The Pesky Postulant

Or: Why the Book of Common Prayer Isn’t a Cage — and Why You Shouldn’t Have to Lead a Committee to Feel Like You Belong

Let’s start here: a lot of young people don’t leave church because they hate God. They leave because they didn’t feel safe bringing their full, messy, questioning, crying, dancing, quiet, neurodivergent (which just means people whose brains work a little differently — like those with ADHD, autism, dyslexia, and more), gender-expansive, trauma-holding, wildly beloved selves through the doors.

And sometimes, we have to admit… that’s on us.

We make a big deal about being the Episcopal Church welcoming everyone, but we’re not always great at making space for people to worship as themselves. We say we love young people, but then we flinch when they do something unfamiliar — like getting visibly emotional during the Prayers of the People, or asking why the hymn is in 5/4 and sounds like it’s been dragged behind a horse.

We don’t say it out loud, but the message still lands: there’s a “correct” way to be in the pews. And if you’re not quiet, composed, and mostly invisible, you’re doing it wrong.

And yes — Episcopal worship can feel formal to someone walking in for the first time. There’s incense, there are vestments, there’s a rhythm to the service that isn’t always explained out loud. If you didn’t grow up with it, it can feel like stepping into a dance halfway through — beautiful, but confusing. And if you’re young, or unsure, or just hoping not to stand out, it’s easy to feel like everyone else got the instructions but you.

But here’s what we forget to say out loud:
It’s not done this way to exclude you. It’s done this way so everyone can join in.

That’s why it’s called the Book of Common Prayer — not the Book of Fancy People Prayer, or the Book of People Who Already Know What They’re Doing.
It’s common. It’s shared. It’s meant to give us words when we don’t have any. It’s scaffolding, not a cage.

But if we’re honest, sometimes we turn that scaffolding into a wall.

We shush the kid who whispers a question during the sermon. We quietly hope the teen who flaps their hands learns to “settle down.” We build youth rooms around trust falls and forced fun but forget to ask how our programming feels to the queer kid who just wants to light a candle and not be stared at.

And then we wonder why the room is empty five years later.

And sometimes, the older members of the Church forget — or maybe never fully realized — what caused so many younger people to drift away. I’m not in high school anymore. I’m not in my early twenties. I’m not the person trying church for the very first time. But I remember what it felt like to wonder if I belonged, and I know what it feels like to still carry some of those questions into the sanctuary today.

I can’t give you all the stats and studies, but I can tell you what shaped a lot of us:
We grew up with televangelists on our screens asking our grandmothers for money in the name of Jesus. We watched church used as a performance — sometimes as a means of control. And as we got older, we started to learn the hard truth: that not every person wearing a collar or quoting Scripture was kind, or honest, or safe.

That leaves a mark.
We’re not faithless. We’re cautious. We’ve been hurt.
And when we do find the courage to come back, we’re sometimes met with confusion, or with judgment wrapped in good intentions.

Older folks often do want younger people in the pews. That’s real. But the way that desire shows up can be clumsy — sometimes impatient, sometimes unintentionally dismissive. The Church won’t grow just because we want it to. It grows when we build trust. When we listen. When we stop assuming everyone knows how to belong here.

And let’s be honest:
Sometimes the only way a young adult gets fully welcomed into parish life is if they agree to chair something. Or run something. Or be the token “young person” on a committee. We spend so much time trying to recruit young adults that we forget they already have full-time lives outside the church — jobs, families, school, caregiving, survival. But belonging shouldn’t come with a clipboard. You shouldn’t have to prove your usefulness before you’re allowed to just… be here.

This isn’t about blame. It’s about shared responsibility.
Because the Church was never meant to belong to one generation.
It belongs to all of us.

And some of us are standing in the middle — trying to keep the door open from both sides.

We could do better.

And not in a “let’s throw together a new confirmation curriculum” kind of way.
In a “let’s sit with the truth that we’ve made people feel like they don’t belong, and figure out how to repent with our actions” kind of way.

I attended our Church’s General Convention last year. It was a massive, well-funded, well-planned event — and yet, much to my chagrin, there were no quiet sensory rooms for attendees who needed them. There was one chapel space, tucked away in a weird, obscure room basically a block off-site. If you were overwhelmed, overstimulated, or just needed a moment of peace, you had to work for it. That was a failure. A big one. We had the resources. We just didn’t prioritize the people.

We can start by:

• Letting young people worship how they worship — whether that’s silent, expressive, distracted, neurodivergent, hesitant, or just honest.
• Naming that “looking different” doesn’t mean someone’s doing it wrong.
• Creating spiritual spaces where someone can say, “I’m not sure I believe that,” and still be invited to the altar.
• Saying “standing or kneeling as you are able” like we actually mean it — because not everyone showed up with a fully functional body, a Book of Common Prayer, or a clue what’s happening. Someone needs to hold up a sign that says, “Just copy the person in front of you unless they look equally confused.”
• Offering worship that’s actually accessible — not just physically, but logistically. That means high-quality online services that don’t feel like an afterthought, and in-person offerings outside the sacred 10 a.m. Sunday slot. Because a lot of people work weekends, juggle shifts, or have caregiving responsibilities that don’t pause for Morning Prayer.
• Asking young people how they experience God — and listening, really listening, without rushing to smooth it out.

Because if the Church is only safe for the polished, the traditional, and the people who already know the script — then it’s not the Body of Christ. It’s a members-only club with really nice candles.

And I believe the Episcopal Church can be more than that.
I’ve seen it be more than that.

So let’s keep the rhythm and the beauty of our liturgy. But let’s not confuse beauty with rigidity. Let’s not confuse reverence with repression. And let’s not confuse being “common” with being “comfortable for people who already fit in.”

There’s a whole generation out there craving the sacred.
Let’s be brave enough to make room at the table — even when it gets messy.
Especially when it gets messy.

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Stay pesky, friends.

In Christ,
Ericca