Reimagining belonging in a post-evangelical age
A year ago, I published a piece called The end of church authority. I argued in it that much of the dominant church culture here in the American South (white evangelicalism) has confused authority with power —as well as how both operate— entrenching a repressive priesthood that’s overwhelmingly male, culturally right-wing, and functionally accountable to no one. In this monoculture, authority isn't earned through wisdom or care but assumed through hierarchy and entrenched via cultural fear. The end results are predictable: unhealthy patterns that give way to abuse, damaged relationships, and fractured communities. Both the curious and the committed are driven away as a church slowly disintegrates. This monoculture carries the seeds of its own demise.
I encourage you to read that first article before continuing here as this is the companion piece. These problems run deeper than the failed character of individuals; they are theologically and culturally systemic. For example, complementarianism is as much a flawed model for gender as it is a blatant form of idolatry that enshrines and worships gender roles while coddling male fragility. The framework feels so impossible to reform because it’s functioning exactly as it was designed to. Similarly, simply replacing an authoritarian priesthood isn’t enough to transform the weakened congregations left in their wake. In these settings, faith is performed by leaders on your behalf, rather than being a lived experience. That dynamic doesn’t vanish when leadership changes. It’s so deeply embedded in the evangelical consumer culture that congregations desire this monoculture.
In this followup piece, I want to approach this from the bottom up. If authoritarian leadership is wearing down people’s faith and hollowing out churches, then the path forward has to be rooted in something deeper that can do more than just prevent the emergence of another church autocracy. It seems that at least some of the answers we seek lie in community and a well-cared for set of diverse institutions, not a hierarchy overseen by charismatic leaders. This challenge is made even more severe by these problems being amplified by three major trends shaping broader American life:
Support for a type of cultural Christendom is waning, fast. As it crumbles, many socially conservative churches are gripped by a sense of scarcity and anxiety that is often difficult to articulate in those spaces.
Trust in most all institutions is collapsing across American life. Fewer and fewer spaces exist where people with real differences can find common ground, leading to rising polarization and a growing epidemic of loneliness.
Extreme individualism is rapidly ascending in a variety of forms, from right-wing authoritarianism to aggressively therapeutic self-focus. The end result is often the same: selfishness and a diminished view of other people.
These cultural winds shape how we experience everyday church life. We are all living in a deeply anti-communal moment at a time when community is most needed. So, I want to try to do three things here:
Clarify some of the ways church membership as it stands is a barrier to real community.
Confront the scarcity mindset that’s shaping so much of this church monoculture.
Explore a few trajectories that may help move beyond church membership as we’ve known it.
A quick note before we dive in: for large chunks of my life I’ve participated in some of these problems. I don’t have many answers; however, because these are the waters I’ve swum in, I hope I’m in a position to at least name the problems for what they are and consider some better paths. Let’s begin.
Briefly exploring church membership as it is
The monoculture I’ve described above has some variety in how membership is approached from church to church, but the script is more or less the same everywhere: you pledge to submit to the authority of the church, you start tithing, and maybe join a small group, Sunday school class, or Bible study. Perhaps you volunteer or sign up for a short-term “missions” trip.
None of this has to be inherently wrong or bad; however, membership in this context is less about mutual commitment to each other and more about loyalty to the hierarchy and monoculture. Churches offer a false sense of safety by enforcing ideological uniformity and cultural conformity. What’s passed off as discipleship is often mere indoctrination and policing the borders of the shrinking monoculture.
When a congregation has been told, explicitly or implicitly, that they’re part of something that already has all of faith figured out, change inevitably feels like a threat. People grow anxious and dig in, others lash out. Even the facade of growth is stunted and congregants begin favoring autocratic leaders even more. Anything less feels too uncertain, too fragile. Individuals are harmed and, over time, the church hollows itself out and real community is pushed out of reach.
Let’s take a closer look at how church membership tends to get stuck in this rut and creates space for toxic leadership to thrive, often at the expense of the people it claims to serve. This is not an exhaustive description, but it will sound very familiar to people who have lived and breathed in this church monoculture.
