After my lifelong connection with evangelical faith, midlife has unearthed surprise skepticism about what once was sacred ground. Unexpected questions crowd my thoughts about church and what it means. This includes questioning the fine print beneath the slogans I once loved. “Everyone is welcome,” they say — but welcome to what, exactly?
This season of life has become a pause point, a time to re-evaluate ideas that once drew my enthusiastic endorsement. They spoke directly to my soul — until they didn’t.
Michelle Rayburn
I’ve seen churches where “everyone is welcome” appears on banners, bulletins and walls as part of the vision statement. At one point in my faith development, especially as I began a process of deconstruction — more sorting than saying goodbye to faith — that message felt like fresh air after years of boundary-building and gatekeeping. But as I’ve continued sifting and sorting, I’ve realized “welcome” sometimes comes with invisible strings attached.
These strings aren’t about money or volunteering. They’re ideological. They tie belonging to a shared mindset, a silent expectation that to be “one of us” means thinking and voting a certain way.
If I asked several church leaders what it means to say, “All are welcome,” they might say their doors are open to anyone, their spaces are nonpartisan, they love everyone. But in practice, an unspoken code often defines what “living biblically” means. Somewhere along the way, that phrase became intertwined with a particular political identity, and although unspoken, the expectation comes out in subtle ways.
“No one really explains how to remain in those spaces when every conversation assumes agreement.”
I’ve watched people exit small groups and classes when they realize their convictions no longer align with the dominant narrative. They don’t make a loud noise or cause drama. And they aren’t walking away from Jesus. Instead, they’re stepping back from a culture that insists faith must look like one narrow expression of Christian identity.
No one really explains how to remain in those spaces when every conversation assumes agreement. No one talks about what to do when Jesus has become, dare I say, a brand for political power. When belonging seems to require silence — or worse, pretending.
It’s easy to say, “Don’t give up on the church,” but what if you’re trying not to, even as it keeps breaking your heart?
I used to not know how to make space for people who were politically different. I measured orthodoxy by ideology. I assumed loving Jesus meant aligning with one set of talking points. I was wrong.
God has since impressed on me the burden of reconciliation — of learning to love beyond labels. That work is hard. Often, the responsibility for peacemaking falls on the people already limping from spiritual wounds, the ones still trying to forgive, to re-engage, to stay in community when doing so no longer feels safe.
No doubt, many pastors and lifelong church members truly believe they are loving people well. They mean it. But they often don’t realize how politics and culture shape their preaching, their discipleship programs and even their definitions of what “faithfulness” looks like.
“You can sincerely believe you’re being inclusive while missing how your culture alienates those on the fringes.”
If you’ve spent decades inside church life, it’s easy to get caught in a kind of groupthink where everyone agrees on the “right” way to see the world. You can sincerely believe you’re being inclusive while missing how your culture alienates those on the fringes — the ones quietly grieving what the church has become.
For some, those collective choices and words have caused real trauma. These are not bitter dropouts; they are people who long to belong, who love Jesus deeply but feel unsafe in the very space that bears his name. And when they name the harm or ask for change, they’re often dismissed as “woke,” “carnal” or “deceived.”
Being unacceptable to the majority in a faith community is lonely work. “Everyone is welcome” turns into “everyone who fits.” Harsh words or public correction are recast as love. And when those words hurt too much, the burden again falls on the wounded to forgive and to try harder.
We tell people they need community to mature in their faith, but we rarely disciple those who have confused patriotism or Christian nationalism with the gospel. When Pharisaism becomes the standard, what are the rest of us supposed to do?
Right now, I find myself standing on the porch. Not fully outside, not fully in. It’s the strangest place to be after decades of serving, teaching and belonging. I still believe in Jesus — just as much as ever — but I’m untangling a web of beliefs that never really had biblical roots.
“What I long for is simple: A place that loves neighbors the way Jesus did.”
What I long for is simple: A place that loves neighbors the way Jesus did, with humility, compassion and courage. A place where belonging doesn’t require a political password, where honest questions are not threats and where the wounded don’t have to prove their worthiness before they can heal.
I’m holding space for faith and for others who are doing the same. I’m asking God to keep me tender instead of bitter, to lead me toward a community that truly reflects God’s heart and to keep me brave enough to love people who are different from me.
If you find yourself on the porch, too, unsure if you still belong, I hope someone steps outside and sits beside you awhile. Maybe that’s where the real welcome begins.
Michelle Rayburn is a freelance writer whose work centers on faith, spiritual transformation and exploring a more authentic Christianity. She writes at Disillusioned Faith on Substack and holds a Master of Arts degree in ministry leadership.
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