The Comfortable Church
Faith Without Conviction

I once attended a church that felt spiritually lifeless. The ministers and congregants seemed like robots, merely going through the motions of worship. There was no vibrancy, no evidence of the divine presence in the atmosphere. Curious, I asked a friend who enjoyed the church what he liked about it. His response was telling: he appreciated that it was “non-threatening”—just the way he preferred it.

Over the years, I’ve visited and attended a wide variety of churches—some small and intimate, others sprawling megachurches. I’ve seen churches with coffee bars, cozy seating, libraries, and even taco trucks in the parking lot. When I asked people why they chose these churches, their answers were eye-opening: “It’s friendly,” “It’s comfortable,” “The preaching suits my preferences,” “The air conditioning is great,” “The worship music is good,” and even, “It has convenient parking.” It became clear that my friend wasn’t alone in his flawed understanding of what church is meant to be. Many attend for the wrong reasons.

The Church has lost its way, not because of leaders alone but because congregants often demand the very comforts that compromise spiritual depth. While it’s true that many churches cater to these desires in ways they shouldn’t, the people themselves share the responsibility. This may sound harsh, but too often, people aren’t coming to church to seek God—they’re coming to seek a better, more comfortable life. They come not to serve God but to be served. Tragically, churches are accommodating this mentality, feeding the flesh instead of nurturing the spirit.

This trend is only growing worse. Fewer people seem to desire an encounter with the true God—one who convicts, speaks of eternal realities like hell, and suffering, and calls us to forsake the world for His kingdom. Many prefer churches that are “non-threatening,” prioritizing friendliness, convenience, and comfort.

Even more troubling is the ripple effect this mindset has on others. Those who attend church seeking ease and personal fulfillment often fail to shine as God’s light in the world. Worse, they can discourage those who genuinely want to grow in Christ. I’ve seen people leave churches because they weren’t challenged spiritually—because the depth and truth they sought weren’t being offered. I have also seen those who attend church with self-centered motives grow disheartened when their desires aren’t fulfilled, eventually leading them to leave as well.

Personally, I wouldn’t care if a church had nothing but folding chairs I had to set up myself, held services in a cold warehouse, and offered no big screens or flashy presentations—as long as the Spirit of the Lord was moving powerfully in that place.

When I shared this perspective with a pastor, he told me I was being unrealistic. He said that if he ran the church that way, no one would show up. But that response left me questioning: what’s the purpose of a church if it isn’t driven by the Holy Spirit? Why should we rely on catering to preferences and conveniences just to fill seats?

What’s the point of building a church if God’s presence isn’t at its heart? Is God no longer capable of growing His church, stirring hearts, and moving people by His Spirit—without our human manipulations? If we depend more on our own strategies than on God’s power, are we truly building His church at all?

Sadly, I must acknowledge my own part in the problem. For years, I sat quietly in churches, afraid to speak up. I doubted myself, wondering if I was the one who didn’t understand. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t me. This realization didn’t stem from pride or a sense of superiority—it came from observing the fruits of the modern church. I saw faithlessness, a lack of light in the world, and rampant selfishness.

I think of Charles Spurgeon, who boldly confronted the church at a young age. His courage stands in stark contrast to my own silence, and I feel ashamed. If the church were a ship, it veered off course long ago. And while I recognized this, I stayed aboard, silently protesting but never stepping off—giving the appearance of approval.

What I failed to remember is that the men who intimidated me, the ones I feared answering to, were not the ones I would ultimately face. My silence wasn’t just a failure to confront them—it was a failure to honor God, to whom I will one day give account.