1. Membership process and vows. You visit a church for a while and it feels like a good fit. You meet with a pastor or elder, maybe take a membership class. Eventually you say your vows—either on a Sunday morning or in a private meeting with a church leader. These include promises to submit to the authority of church leaders, remain unified, and live in accordance with teaching. Some churches make sincere efforts to help new members get connected, offering introductions to small groups, Sunday school classes, or ministry teams. Others leave it up to you; but, either way, now you are “in.”
Two critical elements are often missing from this process. First, there is often no reciprocal vow given from church leadership to you. You’re pledging yourself to the church’s leaders—but what, exactly, are they pledging to you? Do they pledge to nurture you and help you find your place in the church (1 Peter 5:2–3)? Second, there’s little to no acknowledgment in this process that leaders are fallible. That they can and do abuse power, mishandle conflict, and cause real harm (Ezekiel 34:2–4). Most membership processes don’t outline what happens when things go wrong further down the road. There’s no transparency around accountability, grievance processes, or how leadership itself is held in check.
2. Tithing and giving. Financially supporting the church and its leaders is often treated as the next step. You're expected to tithe —usually at least 10% of your income— without hesitation. On the surface this might not sound unreasonable. Buildings cost money and staff have to be paid, but the evangelical teaching that 10% is the biblical standard is worth reexamining. This concept comes from Old Testament law and is part of an agrarian, covenantal system tied to temple worship and the support of priests and Levites. In the New Testament the focus shifts to generosity. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 9:7 that “Each of you must give as you have made up your mind, not regretfully or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.” In other words, tithes are meant to be an act of grace.
Instead, giving often becomes transactional, a way of “buying in” to the system to receive perceived benefits. It’s less about supporting experiences in a life bound together while loving neighbors and more about sustaining the jobs of leaders, who ensure the monoculture remains firmly policed. Questions about financial transparency or budget priorities can be brushed aside. Most tithes given remain inside the church; sometimes it’s not clear how funds are even used. Only a small percentage goes toward actual neighbor-oriented generosity. In practice, tithing becomes a subscription fee —not a communal act of generosity, justice, and mutual care— creating the illusion of maturity without cultivating true generosity.
3. Programs, programs, and more programs. Church life becomes a calendar full of Bible studies, men’s and women’s events, retreats, kids’ activities, conferences, workshops, bringing people meals, and classes. There’s always something to sign up for. Programs can certainly help people feel more connected and even assist in fostering friendships.
But the sheer volume of programming often replaces true discipleship and formation. It can easily keep a congregation’s gaze inward and individualistic (James 1:22-24). Rather than guiding people into deeper formation, discipleship, and love of neighbor, these programs tend to reinforce the monoculture. Even the books you read, the voices you hear, and the questions you’re allowed to ask are all highly-curated and pre-approved. “Faith” is done for you in this context, not by you.
4. Volunteering. This becomes the primary on-ramp to deeper involvement around leadership. You’re encouraged to staff the nursery, serve coffee, lead a small group, assist with setup and cleanup, or help out in various other ways on Sundays. These things don’t happen on their own; someone has to do them and serving is a good thing.
Unfortunately, the value of your participation often depends on how well it supports the Sunday production. Tasks that keep the production machine running are elevated, while the slower, relational work of mutual care and true presence with others takes a back seat. You’re praised for showing up to do what is asked, but have few to no opportunities to use your specific gifts to better the community (1 Corinthians 12). To make matters worse, burnout is common and boundaries are blurry as the majority of the congregation refuses to volunteer, but consume instead.
5. Missions. This often takes the form of a strange hybrid of service projects, voluntourism, and branding. You go somewhere overseas or to another city or town for a short time. You hand out supplies, run a VBS, or build something as someone takes pictures. Then you come home, show a slideshow, get praised, and…that’s about it. Or so you think.
These trips reinforce a narrative that the church is doing something bold for God, leaving little room to question what was actually accomplished —or not— and whether resources could have been better used supporting local people already doing the hard work day in and day out (James 2:15–17). Meanwhile, the easiest “mission field” —your neighborhood, your town or city, your relationships— remain largely untouched (Luke 10:1–2). “Missions” becomes a box you check off, either by going or financially supporting those who do, not a way of living.
For some who go on these trips, with time and as they consider their experiences in the aftermath, they start to notice some of these issues. This can become one of the many starting points for the experience that is messily described as deconstruction.
