From sharing circles to house churches, young people are transforming worship
| Boston and Washington
It’s often said that young people aren’t interested in religion, but a study of over 10,000 young people from ages 13 to 25 published last year by Springtide Research Institute suggests otherwise. The majority of those surveyed identify as religious (71%) or spiritual (78%), but they don’t approach faith in conventional ways.
For previous generations, religion operated as something akin to a prix fixe menu, where the only choice was whether to accept what was offered, says Springtide’s executive director, Josh Packard. Now, he thinks of these new spaces as more of a potluck.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onYoung people are searching for faith communities that prioritize connection and self-discovery over conformity to tradition. In the process, they are transforming sacred spaces and redefining worship.
“Young people want to show up at a place where everybody else is bringing a piece of themselves to share.”
That sense of community is central to downtown Washington’s Grace Capital City, founded by a young couple in 2016. Particularly notable are its “house churches” – neighborhood-based groups by which congregants gather weekly in members’ homes to share meals, worship, and discuss the Scriptures in as honest and personal a setting as possible.
“At the root of it, people are really, really looking for connection,” says Jolee Paden, a member since 2018.
“We’re not just here to consume,” she says. “I want to connect. I want to be a blessing – and hopefully be blessed in the process.”
It’s a familiar, even tired, story: Young people have turned away from religion, probably for good. They’re skeptical, jaded, plain uninterested. As congregations shrink, spiritual leaders wring their hands, wondering how to attract the next generation into the pews. Meanwhile, popular culture writes and rewrites religion’s obituary.
But that doesn’t mean young people have stopped asking the big, age-old questions, which, at their heart, are “religious questions,” says the Rev. Benjamin Perry, a minister in his early 30s at Middle Collegiate Church in New York City.
“‘Who am I? Why am I here? How do I know that what I do has value?’ Those kinds of questions young people are absolutely asking,” he says. “They’re just not looking [for answers] in all the same places that people did 30 years ago.”
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onYoung people are searching for faith communities that prioritize connection and self-discovery over conformity to tradition. In the process, they are transforming sacred spaces and redefining worship.
Mr. Perry’s church describes itself as “a multicultural, multiethnic, intergenerational movement of Spirit and justice, powered by fierce, revolutionary Love, with room for all.” Services weave together traditional hymns and biblical reflection with hip-hop, jazz, and liturgical dance. Roundtables on topics from Black liberation theology to transgender identity are common, proposed by an active contingent of nearly 100 young adult members.
It’s one of many spaces across the United States where young people are forging spiritual paths that don’t necessarily conform to the religious traditions handed down for generations. Instead, these seekers are reshaping old communities and creating new ones that embody the values they care most about, from radical inclusion to pluralistic exploration. Importantly, they don’t require members to sacrifice pieces of their identity to belong.
“Meeting people where they are instead of expecting them to conform to your own understanding of what it means to be a church I think is really, really important,” says Mr. Perry.
That begs the question: Where are these young people coming from? It turns out that the assumption they have no interest in spiritual life may not be accurate, according to a study of over 10,000 young people between the ages of 13 and 25 published last year by Springtide Research Institute. The majority surveyed do identify as religious (71%) or spiritual (78%), but the way they approach religious life is new.
“They’re not really interested in these prepackaged, institutionalized, complete answers being handed to them,” says Springtide’s executive director, Josh Packard, who characterizes this generation of spiritual seekers as “explorers” and “builders.”
For previous generations, religion operated as something akin to a prix fixe menu, where the only choice was whether to accept what was offered, he explains. Now, he thinks of these new spaces as more of a potluck.
“Young people want to show up at a place where everybody else is bringing a piece of themselves to share.”
“New grooves ... in ancient soil”
Through the double doors that open to a spacious sanctuary in Boston, a sign sets the tone for the intimate gathering: “At the Crossing, we make church together. Help us lead this service by taking one of these roles.” Worshippers can choose from a variety of options, like sharing announcements or reading a scriptural passage, as they make their way to the concentric circles of wooden chairs that line a warm, red rug.
The service begins with a soft, melodic chant. When the Rev. Tamra Tucker stands to speak, you’d be forgiven for thinking she was a congregant – save for the rim of a white collar peeking out from her red cardigan. She opens with a promise: “Every single piece of you [is] being welcomed into this space, not to conform to us, but to change us, and to lead with us.”
The Crossing is a small, unconventional Episcopal community, founded in 2006 by young worshippers hoping for a new type of church. They wanted a space for LGBTQ individuals to feel at home, where everyone could bring their full selves, and “new grooves” could be “dug in ancient soil,” as Ms. Tucker puts it.
Following her personal sermon, called a “reflection,” a mic is passed around the circle for worshippers to respond. Midway through the service, unstructured time opens for congregants to choose the practice that speaks to them: giving, meditation, conversation, or prayer. And during a period of collective prayer, each member can share a blessing out loud or silently.
