Spring—the season of bunnies, baptisms, and the brief annual return of lapsed Christians who manage to look devout for approximately three days. Maybe four if there’s a potluck.

Don’t worry if you missed it—we’ll see them again at Christmas.

I used to love all the ceremony around Easter week. Candlelit singing, moody prayers, churches cloaked in darkness – setting the stage for the great resurrection sequel. The pews packed with little old ladies and Easter Lilies—both wrapped in shiny gold foil.

But in my small coastal town, churches are shrinking. Fewer people means fewer resources. No choirs, no organ, and often, no doors open during the week. I’ve been wrestling a lot over the past few years about the idea of church. My father used to say to cadets, “Why do we go to church? We go to church to remember what we know is true.”

And I believe that.

But there has to be more to church than lilies and hymns.

Chaplain Rick Funk, West Point class of 1980, retired from ministry a few years ago. (You can watch his final sermon here.) He told a story about being a Pastor through covid, bringing communion to homebound people. One woman had a grown daughter who would be there but wanted none of it. I imagine she had a negative experience with church or religion at some point. Maybe someone with a fish sticker cut her off in traffic. Been there.

At first, she just stood in the doorway. A few weeks later, she made it into the kitchen. By the end of the pandemic, she and a dozen friends were gathered around the table—breaking bread with the good wine – talking about life and joy and hope. Chaplain Funk concluded his story by saying exuberantly,

“THAT’S CHURCH!”

And I believe that.

I’m not telling you to go or not go. I’m challenging you to think about what church means to you.

What I don’t miss are the judgers, the joy-steelers, the people more concerned with rules than grace. And lately, it feels like there are a lot of them. But what I do miss is the connection. I miss the guy that can’t seem to find the note we’re singing no matter what we’re singing. I miss the old lady with the hearing aids turned all the way up.

That’s what I miss. The humanity of it.

In our culture, we confuse communication for connection. A text, a Snap, a heart emoji—it’s something, but it’s not connection. Lisa Allen wrote, “Communication is task-oriented and head-centered. Connection is heart-centered.”

Connection happens when there’s energy, presence, vulnerability. Sometimes you feel it just being near someone. Ever pass someone and think, “Oof, bad vibes”? That’s energy. Sometimes you know exactly how someone’s affecting you. Other times, it’s subtler—but no less real.

Whether you’re a joy-giver, a joy-stealer, or someone just trying to keep your energy to yourself—we all need connection. Not just information exchange, but true, soul-to-soul moments. Maybe you find that in a church. Maybe at home. Maybe at your favorite coffee shop. Point is: we all need people who pour love and grace into us.

Easter weekend I flew up to New York for just 41 hours for a wedding. It was beautiful and heart-felt and full of love. However, Sunday morning I woke up at 4am full of anxiety.

I had to go to church.

But I’m not an avid church goer. And I was far from home.

I drove to Trophy Point. I needed to experience a sunrise service over the Hudson and “remember what I knew to be true.”

When I arrived at 6am, there was no service. No chairs or cadets or little white lilies wrapped in gold foil. No one was there.

A few blocks away I found a small gathering in the sub basement of the old Officers Club. I could see the river off my left shoulder through a window near a ladder and a stack of old chairs. The experienced left me frustrated. Why was I there? We had just spent a wonderful Saturday toasting to love and life and friendship while testing the capacity of my liver. And now I’m tired, cold, perhaps slightly hung over, a mere 90 minutes from my flight home and FOR WHAT?

WHY WAS I THERE?

As we stood up to leave, I saw a woman with dark flowing hair and immediately it was 1994 and I was 15 years old. In a photo album, in my childhood home, there’s a picture of my father with a few cadets at Delafield Pond and she looks just like the girl in that photo.

Once I decided I was willing to face the rejection of misidentification, I approached her outside.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I think I know…..“

“Hi Kathy Camp” she said.

I hugged her without waiting for clarification and we both cried – an exchange of energy and emotion that can’t happen over zoom or a text. I didn’t remember her last name or the year she graduated but knew in that moment that I was there for her.

She’d flown in the day before, not dealing with normal life stuff – but the kind that weighs on your heart. We sat and talked about life and love, about fears and friendships. About hope.

Like me, she had gone searching for that sunrise service. God assured her that help would come.

And it did.

That’s church.

God’s voice – His grace – His energy is not just in a cathedral or chapel. But in a coffee shop. A sidewalk. A sub-basement with folding chairs. It is where hearts meet.

When I got back home, my new-old-friend sent me photos of her baptism in 1994—proof that my 15-year-old self had been right, necessary confirmation that the botox hasn’t sunk in too deep.

And who was the pastor holding her in the pond? It was Chaplain Funk.

A full-circle moment tied up with an Easter-basket-sized bow.

Wherever you are on your journey—questioning, wandering, searching—look for the joy-givers. The peacemakers. The ones who pour love into the world. Ask your Creator to guide you.

And then listen. Really listen.
Because help will always come.

Run to win.

“The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of. Our attention would have been on God.” C.S. Lewis