Taken together, these elements —member vows, tithing, endless programming, volunteering, and missions— form the core of how churches in this monoculture structure and sustain themselves. Each have aspects that can even serve a meaningful purpose; however, they’re poor substitutes for the deeper, messier work of formation and community. They create the appearance of discipleship without the substance of it. The result? Churches stay stuck in systems of control, uniformity, and performative faith, leaving little room for honesty, transformation, and true community.
At the end of the day, church membership in this context is ultimately about submitting to the church’s leaders and monoculture, both of which are rarely accountable to anyone. You are agreeing to be more of a paying consumer and less of an active participant in God’s Kingdom. Little recourse is provided to you for when sin becomes institutionalized, a fact that becomes abundantly clear when something goes wrong and you start asking questions.
Confronting the compounding cycle of scarcity
For a while now, I’ve been trying to name the feeling hanging in the air in this church monoculture. Scarcity is the best I’ve come up with. Not in the sense that nothing’s happening —again, there’s tons of programming and busyness— but in the sense that something essential is missing. What stands out most to me is how little room all this leaves for the Holy Spirit. The local church ends up functioning more like a small business or country club than a sacred community, one held together by cultural expectations, brand loyalty, and programming to keep people in line. Unsurprisingly, the driving concern becomes survival.
At the heart of this is an unspoken but potent scarcity mindset, a fear there's never quite enough people in the pews, money in the budget, or cultural influence to hold onto what once felt secure and safe. The congregation is aging and shrinking as younger generations drift away. Tithes fluctuate. The idea of living in a community that loves its' neighbors is diluted to the point where church leaders are merely grateful to see the same faces show up most Sundays. In this climate, authoritarian leaders respond by doubling down: stronger enforcement of the monoculture, tighter messaging, and more pressure on the handful of volunteers to pick up the slack. They may appear to be shepherds, but their instincts are to protect their own power, not people. As Jesus warned in Matthew 7:15-20, “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.”
But scarcity isn’t just about dwindling numbers or physical resources. More importantly, it’s about a shrinking imagination. It’s a slow drain of hope that’s replaced by a hollow hum of anxiety. It’s a breakdown of the facade of community, especially when a more immediate crisis emerges. When survival becomes the goal, it’s hard to cast an eye toward the bigger things. It’s hard to listen to new ideas. It’s difficult to consider change. It becomes impossible to leave space for the Holy Spirit to move in unexpected ways.
I think one of the reasons all of this creates growing anxiety is that, even inside this monoculture, a lot of people know deep down there has to be more to faith and the life of the church than…this. A sweeping view of Scripture points us toward something radically different: a God who delights in abundance. The Kingdom of God isn’t a brand to protect or an institution to preserve. It’s a table with more than enough seats and a feast with more than enough food to go around. It’s a vision rooted in generosity, grace, and presence.
The challenge before us is not to confront the logistics of scarcity in church life, but to confront this spirit of scarcity and the way it shapes our assumptions, our decisions, and even our theology. As long as churches refuse to depart this monoculture, they will struggle to receive the humane abundance that God offers.
Taking stock
In Scripture, real abundance always flows from the presence of God, not the strategies of people (2 Corinthians 9:8). Whether it’s manna in the wilderness, water from a rock, loaves and fishes multiplied, or the explosive growth of the early church, abundance arrives when God is present and when people are attuned to that presence. A mirage of abundance can be engineered for a time, but true abundance can only be received.
It’s no surprise that many churches stuck in this monoculture of evangelical managerial control have a growing sense of scarcity. If the Spirit is grieved or absent, if there’s no room for mystery or movement or surprise, even a full sanctuary will feel empty. No amount of programming or rhetorical polish can conjure up what only God can give.
Most of us have felt at least some of this in a visceral way. Maybe you’re still hanging on in a church that fits these patterns. Maybe you’ve recently walked away. Maybe you were pushed out. Regardless of where people are in that process, there’s a common thread: everyone is trying to make sense of the scarcity mindset and the destruction rupturing from it, even if the language isn’t there. Church splits, abusive leaders, raging nationalism, the slow ache of disillusionment…there are countless ways this can play out and disrupt people’s lives.
Underneath it all is often the same question though: Now what?
In my original piece, part of what I argued is that doing preventative work proactively in this church monoculture is needed to reduce risks and future harm. That matters. Not all failure and damage is inevitable in the evangelical fold. There are less bad ways of being in this monoculture than others, for sure.
