Treehouse: Breaking the Maze: The Church of Tomorrow - Love Without Limits

Disclaimer: The mention of Beverly Hills and any churches within it is not meant as a statement or endorsement of the city or any specific churches located in Beverly Hills. This reference pertains to a church functioning in a rented space within the area.

The scene felt eerily reminiscent of the Glade in The Maze Runner. A closed-off community, bound by unwritten rules and hierarchies, where certain identities and aspirations didn’t fit the mold. The runners—the ones exploring uncharted paths—were few, while the rest clung to tradition, unwilling to step beyond the known. Just like Thomas disrupted the rigid structure of the Glade, calling into question its purpose and pressing for change, the winds of transformation began to stir here too. The old walls of exclusivity and judgment were showing cracks, revealing the possibility of a world beyond them. And though resistance lingered, so did hope—a hope that this place, like the maze, could become something greater, something free.

The guys lounging around after the sermon, at least those who weren’t "casted" in that cool, unspoken way of local social hierarchies, started with their usual comments. "You can’t really be this and be part of the church," I overheard one say. Another chimed in, "Well, you know, that just doesn’t align with our tradition." At first, I thought they were trading philosophies, debating theology with some intellectual flair. But the subtext wasn’t so subtle—it was judgment. To them, you couldn’t truly be a part of this church if you were female and ambitious, LGBTQ+, or from a background that was anything but white.

It wasn't just wrong; it felt suffocating. Why did the church—this place meant to offer sanctuary and love—feel more like an exclusive country club? Where was the sense of humanity, the compassion, the thing that Jesus himself preached about? It left a pit in my stomach.

But then something clicked. Standing there, I realized something beautiful was starting to unfold—not in that particular group, but in the larger community, in the lives of so many others I’d encountered. The winds of change were stirring. A new era was dawning for the church, one that wasn’t defined by outdated tradition or exclusion but by inclusion, humanity, and authentic connection.

To those old churches, the ones that turned people away with whispered judgments or overt prejudice, we say this era is for everyone. This is an era where diversity isn’t just tolerated—it’s celebrated. It’s an era where love transcends labels, and humanity comes before conformity. It’s a time when the church isn’t just a building, a set of rules, or a sermon—it’s people, it’s community, it’s a safe haven for anyone, regardless of who they are or where they’ve come from.

And here’s the thing—this isn’t about abandoning faith. This is about expanding it. We are walking into a time where the church no longer clings to the past but embraces a future that celebrates the beautiful spectrum of humanity. Republican values of community, compassion, and integrity don’t stand in opposition to this vision—they can enhance it. Love and empathy don’t come with contradictions.

I believe in this church of tomorrow. A church where women aren’t limited but elevated, where being LGBTQ+ isn’t a barrier but a part of the vibrant fabric of the community, where all races, cultures, and stories are not only welcomed but essential. That’s not just a church I want to attend—it’s a church I want to help build.

This is what I’d say to the guys trading judgments outside the sanctuary doors in Beverly Hills—I’d hand them an invitation to this new era. And I’d remind them, gently but firmly, that faith isn’t about closing doors. It’s about opening them wide.