What I was missing—what so many are missing—is a Church that doesn’t just speak about Christ, but delivers him.
I don’t write this to provoke or divide. Instead, I write it as a pastor who has sat across from too many disillusioned believers—spiritually hungry, longing for peace, and unsure where the church even lives anymore. I write it as someone who has walked that same road.
I’ve been a Christian for 46 years. But for most of that time, I never truly understood what God’s forgiveness meant. I believed in it, spoke of it, and even taught it. But I had never heard it spoken directly into my ears with the clarity and certainty that only Christ’s absolution brings. In most churches I attended, forgiveness was hinted at—implied in a song or wrapped in general encouragement—but rarely delivered in the concrete, personal way that Christ intended. And that hunger for clarity, for mercy I could hold, is what led me to plant Absolution Church.
It wasn’t just that I had misunderstood Jesus. It was that I had been handed a different Jesus—one who offered motivation more than mercy, challenge more than comfort. Then, in one moment of hearing true forgiveness, the veil was lifted. I heard the words I never knew I needed: “I forgive you all your sins.” Not in theory. Not in metaphor. But in Christ’s name, for me.
When sin becomes a performance critique, the cross gets buried beneath self-help.
In the non-denominational churches I attended or served in, sin was preached—often fervently. But grace was vague, distant, or assumed. And the kind of sin that was preached usually came across as motivational instructions the congregation was failing to follow: try harder, do better, be more committed. The gospel became advice rather than absolution. And when sin becomes a performance critique, the cross gets buried beneath self-help.
Years ago, I believed that "just Jesus" was enough—that if I could find a church that didn’t talk about tradition or doctrine too much, I could keep it simple. And for a while, it felt like freedom. There was passion, authenticity, and energy. But over time, I realized something was missing. The deeper questions of faith, the burden of guilt, and the comfort of the gospel—they kept returning. And the answers I received were often shallow, vague, or improvised.
It wasn’t that the people were insincere. Many loved Jesus. But love without roots eventually withers. What I was missing—what so many are missing—is a Church that doesn’t just speak about Christ, but delivers him.
Rootlessness Isn’t Reformation
Non-denominational churches often feel inviting. They seem free of baggage, free of judgment. Some preach Christ faithfully. Others have introduced friends of mine to the Scriptures for the first time. But there’s a cost to spiritual minimalism. When there’s no shared confession, no catechism, no grounding in the means of grace, the soul grows weary.
Because every church has a theology. The question is whether it’s honest about it.
I remember an old aisle at the grocery store: the Bent Can Aisle. Dented cans, no labels, sold cheap. You’d take one home, hoping for peaches. Crack it open—creamed spinach. That’s what rootless Christianity can become. A mystery can, theologically speaking. No label, no clarity, no confession.
But Jesus isn’t unclear. He gives his church something better than guesswork.
Confession Isn’t a Cage; It’s a Feast
When Christ ascended, he didn’t leave us with feelings. He left us with a promise: “Lo, I am with you always.” That presence is not abstract. It’s embodied in the Word rightly preached, in baptism’s waters, in the bread and wine of the Lord’s Supper, given and shed for you.
He gave us doctrine, not as a fence, but as food. Not to puff up the proud but to anchor the weary.
What I found in Lutheranism wasn’t a new brand. It was the beauty of a Church that names Christ clearly, delivers him bodily, and forgives sinners with certainty. I found a liturgy echoing Scripture. I found the gospel confessed with clarity. I found a Church that didn’t make Jesus a helper but proclaimed him as Savior.
Lutheranism Is Not a Reaction—It’s a Return
Lutheranism isn’t just one option among many. It’s a return to the apostolic faith. The goal of the Reformers wasn’t to build a new church. They were calling the church back to her foundation: Christ alone, grace alone, Scripture alone.
The Lutheran confession—the Book of Concord—is not a museum piece. It is a living testimony to Christ’s mercy. It says what the church has always said, and still must say: that Jesus died for sinners, rose in victory, reigns even now, and still gives his gifts through Word and Sacrament.
What About Non-Denominational Churches?
To be fair, not all non-denominational churches are the same. Some preach Christ boldly. I’ve known many faithful Christians in those settings. But I’ve often longed to hear absolution spoken clearly—out loud, for sinners like me. Too often, sin is addressed, but grace remains abstract. And grace that isn’t spoken is grace that’s hard to trust.
I needed someone to look me in the eye and say, "As a called and ordained servant of Christ, and by His authority, I forgive you all your sins..."
Not a motivational talk. Not a vague prayer. Not an altar call.
Absolution. Said out loud, to me.
That’s not a ritual. That’s a rescue.
Rooted Churches Feed the Hungry
Jesus doesn’t leave us to invent the church. He gives it. With a font, a pulpit, and a table. With the words “for you.” The church is not a platform. It’s not a performance. It’s a people. It’s a place of rootedness.
If you’re tired of cotton-candy Christianity, if you’re weary of trying to find Jesus in foggy feelings, if you’re hungry for a Savior who doesn’t shift with culture—
Come and eat. Find a church whose message isn’t vague or new but rooted in Christ. Rooted in the Word. Rooted in the confession—not just profession—of the faith once delivered to the saints.