Less bad is not enough though, especially for younger people. True reform is needed, but that’s just not possible to carry out in most churches in this fold. A critical mass of leaders and congregants actually have to want to change for the right reasons and take real risks to make it happen. They have to desire God’s abundance as it is and comes instead of the theological and cultural certainty that ends in scarcity. Evangelical monoculture is inherently anathema to reform. Even when people do want to change for the right reasons, all it takes is a handful of people who are perceived to have authority and power from blocking anything from happening, and then punishing those who dared merely to ask questions.
What’s really needed is something closer to outright replacement. I’m not talking about a different style of leadership, although that is part of it, but a different theological foundation and set of institutions that usurp and destroy this monoculture entirely. Grounding ourselves in a true desire for God’s abundance can give wisdom as we challenge bad authority, unearned influence, and temporal prosperity pressed into service of defending the status quo (Jeremiah 9:23–24, Matthew 6:19–21). These three elements feed one another to create a self-perpetuating cycle, and it’s that cycle that needs to be broken for good, which is why opting out of this system entirely in a responsible manner is often the best place to start.
We should begin with being brutally honest about what the church is not and cannot provide. The church is not a social club. It’s not supposed to fulfill our every longing for significance or satisfaction. Most pastors are not trained or licensed therapists, financial advisors, historians, or political experts. Pastors and elders should not pretend they are experts on everything because they aren’t. No one should expect them to give guidance in all areas of life.
A lot of churches in my neck of the woods imply or outright claim their leaders are experts on everything. How that plays out is revealing. Living the Christian faith is downgraded by them into following a socially-conservative version of everything the world offers: private schools, music, movies, conferences, and bookstores (Romans 12:1-2). It means expecting the monoculture to meet all social and relational needs despite Scripture rejecting the premise (Colossians 2:20-23).
The local church is meant to be the body of Christ lived in the world, not a replacement for the world. That the church has not been this must be mourned. Or, as Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann once said:
Such restoration as real newness, however, requires deep relinquishment for what has failed before we can receive any newness that will let us begin again. Our honest exile precedes our joyous homecoming. It is as Friday must come before Sunday. So our grief must precede any serious newness. When we do that hard work, the church will not be the happiest place in town. But it might be the most honest place in town because the truth of our loss will make us free for the gifts of newness that God will give us.
Replacing church membership with belonging in community
This brings us back to our original question: is there a better way to imagine faith in community than church membership as it is?
The answer is emphatically yes. As the cultural blinders of the evangelical monoculture fall away, we can begin to see that other Christian traditions —across denominations, traditions, and centuries— have practiced healthier forms of community without reliance on control, performance, and hierarchy. If the model of church membership being crammed down our throats centers on these three things, then what comes next has to be rooted in mutuality, humility, and presence (1 Corinthians 12:12–31).
The monoculture handed down to us says we belong only if we agree, only if we do as we’re told, only if we tithe. A new vision says we belong because we are image-bearers of God, because justice and grace reject performance, because community is something we receive and steward together, not something we earn (Galatians 3:28).
There’s no single formula to do any of this, but I think this better vision has at least five trajectories worth exploring:
1. Decentralized Spiritual Authority. The priesthood of all believers isn’t just a theological concept; it needs to be a practice. Everyone’s voice should matter in discerning faith and a shared life together. Leadership should shift from titles and hierarchy to function and gifting (Ephesians 4). Leaders might shepherd or teach but must not be allowed to manage and control. Their role is more facilitative to help disciple and spiritually form others, with no desire for titles. This might mean some churches have fewer full-time paid staff because more of the congregation is engaged in meaningful ways.
2. Relational Ecclesiology. The church is less about an event or building and more about a community rooted in a healthy, flexible institution. The institution creates conditions for interdependent relationships to thrive. Formation comes through vulnerability, shared life, and mutual transformation, not just from sermons and books, and especially not from big platform evangelical voices in the monoculture. The emphasis is on communal discernment and dialogue over monologue. There is intentional space built for people to try to hear and feel the Spirit (Acts 2:42–47).
