There are days when the church feels less like a stately spiritual institution and more like a community-run emergency landing strip for hearts that have run out of altitude. If you’ve ever watched someone wander into the nave after a week of emotional turbulence, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Sometimes they look as though they’ve fought dragons. Sometimes they look like the dragons. And sometimes they look like they’ve misplaced their boarding pass of hope entirely.
Yet somehow — miraculously — the parish becomes a soft place to land. Not because we’ve got padded pews (those were strictly vetoed by generations of churchwardens determined to keep people awake), nor because we have state-of-the-art counselling suites (though the sacristy chair has absorbed enough confessions to qualify as an honorary therapist). It’s softer because the people are.
A parish, at its best, is a place where the weary can lean without fear of toppling; where the anxious can breathe in the liturgy’s rhythm; where the grieving can let their tears fall into the carpet and know it won’t be mentioned at Vestry. It’s a place where someone will gently slide over in the pew, offer a smile of recognition, and whisper, “You sit here often enough — you should probably consider leaving your name on the seat.”
In truth, being a soft place to land doesn’t require grand programs or dazzling innovations. It requires the slow, unhurried compassion of Jesus — the Jesus who never told exhausted disciples to “buck up,” but instead invited them to sit down on the grass while He fed them; the Jesus who looked at the crowds “harassed and helpless” and met them not with irritation, but with gut-deep tenderness; the Jesus who let weariness rest against Him without judgment.
In our time, mental health struggles are no longer the hidden guests of parish life — they walk right in the front door, often singing alto in the choir or helping make the coffee. And they should. Because a church that cannot welcome the anxious, the depressed, the wounded, the burnt-out, and the merely-trying-to-hold-it-together is not, in fact, the Body of Christ. It’s more like a poorly-run airport with no emergency response team.
Being a soft place to land means we give people permission to not be okay. It means we listen more than we fix. It means we bless the shaky, honour the fragile, and trust that God does some of God’s best work with cracked clay pots like us.
It might even mean restocking the Kleenex supply more frequently — though, in true Anglican fashion, we’ll blame the shortage on seasonal allergies.
So here’s to the parish: kneelers for the faithful, coffee for the fellowship, and compassion for the weary. May we be a place where bruised spirits catch their breath, where the overburdened are gently held, and where every person — no matter how turbulent their week — can find enough peace to try again.
Companion Prayer
Loving and Gentle God,
You know the weight we carry, the worries that wear grooves in our hearts,
and the quiet exhaustion we often hide from others.
Make your Church a soft place to land —
a refuge of kindness, a shelter for the anxious,
a home for all who are weary in body, mind, or spirit.
Give us compassion that listens, patience that steadies,
and grace that embraces without condition.
Gather us into your healing love
and help us offer that same love to all who enter our doors,
trusting that in You, every burden can find rest.
Amen.