I don’t know who needs to hear this, but God is not mad at you. Never has been. Not for the divorce. Not for the doubt. Not for the bottle or the way you flinch when someone says Father. Not for leaving church. 

You might not believe me. That makes sense. Somewhere along the way, we swapped out the gospel for a performance review. We made church about being good and clean and re­spectable. We made sanctuaries feel like job interviews instead of trauma centers. And then we’re surprised when people stop showing up.

This isn’t how it started. Jesus did not walk around Galilee handing out spiritual report cards. He showed up with bread and fish and mercy that defied logic. He knelt in dirt. He cried at tombs. He told the righteous folks to take a seat and let the broken ones come forward. And then we built an institution and put the broken ones in the balcony.

Somewhere, we forgot we were the broken ones, too. And that’s what brings me here. 

Now, I suppose if we are going to do this thing, me writing and you reading, we should get to know each other.

Hi. I am Chris. I am a Mennonite pastor. I say things on the internet. Sometimes those things are welcomed. Sometimes they are screenshotted and sent to someone’s uncle. I think Jesus is alive. I think grace is real. I think church should be weird and beautiful and not a cover for abuse or empire.

I am writing this from a Mennonite church plant with a few folding chairs, a small communion table and a name nobody can remember. We meet in borrowed space with no five-year plan, no budget and no idea what we’re doing except trying to follow Jesus. We pass the peace like it is the only thing holding us together. And maybe it is.

Our people are not impressive by the world’s standards. We have folks who cuss too much. Folks in recovery, folks in relapse, folks who have not opened a Bible in years. We’ve got queer folks who were told they could never lead. We’ve got straight folks who don’t know what to say but still show up. We’ve got people angry at God but still singing like something sacred might happen anyway.

I’m not saying this to make us sound cool. We’re not. We’re tired and hopeful and still trying to forgive the churches we came from. We’re still learning how to belong to each other. And some days we get it right. But we try. And grace keeps showing up anyway.

I think that’s what faith is. Not certainty. Not perfection. Not a spotless past or a polished future. But the courage to show up. To make room. To try again, even after the last church hurt you. Even after the pastor said you were too much or not enough.

I haven’t said much about doctrine. That’s not an accident. I care about theology, deeply. But I care more about whether someone has eaten today. I care more about whether someone knows they’re loved. I care more about whether we’re building a church that looks like the one Jesus imagined. One with wide tables. One where the poor are blessed before the rich are honored. One where the lost aren’t scolded but celebrated.

A friend of mine once said they did not leave church because they stopped believing in God. They left because the church stopped believing in grace. I think about that. A lot.

I am convinced most people aren’t running from faith. They are running from shame. Running from systems that punish honesty and reward appearances. They are running from churches where silence is safer than truth.

But I’m also convinced something holy still lingers. In the potluck line. In the awkward prayers. In the way a stranger offers you a ride to church even when you said you were done. 

There is something defiant about hope. Something foolish. Something sacred.

So maybe this first column isn’t polished. Maybe it’s not what a proper pastor would write. Maybe it’s more of a confession than instruction. But I figured it’s worth starting with the truth. God isn’t mad at you. God isn’t pacing the halls of heaven with crossed arms, waiting for you to apologize.

God is love. And love never quits. Not when you question, or fail, or walk away for a while. Love keeps showing up. Sometimes with a whisper. Sometimes with a breadcrumb trail of grace. Sometimes, with an article from a Mennonite pastor who may not sound like your preacher.

I do not know what the next column will be. Maybe something about forgiveness, or church trauma, or maybe banjos and resurrection. But this is where I want to begin.

With grace. With truth. With this sacred promise:

God is not mad at you.

You can come home.

Whenever you are ready.