Perhaps this can be best pursued by smaller, participatory gatherings with less on the agenda and where everyone contributes. Meals, conversation and debate, prayer, and shared acts of service should come before programming. The community should sit in circles and share what they’re hearing and thinking, asking questions, and processing together. Scripture should be read together as it was meant to be read. It should be interpreted together too, not through the selfish lens of what does this mean for me?, but through the more appropriate lens of what is God and the community of the past trying to say and do, and why? (1 Corinthians 14)
3. Burden-sharing. We need to recover the communal ethic of Acts 2—not as a romanticized ideal, but as a real practice of shared life. This means groceries shared without judgment, childcare offered without strings, bills paid when someone’s struggling, and the kind of emotional and spiritual presence that says “you are not walking through this life alone.”
In a culture over-obsessed with extreme individualism —that has only delivered expanding loneliness— a new vision for church life offers a powerful alternative for something better: interdependence. Not everyone has the same needs and not everyone has the same resources, but we all have something we need to give and something we need to receive. This applies to church leaders, too. No one person or small group should carry the spiritual, emotional, and administrative weight of an entire community. Gifting should lead to people earning authority and letting go of it naturally as needed. The health of the church is not found in a strong leader or small group of them, but in a community that knows how to carry weight together.
4. Standing with the oppressed and persecuted. A faithful church cannot exist apart from human suffering. If we want to discover what it means to be Christlike and where the heart of God is, we have to start by moving toward those who are hurting—be they inside or outside the church or Christian or not. That means standing with the marginalized, persecuted, poor, incarcerated, disabled, immigrant, outcast, abused, and forgotten. And we should be willing to let these experiences transform us and our own beliefs.
This isn’t about charity or optics. It’s about following a Savior who didn’t cling to power but emptied Himself, who consistently showed up for the vulnerable and called out the powerful (Luke 4:16-30). Missions can’t be centered on short-term trips, photo ops, or proselytizing a church monoculture masked as “the Gospel.” A better way of doing missions starts with showing up, staying put, listening well, and standing alongside those who bear the brunt of injustice, come what may (Micah 6:8). This will cost social capital, institutional comfort, money in our bank accounts, and our time. But this is where the local church most clearly reflects the heart of God in the world: not when it centers power, but when it learns how power is being abused and joins the vulnerable in pursuit of liberation, healing, and justice.
5. Leaning hard into ecumenism. If we believe the Spirit is still speaking, we should expect to hear that voice in more than one tradition. This means learning from others who have always been outside this monoculture, such as the liturgical and more charismatic, Black church traditions and immigrant congregations, and contemplatives and activists (John 17:20–21). Others have come before us —faithful, flawed, courageous people— and they have left us a diverse trail to follow. We don’t have to figure out how to move forward from scratch. We can receive, honor, and learn from their stories. Ecumenism isn’t just about theological curiosity, but humility. It’s about learning from the broader Body of Christ.
•••••
In summary, we don’t need to build a shinier version of what is collapsing. We don’t need better branding or more programming. We don’t need a more progressive version of the same old empire. What we need are local churches in a variety of diverse forms that are honest about their uncertainty and brave enough to take risks. We need communities that look more like open tables and places of presence. We need a way of faith in church that doesn’t demand certainty but encourages questions and embraces mystery; that doesn’t try to manage faith, but help people in the messy work of living it and invites you to do the same.
Let the monoculture we inherited fall. The Church was never meant to be a fortress, but a people. What rises from the rubble may look strange to others, perhaps even weird, but history suggests it will look more like Christ.
Closing Thoughts
In Genesis 11, we’re told the story of Babel. A people unified by one language and one purpose decide to build a great city and tower "to make a name for ourselves." But God comes down to see what they’re doing and chooses to end it. He confuses their language, sees that their project is abandoned, and scatters them across the earth.
Like many former evangelicals, I was taught to read this story as one of judgment. These days I wonder if it’s really about mercy. God didn’t destroy these people; what He destroyed was their monoculture. He scattered them so they wouldn’t build a world rooted in pride, control, and uniformity. In doing so, He created space for something more expansive, more human, more colorful, and more dependent on His presence. God saved them from themselves.
The story of Babel echoes loudly today. The church monoculture we were given —a tower built on personality, hierarchy, uniformity, and control— is cracking and collapsing. Cultural shifts and moral failures are only partly to blame. My sense is God is scattering once more, to save us from ourselves and the monoculture we chose to maintain. Not to leave us isolated, but to help us see there’s more than one way to be faithful and live in community. More than one language to speak the love of God.
