There are Sundays when the pew feels less like a seat and more like a lifeboat — weathered by time, creaky in places, but afloat on a sea of sorrow, doubt, and grace. It’s not always the grand, Titanic-sized disasters that bring people through the church doors. Sometimes it’s the quieter storms — the ones that rage inside.
I’ve often thought that if we could see the cargo people bring with them to church, we’d never worry about the attendance numbers again. Depression disguised as fatigue. Grief wrapped in polite smiles. Trauma tucked between the pages of the bulletin. Addiction hidden behind “I’m fine, thank you.” A congregation is rarely what it seems — it’s not a club of the spiritually accomplished, but a fellowship of the almost-drowned.
Jesus seemed to understand this instinctively. He was never much for clean boundaries or social comfort zones. He touched the leper when everyone else reached for hand sanitizer. He laid hands on the dead when decorum called for distance. He dined with tax collectors and sinners, which in his day was roughly equivalent to announcing a potluck with the local gang and the CRA auditors. Over and over, he sought out the untouchable, the unwell, and the uninvited — not to fix them as a project, but to love them as people.
And that’s where the church is meant to follow. Sanctuary is not just a pretty architectural term or a zoning designation for “that part with the good acoustics.” It’s the heartbeat of the Gospel made visible — a place where the hurting don’t have to pretend. A true sanctuary is one where no one is too broken, too complicated, or too late to the service.
Of course, our version of hospitality often stops at the percolator. We’re good at coffee hour: the smile, the “How are you?” (to which the only socially acceptable response is “Fine”), and perhaps the strategic positioning near the banana bread. But Gospel hospitality begins when we risk a longer conversation — when we dare to hear the honest answer instead of the polite one.
True refuge happens when a pew becomes a place where tears are not awkward, where prayer feels like breathing, and where silence is not judged as absence but honoured as survival. Sometimes, the most sacred ministry we offer is simply sitting beside someone in their storm without trying to fix the weather.
Every so often, someone will say to me, “Father, I didn’t think I could come to church feeling like this.” And I tell them, “That’s exactly when you should.” The church was never meant to be a museum for the virtuous. It’s a lifeboat for the weary, the wounded, and the wondering. We are all passengers, some bailing faster than others, but all kept afloat by grace.
And perhaps that’s the quiet miracle of Sunday our faith: not that we sing in tune or remember all the words of the Creed, but that we show up at all — each of us, carrying our invisible cargo, finding in the company of Christ and one another a fragile but real hope.
So, when the pew feels like a lifeboat, give thanks. Because that’s exactly what it is.
A Prayer for Those Seeking Refuge
Merciful Lord,
You who stilled the storm and touched the untouchable,
draw near to all who come carrying hidden pain.
When the weight of sorrow or shame feels too great to bear,
may your church be a shelter of gentleness and grace —
a place where truth can be spoken, and tears can be holy.
Teach us to welcome as you welcomed:
with compassion deeper than fear,
with love stronger than judgment,
and with hope that reaches into the shadows.
Hold us together in this fragile lifeboat of faith,
and remind us that even in the darkest seas,
your presence is our calm,
your mercy our anchor,
and your risen life our shore.
Amen.