A wide welcome mat

I love my church. Every Sunday service begins with naming the First Nations people of the land we’re standing on. One of the first pieces of art a visitor will see is a painting of an Indigenous mother holding her child. Another one is of a dark brown Jesus, holding out communion bread and a goblet. I truly believe that anyone could walk through the door and have their life experiences honoured. I’m reminded of the Gospel stories where Jesus welcomed women, slaves and outcasts; of the disciple Philip who baptized the Ethiopian eunuch, no questions asked.

Accessibility is a priority at our church. Every service is live-streamed and saved on a YouTube channel with captions available. There is an elevator to reach the upstairs classrooms, as well as a bin of headphones and a bin of fidget toys for anyone with sensory needs. Children are not expected to sit perfectly still and quiet; their joy and exuberance is celebrated. Sunday School curriculum is thoughtfully curated from approximately 80 different denominations, and the concept of Hell is not included – I double checked. This reminds me of the gospel stories where Jesus welcomed the children whom others shushed, and where he said that it would be better to be thrown into the sea with a large millstone rather than harm a child. I’m reminded of the disciples who cut a hole in someone’s roof to lower their disabled friend down to Jesus.

I can appreciate these aspects of my current church because I’ve also known the opposite. Let me start from the beginning.

The church I knew

When I say I grew up going to church, I mean that I practically lived in the pews. Services on Sunday morning and evening, Wednesday night prayer service and youth ministry team meetings, Thursday night Bible studies, Friday night youth group, summer camps, winter camps and Vacation Bible School. If God was gonna be there, so was I. I even learned to play bass guitar and keyboard so that I could lead worship alongside my singer-songwriter mom.

The Pentecostal church I attended when I was young proudly proclaimed that “all are welcome here,” and I took that at face value. But when my own journey became littered with the disillusionment of prayers not being answered, prophecies not coming true and some widely accepted beliefs simply not making sense, I discovered that I wasn’t allowed to ask questions. I was told that doubt was the devil and I was giving him a foothold in my life, infecting the believers around me and putting us all at risk of hellfire. As I moved from city to city, I tried different denominations, careful to gauge how much of myself and my questions were allowed to be present. I encountered mostly white, straight, able-bodied congregations led by men; my own Imago Dei did not appear, no matter where I looked.

Why I stopped going

By the time I became a mother to a medically complex and autistic little boy in 2016, then to a little girl with autism and ADHD in 2018, it was easy to find other things to do on a Sunday – like simply resting. I had direct reflections of the Divine asking me for a bottle throughout the night, after all.

Yes, I missed the community, but the more my children grew, the more I realized that I wanted to protect them from certain aspects of church. I didn’t want them to hear from a trusted adult that they were bad kids destined for Hell unless they did everything right. I didn’t want to force them to endure bright lights and loud music and well-intentioned folks who didn’t understand their diagnoses and subsequent needs. I didn’t want them to face backlash or be “saved” from having a mother who was reconnecting to her queer and Indigenous roots.

During the pandemic, the bad attitude of many churches that fought the restrictions nearly destroyed my faith. How could people who claim to follow a suffering saviour ignore the needs of the vulnerable? But I didn’t give up on church entirely.

A redemptive experience

In 2019, my family began worshipping occasionally at a small community church that met in a school gym, led by a husband-and-wife pastoral team. In 2020, they moved exclusively to live-streaming from the pastors’ home. They dropped off care packages for my family every month. They invited me to lead worship virtually from my tiny living room keyboard whenever I felt like sharing. They knew everything about us, and they did not leave us behind.

Fast forward five years. The gym church has since been able to plant roots in a community centre in the heart of our downtown. Besides Sunday morning services, they are constantly using it for free or low-cost programs that help mothers and children in abusive situations, that educate and prevent teens from the dangers of human trafficking and that teach life skills like anger management, financial advice, employment, food safety and more. No matter what, there is always food. This reminds me of the early church in the book of Acts that pooled all of their gifts, knowledge and possessions to make sure everyone had what they needed.

I started attending regularly just over a year ago, and already it has been an incredibly healing and redemptive experience. Bellies need to be full; we need a roof over our heads; we need mental health resources and a village that loves our children long before we need the paperwork of church membership. And so, as long as this place is where my children and I are invited to be our full selves without apology, this is where you’ll find us.

After all – 37 years later – if God is gonna be there, so am I.