Dear Church (Letter from a Teenager)

Dear church,

We’ve always had a complicated relationship, you and I. But don’t worry—I’m not leaving you. Not now, and—by the grace of God—not ever.

Over the years we’ve known each other, we’ve had our share of highs and lows. You’ve stretched and surprised me. There have been times you surpassed my expectations and times you fell short. You’ve made me laugh and made me cry. You’ve even upset me a few times. (Okay, more than a few.)

But through it all, I still love you, and I’m sticking with you for the long haul. Our relationship matters to me, and I’m willing to put in the effort to make it work.

Relationships aren’t static. They’re constantly changing, either growing together or pulling apart. You don’t drift into a deeper relationship. That’s why it’s important to periodically step back and evaluate.

Since I’m in a season of life where many decide to walk away from you, I thought it would be a good time to evaluate our relationship.

When it comes to you, I am neither a cynic nor an idealist. I am a visionary. When I look at you, I see what is—both good and bad—and dream about what could be. I want what’s best for you, not just for your sake, but mine too. After all, I’m part of you.

There are many things about you that I appreciate. You’re beautifully diverse and intricately interesting, a mosaic of a million pieces sparkling in the light. You’ve drawn me closer to God, helped me think about what it means to follow Jesus, and shown me glimpses of what it looks like to walk with the Spirit. 

You’ve done things for me that I’ll always remember. You’ve reached into my life and left fingerprints on my soul. You’ve fed me, physically and spiritually, and spoken words I’ll always treasure. 

When I think of my most treasured times with you, so many moments shine among my memories:

• Good Friday, hushed and holy and haunting.

• Easter morning, joy filling the air with jubilant songs.

• A darkened sanctuary lit by the warm golden glow of candlelight on Christmas Eve.

• A cappella hymns in four-part harmony, a room full of voices joining in praise.

• Simple guitar strums accompanying worship songs in a small weeknight meeting.

• Grape juice pouring from a glass pitcher as we gathered around the table to celebrate communion.

• Praying voices filling the sanctuary as people linger at the altar.

• Sermons that speak to things I’ve been thinking about all week, honing in with the sharpness of a double-edged sword.

• Meetings where one prayer flowed into the next so smoothly that it was clear the Holy Spirit was guiding.

• Quiet times of waiting together on the Lord, listening for what He would speak.

We’ve met, not just on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, but on Friday evenings and Saturday afternoons; not just in sanctuaries, but in homes, under tents, and at stores. I’ve learned not to limit you to places where I would expect you, because wherever you are, there’s a blessing to be discovered.

But it hasn’t all been wonderful worship services and powerful prayer meetings. 

There have been awkward conversations and uncomfortable confrontations, as well as moments when I wasn’t sure how much more frustration I could take. You’ve acted foolishly even though you knew better (or should have). You’ve imposed regulations God’s Word never instituted and ignored clear commands. There have been times when I wished you were more caring and understanding. There have been times when I wanted to speak and you wouldn’t listen, acting as though my voice didn’t matter. 

Your lack of fervor for spiritual things has disheartened me. I’ve wondered if God is really as much of a priority as you claim, as I’ve seen you put other things ahead of Him time after time. I’ve questioned whether you love Him with all your heart and soul.

I’ve seen you neglect those in need while smothering the rich with attention and praise. I’ve heard of how you’ve misused money and abused trust. And there are other darker things that I won’t go into here. You know your secrets better than I do.

I don’t say this to condemn you, but to challenge you. I believe God has placed you in my life for a reason. Since He hasn’t given up on you or me, I refuse to give up either. I long for you to grow, but I don’t expect you to be perfect yet. I know that won’t happen until heaven. 

You might wonder what I most want from you. I won’t make it a mystery; I’ll tell you. 

It isn’t what you might think. You’ve tried many tactics to attract my attention and hold my interest. You’ve put on stylish clothes and played hip songs and presented entertaining programs—whatever it takes to conform to contemporary culture. 

But that’s not what drew me to you, so it’s not what’s going to keep me. What I long for runs much deeper.

When I’m with you, I want to sense the presence of God. I think that’s reasonable. After all, you are the body of Christ (Ephesians 4:15–16). You and I are called to represent Him on earth. When I look at you, I want to be reminded that I’m not walking this road of faith alone. I want to see you striving and struggling and sinking into the arms of God’s grace, and I want you to support and encourage me as I do the same. 

As for me, I promise to pour my heart and soul into a relationship with you, devoting my time and talents and energy and enthusiasm to furthering your greater good. I pray often for your health and well-being. I pray that you would never lose sight of who you are and who you are destined to be. I believe that by working together, you and I can slowly grow into shining testimonies to the glory of God’s grace (Ephesians 1:3–6).

I believe that you’re worth fighting for. Because even though you’re broken, you’re being redeemed, and one day every part of you—including me—will be whole.

Sincerely,
a teenager