We deserve judgement, but God is offering mercy. What then, should our response be, besides simply not building a new tower? I think we should become something new instead. Church doesn’t have to happen in a building on a street corner. It happens at a dinner table, and in prayer with others and moments of shared silence. A few people learning to walk with Jesus in real life. Church is just as likely to exist in a bar or someone’s home as it is a building with a steeple on it. Church shouldn’t look the same everywhere. Churches should not exist for their own sake, but for the world’s. Every local church will have a culture, but it does not need to be the culture.
Some of us are beginning to speak different metaphorical languages now in a way that helps us meet ourselves and others where they actually are. More are discovering other languages —the different and far healthier Christian traditions, both ancient and more recent— that have been there all along. As our own version of Babel is abandoned, we have the freedom to move toward the God who scatters.
Last year, I read a fascinating book by Ted Smith called The End of Theological Education. It’s shaped a lot of my own thinking, in large part because the sweeping picture he provides is about so much more than theological education. On pages 126-128, Smith writes:
To know God is to be reconciled to God; to be reconciled to God is to know God, with all the cognitive, affective, and ethical dimensions that knowledge implies. And to know God is to be found in God-and so to be lost in wonder, love, and praise. This is not the means to some higher end. It is itself the end of all our hopes.
The end of our hopes is not the culmination of our efforts―not even as they might be supported by divine assistance. For the fulfillment of hope comes not with the perfection of teaching but with the end of teaching. “No longer shall they teach one another," God says through the prophet, "or say to each other, 'Know the LORD,' for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest." Our efforts at theological education, then, do not approach the ideal asymptotically, getting closer and closer over time until finally God gives us a little boost to get us over the top. No. Jeremiah describes an end that is a real ending of all our teaching and learning. There is a meaningful discontinuity between effort and fulfillment…
Christian hope hinges on an end that comes in the middle of the story. This can make it difficult to know how to go on. It makes impossible the postmillennial plans of Lyman Beecher and others who built theological schools designed to bring in the reign of God–or, in language that only seems more modest, make the world what God wants it to be. At its best, such instrumental reasoning posits a desired end and then devises theological education that helps attain that end. The end justifies the means, legitimating the institutions we create.
But if the end has already come, what form should practical reasoning take? And if the end for which we long is not the perfection of our teaching but the cessation of our teaching, how can it inform our teaching? And why should we even try to teach in the meantime?
A better account of Christian practical reasoning begins not with our actions but with God's. It begins with the trust that even now God is loving the world back to right relation. This is not a smooth and simple process. It is met with violence, resistance, and rejection. But God meets rejections of love with a willingness to keep loving, even at mortal cost to God’s own self. In meeting violence with love-shaped patience, God refuses the terms of engagement defined by sin and death. And so the love of God opens into a fullness of joy that is both more and less than a mere victory.
Continuing on page 178, Smith asks:
What would it be like to orient theological education around the need to give deeply truthful and richly theological accounts of ourselves? What if –instead of preparing students for professional leadership in a network of voluntary associations– theological education acknowledged our shared need to form identities and connections in the wake of individualization?…What would it be like for theological education to help us bear the peculiar kind of freedom forced upon us in these times, and in ways that were faithful to God, connected to others, and life-giving for all?
I think it’s worth adding our own question: what would it look like if we applied these same kinds of questions to the churches of tomorrow that are forming today?
The fundamentalists in the monoculture already cry foul. But this is the same evangelical fundamentalism collapsing inward on itself, like a waning star. By God’s mercy, evangelical authority is coming to an end. By logical conclusion, so is the type of weakened church membership that monoculture demands. Perhaps these questions can be a new beginning—something that is perhaps smaller, but also slower, humbler, and more faithful. Not a tower reaching toward heaven, but a people rooted in God’s presence, scattered in grace, and drawn together anew in His love.
I may not know exactly where this all leads, but I know it’s a road out of scarcity and toward something more holy, more human, and more abundant.
About Me
I explore faith and church culture in the American South from my hometown of Memphis, TN. I’m an institutionalist who believes the means are just as important as the ends. Everything on this site is an expression of my faith and love for the Church.
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