I haven’t wanted to go to church. In fact, I haven’t gone for the past few weeks. I’ve tried tuning in online, but even then I still feel this disconnect.
If I’m being honest, I’m tired of what feels like a routine, planned-out visit from Jesus. I feel exhausted walking into the same church service flow: parking lot attendants, greeters, worship, MCs, announcements, message, dismissal. Everything is planned to encounter Jesus — but there seems to be no adjustment in that plan if He actually shows up.
And please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not looking for my emotions to be satisfied. I’m not chasing a feeling. I’m longing for my spirit to be filled.
If Jesus tells us in His Word not to forsake assembling ourselves, then there has to be a major reason we gather. If we are all coming for Him, why does He sometimes feel like an afterthought? Why does it feel like something we must do to avoid hell instead of someone we deeply desire to be with? We say we come for Him — but then we hurry Him out when He shows up. We limit His movement for the sake of time. We tone down our worship so we don’t lose members who might not understand if we really let it be free.
But what if the broken need a few extra minutes to encounter Him in their brokenness?
What if the sick need prayer before the sermon instead of after?
What if the desperate want Jesus before the altar call?
What if God is saying, “Today I want to preach a personalized sermon to each heart, and all I need you to do is invite them into a moment with Me”? I’m exhausted from the world and everything happening around me. I don’t want to walk into church feeling like I have to fight mentally just to stay engaged. I don’t want to analyze or endure. I want to rest. I want to feel His presence. I want to express my love and gratitude in an environment that truly makes space for that freedom.
Maybe I’m not alone in that.
Maybe you’ve felt it too.
Maybe you’ve sat in a pew wondering if anyone else notices the tension between structure and surrender. Maybe you’ve asked yourself if something is wrong with you for wanting more — not more lights, not more music, not more programming — but more of Him.
So here’s the question I’m wrestling with, and maybe you are too:
Have we grown so comfortable with hosting church that we’ve forgotten how to host His presence?
Are we protecting our plans more than we are pursuing His interruption?
And even more personally — have I allowed routine to replace relationship in my own heart? Because maybe this isn’t just about church services. Maybe it’s about hunger. Maybe it’s about remembering why we gather in the first place. Maybe it’s about coming back to the simplicity of wanting Jesus — not the schedule, not the structure, not the safety — just Him. When was the last time you truly encountered Him — not just attended something about Him?
And if your heart is quietly whispering, “I want more,” what would it look like to courageously ask Him for it?
Lately, I have been wrestling with a deep and overwhelming exhaustion — the kind that reaches beyond physical tiredness and settles into my emotions, my spirit, and even my thoughts. The weight of it has surprised me. Even the simple thought of going to church on Sunday has begun to feel heavy, almost burdensome. I find myself asking, why does this feel so hard? I don’t want to fight through my own internal battles just to sit in a service and still walk away feeling empty. There are moments when I quietly wonder if anyone truly sees me — not just my presence in a seat, but my heart, my weariness, my longing. What I crave is not routine. I long for His presence — the kind that brings awe, the kind that interrupts the schedule and cannot be contained or curated. I’m not talking about a move we plan and polish, but an unhindered move of God that breaks beyond the boxes we have placed Him in. Maybe it’s time we unbox Him in our own hearts first — to release Him from our expectations, our traditions, and even our fear. If I’m honest, I’ve realized I’ve been afraid to let my worship flow freely — afraid it might be misunderstood, judged, or seen as too much. And in that fear, something in me has grown quieter. Each Sunday it has become a little easier to stay home, and that realization unsettles me. So I’ve been holding that fear carefully, turning it over in my hands, asking myself why it feels safer to withdraw than to engage. I was raised in church. I raised my children in church. It was instilled in me from childhood that attending church was essential to maintaining my relationship with Christ. And now, as an adult, I’m coming to understand that while gathering with believers is important, my relationship with Him is not sustained by attendance alone. It is sustained by intimacy, by surrender, by communion with Him beyond the walls of a building. My connection to Christ does not end if I miss a Sunday — but my hunger for Him remains. And maybe what I am truly longing for is not less church, but more authenticity, more freedom, more of Him.
So maybe you have walked in my shoes, or maybe you are walking in them right now. If you are, I want you to know with certainty — you are not alone. I see you. I feel what you’re feeling. And I am walking this road right alongside you.
You are not walking away from God simply because your church attendance has not been consistent. In fact, you may be closer to Him now than you have ever been. A building does not build a relationship with God — the time we intentionally invest in Him does. The quiet moments. The honest prayers. The wrestling. The seeking. That is where intimacy is formed.
I, my daughter, my friend and her daughter have been walking through the Soul Boom book together. That journey has stirred something deep within me — it has led me into a season of spiritual self-discovery and honest reflection about what faith truly looks like in this chapter of my life. When we have walked with Christ for a long time, I believe we must become even more intentional about our relationship with Him — much like a marriage. You don’t sustain intimacy by coasting. You sustain it by pursuit. By attentiveness. By continually choosing one another. We should be searching our hearts for anything that hinders closeness with Jesus. We should be looking for new ways to sit with Him, to know Him more deeply, to love Him more sincerely. Our hearts were never meant to grow numb in familiarity. They were meant to skip a beat at the thought of being alone with Him — to long for conversation with Him, to anticipate His presence, to desire Him beyond routine. I don’t want to offer Him the leftover, rushed minutes of my day. I want my time with Him to be the center of my day — the anchor, not the afterthought. Lately, I’ve felt like David when he cried out for God to restore the joy of his salvation. Somewhere along the way, it’s easy to shift into maintenance mode — convincing ourselves that we’re doing enough, attending enough, serving enough, just to make it to heaven. And if we are honest, that subtle posture can take root: “I just want to get to heaven.”
But that is not what my heart truly longs for.
I don’t just want to arrive in heaven someday. I want to be deeply, intimately connected to the One who created it. I want relationship — not religion. Communion — not obligation. I want to know Him now, not merely hope for eternity later. And maybe that longing itself is evidence that He is closer than we realize.
So if you find yourself in this place — weary, questioning, longing for something deeper — please hear my heart. This is not the end of your faith; it may very well be the deepening of it. There is grace in this wrestling, tenderness in this hunger, and nearness in this longing you feel. You are not failing God because you are searching for more of Him. You are not drifting because you desire authenticity over routine. Sometimes the most intimate seasons with Christ are the ones where we strip away what feels obligatory and return to what is honest. Let your heart be tender. Let your questions be real. Let your pursuit be intentional. And know this — the One you are longing for is not intimidated by your exhaustion or your honesty. He is drawing you closer, not pushing you away. I’m so glad you are here in this space with me. Please kick your shoes off, put your feet up, take a deep long breath, and rest in the light of Jesus.
Uplift 
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