Stop Being the Crowd

I’ve had a close friend for a few years now. Our lives cross paths almost weekly, so we’ve gotten into a nice rhythm—laughs, life updates, the occasional vent session…you get the idea. Early on in our friendship, I invited her to church with me. Simple, right?

Wrong.

Let’s just say she was not thrilled. I’m talking friendship-on-life-support levels of not thrilled. It was like I had offered her a seat on a roller coaster she never wanted to ride. Ever since then, if I’m honest, I’ve been a little gun-shy about bringing up anything remotely spiritual. Anytime I even thought about bringing up Jesus or church, I’d chicken out—like I was holding something fragile I didn’t want to break.

But when Steve started talking about our ‘My 5’ cards God started poking at my heart.

You know that holy nudge you can’t ignore?

I started praying, “Okay, God—if there’s a way to bring You up in conversation without sounding like I’m a complete weirdo, I’m open to it.”

Funny thing about prayers like that—God tends to answer them. Quickly. Sometimes alarmingly quickly.

Not even a week later, I noticed my friend was missing from a place she never misses. I thought, “Huh. That’s weird. She’s always here. So I shot her a quick text: “Hey, I missed seeing you today. Just wanted you to know I’m praying for whatever’s going on.”

Not even two minutes later—her name pops up on my caller ID.

Pause for dramatic effect: This woman has never called me. Ever. Two years of friendship and not a single phone call. Naturally, my first thought was, “Oh no. I’ve either made her really mad, or she’s in jail.”

I picked up the phone and all I heard was crying. Through the tears, she told me she was dealing with a heartbreaking family situation. At that very moment when I sent the text, she was sitting in her car, in a parking lot, trying to gather the courage to walk into the mess.

All I could do in that moment was pray with her, encourage her, and remind her—God sees her. Loves her. Hasn’t gone anywhere.

God didn’t just crack the door open—He blew it off the hinges. Since then, He’s given me multiple chances to share His love with her. And I really believe she’s closer than ever to meeting Jesus.

But here’s the part that stings—I waited years. Years of surface-level friendship, afraid of rocking the boat. Afraid of ruining something comfortable. And I keep asking myself: Why did I let my comfort get in the way of someone else’s eternity?

That question reminded me of another group of people who—maybe without meaning to—chose comfort over compassion.

Remember the story in Mark 2? The one with the paralyzed man whose friends carried him to Jesus?

If you’ve been in church for a while, you probably saw it on a flannelgraph as a kid (shout-out to Sunday school superstars).

In the story, the house where Jesus was teaching was packed—standing room only… think Chick-fil-A on a baseball Saturday. That’s when four friends climbed the roof, ripped a hole in it (pretty sure the homeowner wasn’t thrilled), and lowered their friend down to Jesus.

I’ve always admired those guys. I mean, who does that? They were so committed…. unstoppable…creative. The kind of friends you want when life falls apart—and your legs don’t work.

But lately, I’ve realized…I’m not usually like the guys on the roof.

I’m more like the crowd.

Mark 2:1–2 says, “…the people heard that [Jesus] had come home. So many gathered that there was no room left, not even outside the door…”

They weren’t bad people. They just really wanted to be near Jesus. Maybe they lined up before sunrise to grab a spot. Maybe someone brought homemade cookies…or fresh sourdough bread. Maybe they got annoyed when someone smelly sat next to them. ("Ugh, not the sandals-without-socks guy again.")

But here’s the problem: their desire to be close to Jesus accidentally blocked the way for someone who desperately needed Him.

And that hits a little too close to home.

Because I can go through the motions—church on Sunday, talking to my usual people, sitting in my seat (yes, the one I mentally own even though there’s no name tag on it)—and without realizing it, I become the crowd. Comfortable. Unbothered. Blind.

Blind to the hurting.
Blind to the outsider.
Blind to the person who’s clawing at the roof, desperate to get in.

And if I’m honest, sometimes even blind to the parts of me that still need Jesus to heal, to cleanse, to change.

Can I say something that might sting a little?

Sometimes…I think our church can become the crowd.

We love the community, the coffee, the music, the sermon (as long as it’s under 35 minutes and has lots of funny stories), but if we’re not careful, we make it hard for people to meet Jesus. Not on purpose…but we do it when we prioritize comfort over calling.

Some people come week after week, not to “visit,” but feeling they have to fight their way in. They’re spiritually exhausted, emotionally raw, and just hoping someone will move enough to make space.

If we want to be like those four friends in Mark 2, friend….it means we have to move. We have to make space. We have to be willing to tear the roof off if that’s what it takes to get someone to Jesus.

And to do that, we’ve got to keep our eyes on Him. Not on our seat, our preferences, or our routines—but on Jesus.

I pray we’re a church that looks like those four friends.
I pray the messy and the hurting feel safe here—seen here.
I pray we make it easy for people to meet Jesus, not harder.
And I pray that you and I become so aware of who God has placed in our path, that we start texting, calling, praying, and climbing roofs if that’s what it takes.

Let’s stop being the crowd.

It’s time to be a friend.