I used to assume that church was the only place on earth where everyone could go. People have always taught me that God’s house is for everyone and that the doors are always open. However, life has a way of revealing that slogans and reality don’t always align.
When the church doors closed on me, I learnt that lesson the hard way.
It didn’t happen dramatically, like when someone slammed the door in my face. It was slower, quieter, and sneakier. At first, people stared at me when I raised questions that other people didn’t want to ask in Bible study. Questions regarding why men were seen to be better than women. Questions regarding why God couldn’t talk in ways that didn’t accord with what the church taught. People were asking why uncertainty seemed to be a crime.
I got glances instead of responses. I heard whispering instead of interest. And then one day, it wasn’t just murmurs; it was being left out. Leaders thought that having me around would be too much trouble. I began to call my “two-inch-high soul” that because it didn’t fit in with their well-planned faith.
The Solitude of Being Rejected
It hurts to hear that the place you believed was your spiritual home doesn’t want you anymore. I recall sitting in my car after one of those study sessions and feeling like I had been stripped bare. It wasn’t just about being booted out of a room; it was also about being told that my faith and how I experienced God were wrong.
And here’s the funny part: I wasn’t there to make things worse. I wasn’t there to fight. I was looking. I was trying to figure out the mystery of God the only way I knew how: by asking questions and prodding at things that didn’t make sense. Isn’t that what faith is? Not unquestioningly accepting things, but having a real, live relationship with the unknown?
But institutions don’t appreciate faith that isn’t neat. They like everything to be in order, predictable, and follow the rules. I didn’t have any of those. I was curious, angry, and unwilling to pretend I didn’t hear God talking to me in ways that other people couldn’t fathom.
The Beginning of a New Vision
It stung to be turned down, but it also made me think about things in a new way. If I couldn’t get inside the church, maybe I was meant to design a new kind of door. I wasn’t supposed to sit in orderly rows of pews under stained-glass windows. My ministry didn’t belong in a building after all.
That’s when the notion of A Divine Universe for All started to take shape. It wasn’t about starting a new faith. It wasn’t about getting people to follow you. It was about making a place where no one would ever feel what I felt: the pain of being turned down and the shame of being told you don’t belong in God’s temple.
I didn’t preach; instead, I made community television shows. Not big-budget movies, but community initiatives that drew people together through dance, laughter, and being together. Yoga N’ Chair and other shows that allow elders to move slowly and still feel strong. Or Kids Exercise with Arfy, where kids and parents might have fun together without worrying about doing it right.
The weird thing is that those shows ended up being more “church” than the churches that turned me down. They got people together. They made everyone feel at home. They gave you a grace that didn’t make you leave your questions or conflicts behind.
The Edge of Rebellion
I won’t lie, I still get angry when I think about those doors that were closed. There is a rebellious part of me that wants to cry from the rooftops, “You don’t own God!” You can’t choose who is a part of your group and who isn’t.
The truth is that no one owns the divine. Not pastors, not elders, and not study groups that don’t let people ask uncomfortable questions. God isn’t a club where you have to pay to join. That is too small for God. God is in the breath of a grandma who is stretched out on a chair. There is God in the sound of a toddler laughing while doing jumping jacks. God is in the dirty, chaotic, and beautiful space where people are just trying to heal and connect.
If the church as a whole couldn’t see it, then it’s their loss. They may be missing out on the most radical component of faith, which is its ability to include, accept, and love without conditions.
Finding Freedom Outside of the Walls
When I stopped trying to fit into places that didn’t want me, I found freedom. I didn’t have to wait for someone to tell me I could talk. I didn’t have to change my experiences to meet someone else’s beliefs. I could hear the voices in my thoughts, think about what they meant, and choose what was sacred for myself.
Initially, such independence can be unnerving. When you get outside the lines, there is no map. But it’s also exciting. It’s like stepping out of a dark chamber and seeing that the world outside is vast and wild and ready for you.
And the best part? I wasn’t by myself. The more I talked about my situation, the more I identified with other people who had been driven out, silenced, or made to feel unwelcome. People who loved God but didn’t like the politics of organized religion. People who wished to connect without a hierarchy. People who wanted grace without having to do anything.
We built something that didn’t seem like a typical church at all, but it felt a lot more like the kingdom of heaven I always pictured.
Closing the Loop
Yes, the church did close its doors on me. It seemed like the world was ending at the time. But now I see it differently. The boundaries that were closed made me want to create something new that would encompass everyone, even the folks who don’t fit into any category.
If you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong in a church or left feeling smaller instead of bigger, please know that your faith is still genuine. Your questions are still sacred. The door you’re looking for might not even be in a building. It may be in a yoga class for the whole community. It could be the sound of kids laughing as they run around. It can be in the silent, determined choice to keep looking even when other people tell you to quit.
Ministry doesn’t seem like pews and pulpits to me anymore. It looks like cameras and people. It seems like open arms and no walls. It appears like a world where everyone fits in.
And if that’s rebellious, then being rebellious is the most holy thing I’ll ever do.