Come As You Chaotically Are

Hi, moms. I see you.

You’re trying to get your family out the door on a Sunday morning — socks that mostly match (optional), a snack bag for the toddler, a coloring book for the preschooler, and enough caffeine to survive an hour of “shhhh” whispers and Goldfish crumbs in the pews. You’re juggling spilled milk, missing shoes, and that one kid who suddenly can’t find their other shoe even though they were just wearing it. You’re not just looking for a church to attend — you’re looking for a place where your family belongs. A community that actually sees you.

And honestly? Finding that kind of church is hard.

As both a pastor and a mom, I’ve stood on both sides of the sanctuary door — the one who welcomes and the one who searches. I’ve felt the sting of sideways glances when my kid couldn’t sit still. I’ve felt the ache of showing up hoping to be known, only to realize the “welcome” only extended as far as my child’s ability to behave quietly. I’ve also been in sanctuaries where every song, sermon, and handshake felt like a silent quiz: Do we fit here? (And yes, sometimes I’ve been the pastor in that church — which makes it extra awkward!)

Maybe you start your search with the best intentions: you want your kids to know they’re loved by God. You want a church that feels spiritually alive — where the message connects to real life, where you’re not just consuming religion but participating in grace.

But let’s be real: church-hunting in 2025 feels like deciphering a foreign language.

I see posts in mom groups all the time:

“We’re looking for a Bible-believing church.”

“We want a place where the Holy Spirit moves.”

“A pastor who preaches the truth.”

Those phrases sound beautiful — and they can be. But these days, they’re often code for something else: a theology that leans toward control — over who gets to interpret Scripture, who gets to speak, who gets to belong.

It’s not that loving the Bible or being Spirit-filled is wrong (I claim both, thank you very much). It’s just that the words have been hijacked by a brand of faith that sometimes confuses holiness with homogeneity and Christian nationalism.

And when you’re a mom raising kids who you want to know that God’s love is big enough to hold every kind of person — their biracial identity, their neurodiversity, their questions, their sass, their sacred mess — well, it can feel like you’re searching for a unicorn church.

Because somewhere between the fog machines of “big production” worship and the rigid rules of “Bible-only” churches, there are a whole lot of people longing for something real: a spiritual home that’s honest, inclusive, and kind.

A church where your kids’ noise isn’t a distraction but a reminder that the church is alive. A church where Scripture isn’t a weapon but a living story inviting us to grow. A church where questions aren’t threats but sacred openings.

And yet, sometimes when you find that smaller, more open church, you’re handed three sign-up sheets and asked to join a committee before you’ve even had a cup of coffee. Or you realize they have the funds to do the kind of ministry that excites you — but those funds are sitting comfortably in an endowment from 1984. (If churches had love languages, “saving for a rainy day” would be one of them.)

I often hear moms say, “We just want hymns, not a concert,” or “I wish the pastor wouldn’t preach from their phone.” But underneath that, I hear something deeper: a longing for authenticity. For something that feels rooted and real — not curated, not polished, not trying too hard.

Because I don't know about you, but I'm tired.

Tired of everything being a performance.

Tired of pretending to have it all together.

Tired of feeling like the church expects us to show up as our Instagram selves instead of our real ones.

Here’s the good news: those real churches exist.

They might not pop up in your Facebook feed or make the algorithm’s Top 10, but they’re there — quietly, faithfully, opening their doors to families with wiggly kids, using inclusive language that honors everyone, feeding their neighbors, and making space for honest questions rather than easy answers.

Sometimes what we’re searching for isn’t perfection — it’s presence.

If that’s what you’re longing for, I’d love to invite you to visit Silverton United Methodist Church or Stayton United Methodist Church. Or your local UMC, ELCA, Episcopal Church, Presbyterian USA, or UCC.

We’re not flashy. We don’t have fog machines or laser lights (unless the sun hits the stained glass just right). We sing hymns — sometimes from a hymnal, sometimes from a screen — and we make plenty of space for laughter, curiosity, and wonder. We believe faith isn’t about checking boxes but about living in love — love for God, for neighbor, and for the world.

Our kids aren’t an afterthought — they’re the heartbeat of who we are. Their giggles, their questions, their occasional meltdowns — all of it belongs. Because the sound of children in church isn’t a distraction; it’s a sign of life.

So if you’re weary of the search… if you’re craving a place where you can exhale, where your children are seen and cherished, where your questions are welcomed rather than silenced — come visit.

Come as you are. Bring your messy mornings, your doubts, your hopes, and your kids’ snack bags. There’s room for you here — not just a seat in the pew, but a place at the table.

Because belonging isn’t about getting it right. It’s about being known and loved — exactly as you are.

At the heart of the gospel isn’t control.

It’s love.

Love that stretches beyond doctrine. Love that includes your wiggly kids. Love that meets you where you are — and refuses to leave you unchanged.

And when you find that kind of love? Hang on tight. You’ve found holy ground.