“That freedom gives me a new breath of air in terms of church,” says Jimmy Lim, the Crossing’s 28-year-old music director, who joined the group at the end of 2021. He used to attend a traditional Methodist church but found the hierarchy and cultural expectations stifling. “Here, everyone can add a little bit of their part.”
“You don’t need to be buttoned up”
Less than a third of 13-to-25-year-olds who are active in a traditional religious organization turn there in difficult or uncertain times, according to the Springtide study. When asked why, over half selected responses that include “I don’t feel like I can be my full self in a religious organization” and “I do not like to be told answers about faith and religion. I’d rather discover my own answers.”
That was true for Kalilah Jamall, who was raised in a Muslim household, until she stumbled into the Interfaith Center at the University of North Florida. “Not only did they tell me that doubts and questions about religion are OK, but some people even have a strengthened faith, a more passionate faith, because they’re able to critique and analyze it,” she says. Now she works at the center, where she frequently helps other students reconcile their identities and social values with their faith.
Religious communities that are successfully connecting with young people are “really authentic spaces,” says Rabbi Elan Babchuck, founder of the Glean Network, an organization helping spiritual leaders meld tradition and innovation.
“You don’t need to be buttoned up,” says the young rabbi. “There’s a lot more fluidity and mixing and bending of faith practices.”
Whatever shape worship takes, Rabbi Babchuck says faith leaders are having to ask new questions, like “How can I help this person build the character that they want to build? How can I help this person become formed by these [worship] experiences, as opposed to a spectator sport where we perform for you?”
Connection and community
That way of thinking seems to be attracting young people to more conventional churches, too, like Grace Capital City in downtown Washington.
On a recent Sunday afternoon, the atrium bustles as worshippers greet familiar faces and welcome new ones. By the time the drums begin to reverberate through the floorboards, ushers have to help latecomers find seats. Most of the 300 or so members are in their 20s, and only a couple of gray heads are visible in the crowd. This is a church where turning 33 makes you feel old, whispers a smiling congregant.
“We’re always praying for more spiritual mothers and fathers at our church, because we’re a bunch of kids running around,” jokes Jolee Paden, who joined the church in 2018 when she moved to the city from Illinois after college.
Once the music fades and Pastor Chris Moerman begins to speak, you can hear a pin drop. When he says “take note,” phones and notebooks emerge throughout the atrium (though all his sermons are on Spotify). His message is simple, colored by his own experiences of darkness and growth, and grounded in Hebrews 3:8 – “do not harden your hearts.” Instead, let tenderness build intimacy and genuine connection with others, he tells the crowd, because community is not meant to be easy. “It’s meant to be sanctifying.”
It’s a lesson the congregation has already taken to heart. Members of Grace Capital City actively build a strong sense of community in a variety of ways, most notably through “house churches” – neighborhood-based groups by which congregants gather weekly in members’ homes to share meals, worship, and discuss the Scriptures in as honest and personal a setting as possible.
“Sometimes we have a tendency to overcomplicate things, to overstrategize,” says Jessica Moerman, who co-founded the church with her husband in 2016. “Instead, we’re trying to strip things back to the basics. ... We want to hone in on the real, core things of our faith.”
“At the root of it, people are really, really looking for connection,” says Ms. Paden, whose first house church experience convinced her she had found her spiritual home.
“We’re not just here to consume,” she says. “You don’t just go into your pew and say, ‘OK, I want to come and I want to go.’ No, I want to connect. I want to be a blessing – and hopefully be blessed in the process.”
Intergenerational bridges
The Rev. Dr. Ian Mevorach is continually surprised by the dedication of the 20-somethings who are part of the Common Street Spiritual Center in Natick, Massachusetts. The center occupies a classic church building with tall ceilings and stained-glass windows, but it’s a place where spirituality doesn’t fit inside any boxes.
Ecstatic dance, meditation, breathwork, cacao ceremonies, sharing circles, spiritual open mics ... the list of activities organized by young participants goes on.
“I’m a classically trained clergyperson trying to transition into this new environment of spirituality,” says Dr. Mevorach, who helped the church shift to what he calls a pluralistic spiritual center in 2014. But the reverend, who is in his 30s, says he’s more like a facilitator than a leader. “As more young people show up, we’re giving them the freedom to create, and supporting them to do what they want to do.”
The spiritual center still holds regular church services on Sundays, which generally attract an older crowd. But a few old-timers have been attending some of the youth-led events, says Dr. Mevorach, building valuable intergenerational bridges.
Ms. Paden, from Grace Capital City, agrees that no matter how much youthful energy is driving a faith community forward, relationships with older mentors still matter.
“I think most people in our church would just love it if someone older than 50 was like, ‘Hey, could I take you to lunch?’” she says with a laugh. “Oh, they would probably start crying.”
