Opening the Door a Little Wider

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an article that surprised me. According to researcher Thom Rainer, most unchurched people in the U.S. are far more open to visiting a church than we tend to assume. They’re not hostile. They’re not braced for a fight. Many are simply… waiting. Waiting for an invitation that, in many cases, never comes.

And as I read, I found myself thinking about our own Canadian landscape, the land of soft apologies and “I didn’t want to bother you.” We’re famously polite, famously private, famously reluctant to impose anything on anyone, especially something as tender and personal as faith. I felt my shoulders lift in a sheepish little nod. Yes, that’s me too.

Because if I’m honest, I don’t invite people to church as often as I could. Not because I think they’d slam the door in my face, or because I’m embarrassed, or because faith feels old-fashioned. I simply… hesitate. I worry that an invitation might feel like pressure. I worry I’ll make someone uncomfortable. I worry they’ll feel put on the spot, like I’ve suddenly asked them to reveal their soul at a dinner party.

But the truth is, most people don’t want to walk into a church alone, and I don’t blame them.
Church can be intimidating.
Who will talk to me?
Will I feel awkward?
Will I know when to stand, sit, or sing?

And underneath all that is a deeper question: Will I belong?

This may be why that research stayed with me, because it turns the whole assumption on its head. Maybe people aren’t avoiding faith. Maybe they’re waiting for a connection. Perhaps they don’t need a sermon; they need a companion.

In Canada, where community can feel thin, and loneliness has become a quiet epidemic, maybe the most radical thing we can do is simply say, “Come sit with me.” Not come join my religion. Not come fix your life. Just… come sit. Come listen. Come be.

And if there was ever a season when that invitation feels especially gentle, especially human, especially possible, it’s now.

Advent is the time when the church opens its doors to mystery and longing. It’s when the sanctuary glows with candlelight. When the music feels familiar, even if you haven’t sung it in years. When we talk about hope and peace and joy and love, not as lofty concepts but as the ache at the centre of human life.

Christmas is the one time of year when people are already searching for meaning. For warmth. For belonging. For beauty that feels bigger than the headlines. For a story that reminds us we’re held by something larger than fear.

So maybe this year, the invitation doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe it’s as simple as:

“If you’re looking for somewhere to feel a little more human this season, you’re welcome to come with me.”
“If you’ve been missing music or community or candlelight, we’d love to see you.”
“If Christmas feels heavy or lonely this year, there’s a place for you here.”

We don’t need to pressure anyone. We don’t need to have perfect words. We just need to open the door a little.

And who knows, maybe the thing we’re scared of offering is the very thing someone has been quietly longing for.

So if someone comes to mind as you read this, a neighbour you wave to, a coworker you chat with, a friend who’s had a challenging year, consider extending the simplest of invitations: “If you’d like, you can come with me to church this Advent. You won’t be alone. I’ll save you a seat.”

Because sometimes hope arrives as softly as that: one person turning to another and saying,
“You’re welcome here.”