The word conjures mental images: stained glass, wooden seats, an organ. It’s a church word. The space where Christians worship is called a sanctuary.
When I show up at a church building on a Sunday morning, the question I’m most ready to ask is “Where is the sanctuary?”
But being in a sanctuary is different than finding sanctuary. The challenge for today, though, is that fewer and fewer people want to know where the sanctuary is. More and more, people want to know if they can actually have sanctuary.
I was a pastor when I nearly died by suicide. I was 28 years old, married five years, and the proud father of a tiny baby boy. No one saw it coming (usually no one does). I’d been a star student, never met a stranger and always did my best to make everyone feel better about themselves. I was born to be a pastor. What happened?