Churches are obsessed with doors. Churches bless these doors, paint them red, hold them open, photograph them, and put welcome signs on them. We tell the frightened person, the estranged child, the gay man, the addict, the doubter, the refugee, the person who has been made to feel impossible: Come in; there is a place for you here.
I believe in that sentence. But to the end of that greeting we should add: “and you can leave whenever you want.”
A refuge proves itself not by the beauty of its entrance but by the freedom of its exit. If I can freely enter a church but cannot leave without losing my friends, my housing, my food, my family, my employment, my reputation, my access to God, or the right to be considered a decent human being, then the door was never open. It was actually just a gate.
A refuge proves itself not by the beauty of its entrance but by the freedom of its exit.
I am a gay Christian man. That has made me suspicious of any kind of welcome that is offered with an invisible future tense. It has often felt like churches have told me something along the following lines: You are welcome here, and eventually you will change and conform. We accept you, and eventually you will become the version of yourself that allows us to feel uncomplicated about accepting you.
That is not a welcome. That is an acquisition. In my case, it begins when I am welcomed as the gay Christian who is still expected, someday, to become straight, celibate, or otherwise less visibly gay. My belonging becomes a waiting room for somebody else’s preferred ending.
The logic is simple: Support becomes leverage. A family can call it concern while making housing or money conditional on surveillance. A charity can make gratitude part of the price of aid. A church can make friendship, work, housing, childcare, or social life depend so heavily on belonging that disagreement becomes materially dangerous. This often makes saying no—or choosing to leave a community—impossible. The church doors are locked from the inside.
But then the questions become: Who has the key? Who controls the money or lease? Who can appeal a decision? Who has somewhere else to sleep tonight? Who can say no and still eat tomorrow?
Christian language can become very beautiful precisely where these questions become uncomfortable. We can say covenant instead of contract, family instead of hierarchy, shepherd instead of supervisor, sacrifice instead of extraction, obedience instead of fear. Throughout Christian history, these words have often been used in church contexts. But that does not mean that every community or institution that has used these words is holy or welcoming.
Sometimes leaving a church community is necessary. A person may have to walk out simply to recover the ability to make a free decision. But “just leave” is cheap advice when departure means losing food, housing, work, friendship, or your only social world. An exit that destroys the person using it is not much of an exit.
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Jesus did not teach that love is proved by making departure impossible. The Christian story is full of people called, sent, released, scattered, returned, forgiven, restored. The prodigal son leaves before he returns home. It’s important to note that the father does not prove his love by standing in the doorway, preventing his wayward son from leaving.
Christians often dwell on the father welcoming back his son with open arms. But I think it is worth considering how the father provides material assistance to his son when he leaves.
What would it mean to build an exit into Christian care? How can Christians establish patterns of care that eschew dependency and coercion? Church emergency funds should not be controlled solely by the pastor. Complaints against leaders of the church need an independent route for resolution. Housing should not depend on church attendance. A disabled congregant who needs captioning, physical access, a quiet space, or any other accommodation should not have to repeatedly disclose private medical details to prove the need is real. Support for a young gay person should not require public disclosure. Changing congregations should not be treated as betrayal.
Success is usually measured by retention. More members. More giving. More participation. More loyalty. But Christians should use different metrics for success. In many ways, success for Christians should be exemplified by diminishing returns.
The church can act as a hub where people in need connect with congregants: Through community relationships, a person secures safe housing and no longer needs the church’s emergency room; a survivor receives competent professional care instead of depending on one charismatic pastor; a young adult develops enough money, skill, confidence, and relational cachet to freely disagree with church teachings; a gay man realizes he does not need to audition his relationship for spiritual approval. And if any of these people choose to leave, they are able to exit through the same doors that they entered, assured that the people who love them will still answer the phone.
That is not institutional failure. That is fruit.
My favorite image of Christian community is getting smaller, not grander. It is a door that opens both ways. There is food inside. There is a chair nobody has to earn. There is a key in the hand of the person most likely to be trapped.
And when someone leaves, we do not turn off the light to teach them a lesson.
We leave it on, because home is not a place you are forced to stay, or just where you go when you have nowhere else to turn. Home is the place you are free to enter and exit.
Joshua W.J. Brown is a Toronto-based Canadian writer, filmmaker, and researcher whose work moves across politics, history, faith, institutions, and the ways systems shape ordinary life.
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