Julian had stayed longer than he should have at the old church—hoping, praying, giving it time. But somewhere along the way, something sacred had gone missing. It wasn’t just a shift in style or a matter of preference. It was deeper.
Week after week, he listened as the pastor spun personal stories into arrogant boasts, always ending with how uniquely anointed he was—how God spoke to him differently than to others, how his dreams held the secrets others lacked. The messages weren’t about repentance, weren't about the Savior; they were only about personal empowerment, favor, and, guaranteed wealth. "Seek the kingdom first" seemed to be tacked on as a footnote to give an air of legitimacy. There was no awe, no reverence. In fact the mocking, the bombast, the trivial diversions that had nothing to do with worship made it seem like a variety podcast rather than an offering to the King of Kings.
Then the weekly politics.
Julian remembered sitting motionless as the pastor almost breathlessly declared from the pulpit, “Donald Trump will end poverty and usher in the Golden Age!” followed by thunderous applause. Julian thought to himself, "Jesus isn't coming back riding a red, white, and blue horse and Jesus literally said you'll always have the poor with you,” Julian shook his head, "What am I listening to?"
But this morning, that was all in the past. He walked into a different church - unfamiliar, but inviting. He sat near the back with the only friends he knew, cautious, but open.
It was baptism Sunday. The tank at the front was simple, unadorned. The water shimmered under soft lights. An associate pastor or volunteer, a young thick-muscled man with a warm voice invited the congregation to witness the work of Christ and hear the testimonies of the new converts. He passed the mic to each person to be baptized. No hoopla. No hype. Just heartfelt honesty.
One by one, they shared.
A young man, face worn by years of addiction, shared his story of deliverance from drugs and crime. “I was dead, but Jesus gave me life,” he said, choking back tears before being lowered into the water. A young woman spoke gently of her battle with depression—of the hopelessness that once swallowed her whole. “But Jesus found me. And He’s restoring me day by day.” Another came—a father, whose marriage had been torn apart. “But God,” he said with eyes locked on his wife and child beside him, “brought us back together.”
Julian felt a stirring in his heart as he watched each one go under the water and come up with joy on their faces.
The sermon followed—John 15. “Abide in Me,” Jesus says, “so that your joy may be full.” There was no manipulation, no branding, no attempts to whip up an acceptable reaction. Just the Word. Clear, compelling, Christ-centered.
And the worship? Not a concert, not a performance. Just music, voices—joyful, honest—rising up in awe of a Savior who still saves.
After the service, a couple greeted Julian with no agenda, no pretension. Just kindness.
He stood for a moment afterward, before getting on his back for a relaxing ride.
He had come tired, jaded, almost numb. But now something stirred again. Not hype. Not emotionalism. Just hope.
Julian smiled. This… this feels like church again.
Not because of the building, or the preacher, or the promise that he could be some mystical superhero if he believed hard enough.
But because Jesus was at the center.
And that made all the difference.
