’s driveway, Bob notices another car already parked there—his girlfriend’s. Randy invites him inside, but she isn’t there. Instead, the house is cluttered with boxes.
And Bob’s thinking, it’s not Christmas… it’s not his birthday… what’s going on?That’s when it hits him: he had shown up yesterday. Saturday afternoon. And Randy? Randy had gotten married that morning.
Yeah. On the day of his wedding—the night of his wedding—Bob shows up at his door in crisis. And Randy doesn’t say, “Sorry man, bad timing.” He doesn’t hand him a prayer card or a lecture.
Instead, he grabs a bag, gets in the car, and goes with him.
Bob later said, “For the first time in my life, the word Emmanuel—the name God used to describe himself—hit me. I’m with you.”
I remember sitting in my church office, reading that story, and thinking, That’s it. That’s the life I want. That’s what Jesus did.
And yet here I was, pastoring an idea of church that demanded everything but that. Running a system that kept me too busy to do the one thing Jesus actually did and called us to do.
Reading Bob’s story was when it began for me. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I was already leaving the system behind.
Because if Randy dropping everything to be with Bob—isn’t a picture of the Church Jesus embodied, then what are we even talking about?
The Meaning We Forgot
If you’re wondering the same thing, 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 did what we were told was right, and traded the life of dependence on Jesus for something with handles—rules, rituals, measurable results.
Because when insecurity is the engine, control always looks like faith. But it isn’t. It’s just fear in a machine that’s 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 a word for everyday people—flawed 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 ordinary people in different places.
Even the word many translate as “church” (ekklesia) wasn’t a religious term. It was a common Greek word, used long before the Church, meaning “assembly” or “gathering,” often used for civic or military meetings in 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 on Sundays 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.
But That Feels Too Small
If that’s what you’re thinking, 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 “listen to sermons and take notes.”
Just… encourage one another.
That kind of encouragement doesn’t come from a monologue. It happens on porches. In park benches and long drives and weird text threads—where people can laugh at the madness, and celebrate the grace that holds us.
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 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 (John 6).
That’s the swap that changes everything.
And it’s already yours to make.
So Now What?
If this vision of the Church feels strange, that’s not because the Bible is unclear. It’s because we’ve learned to read it through a framework it never gave us.
That’s where this series comes in. Here, you’ll find that letting Scripture mean what it actually says doesn’t lead to less commitment—it leads to a different kind. One that isn’t managed by institutions, but practiced in kitchens, living rooms, and ordinary conversations.
The truth is, the Church Jesus started hasn’t disappeared. It’s just been buried under a system He never built or called for.
And the way forward isn’t building something new. It’s seeing what’s already true—and stepping into it together.
Which raises the real question: If this is the Church Jesus imagined, how did we drift so far from it in the first place?
That’s where we go next.