Marie and I had been on the road for more than eight months when we returned to Texas in early October. We love this lifestyle—the travel, the people we meet, the variety of churches we experience, and the freedom it offers. But even with all its joys, we occasionally find ourselves homesick for our friends, family, and home church.
On the first Sunday back, we headed to the Houston Vineyard, our home church. It’s worth noting that this is the first church in many years that we’ve attended regularly without leading. What happened next surprised both of us. As we walked into the building, people greeted us warmly, celebrating our return—and unexpectedly, we became emotional. It was an overwhelming sense of coming home.
This was particularly striking because we’ve only been part of this church for three years, and it hadn’t yet imprinted on us in the way other places had. Yet here we were, wiping away tears, feeling the deep belonging the church family offered.
A couple of months later, in December, we returned to Mississippi, where I spoke at the Vineyard in Flowood—a church we served for a combined 20 years. Walking into that familiar building stirred something profound. The best way I can describe it is holy nostalgia.
As I entered, there was a palpable awareness of God’s presence, as though the walls themselves carried the stories of countless encounters. Memories flooded my mind—moments I had personally experienced, moments of transformation in others’ lives. It was surreal and overwhelming.
When I stood to speak, I had to take a moment to collect myself. One thought pressed deeply into my spirit: This place matters. At first, I interpreted that to mean the physical space—something I rarely emphasize, as I know the church is about the people, not the building. But in that moment, I felt the Spirit prompting me to remember: to recall what God had done there, in that specific space. By the altar, where lives were changed. In the lobby, where someone paused to pray and healing happened. I remembered the man who fell on his face in repentance over there, and the sister who found restoration in that corner. These sacred moments seemed woven into the fabric of the place.
As I’ve reflected on this experience, I’ve come to see it as a larger reminder for all of us: the local church matters.
The local church—big or small, charismatic or evangelical, liturgical or orthodox—is where we meet Jesus. It’s where we learn about Him and discover how to walk out our commitment. It’s where we share life with others who are also seeking Him. Together, we form a beautiful, living expression of God’s Kingdom.
This reflection led me back to my earliest church experiences. The churches I grew up in aren’t ones I would gravitate toward today, but in hindsight, they were where I first met Jesus. They laid the foundation of much of what I know about Him. Jesus walked their halls, too.
As a pastor and leader, this realization is deeply affirming, especially in a time when respect for the church and its leaders is at an all-time low. Yet God is still at work, whispering to His people: Don’t get discouraged. Don’t give up. The Kingdom of God is advancing, and the church is still a city on a hill.
“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” (Mt. 5:14-16)
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