This morning, I walked into the local village hall and, for the first time in thirty years, sat down for a Sunday church service.
The space was simple: collapsible chairs in a wide arc, a lectern to the left, the band setting up on the right. No stained glass or steeple — just the hum of chatter, the scent of tea brewing nearby, and a quiet sense of welcome that settled in gently.
I didn’t really know what I was looking for by going. Curiosity? Peace? A way to feel connected to something bigger than the news cycle or the daily list of tasks? Maybe all of it. Maybe none.
What I found, though, was something far more grounded.
The service itself was modest and sincere. We sang, awkwardly and earnestly. People smiled without asking for anything in return. And then Earl Robinson gave a short talk — not a sermon in the thundering, theatrical sense, but more a thoughtful invitation — on the introduction to the Book of Jonah.
He spoke about running away. About reluctance. About how we all, at some point, try to outrun what we’re meant to face. Not because we’re wicked, but because we’re scared. He painted Jonah not as a villain, but as a deeply human figure. A man with questions. A man who didn’t feel ready. A man who said no — and still found himself caught up in God’s story anyway.
There was something oddly comforting about that. Especially to someone like me, coming back after decades away. I didn’t feel shamed or scolded. I felt… seen. Understood. Like maybe faith has room for hesitancy and doubt after all.
I walked home not with answers, but with space — in my chest, in my mind, in the tight corners of things I hadn’t named. Maybe that’s all I needed from this first Sunday back: a reminder that faith isn’t always found in lightning bolts. Sometimes, it’s just about showing up.
And sometimes, even a reluctant prophet gets a second chance.