When the river feels holier than the steeple

When fear drove faith indoors, it didn’t end belief — it dis­placed it. 

Some fol­lowed the riv­er. 
Some fol­lowed the woods. 
Some fol­lowed the qui­et pull toward places where their bod­ies could breathe again. 
And often, those paths led to water. 

Not the san­i­tized kind poured from a font, but creeks cold enough to steal your breath. Springs cupped in two hands. Rivers that held grief, joy, and long mem­o­ry in the same current. 

In the hills, water has always been more than symbolic. 

It cleans­es. 
It marks pas­sage. 
It wel­comes peo­ple back into themselves. 

There’s a line in the song Baptized in Mud by PsychWitch that stopped me in my tracks the first time I heard it: 

“Found more spir­it in the weeds than I ever found on my knees.” 

For many Christians, that line sounds like rebellion. 

Like rejec­tion. 
Like some­one walk­ing away from God. 

But for many of us who grew up in church — espe­cial­ly in Appalachia — it sounds more like a confession. 

Because some of us didn’t leave the faith.  We left a ver­sion of it that could no longer hold our ques­tions, our bod­ies, or our grief. 

“Used to walk that chalk line, right up to the chapel door / Spoke of fire and damna­tion, said I couldn’t ask for more.” 

The chalk line is famil­iar. 
Stay inside it. 
Believe the right things. 
Ask the approved ques­tions. 
Don’t wan­der too far or you might fall away. 

Yet Scripture itself is full of wanderers. 

Abraham left home. 
Moses met God in the wilder­ness. 
David wrote psalms beneath open skies. 
Jesus preached from hill­sides, boats, and fields far more often than from temples. 

And still, many of us were taught that God lived pri­mar­i­ly behind a pulpit. 

“Said my soul was thirsty for a water pure and white... But every sin­gle sip they gave me just felt like a long, dark night.” 

Jesus promised liv­ing water. 

But some­where along the way, that water became conditional. 

Grace preached. 
Judgment prac­ticed. 
Freedom named, but care­ful­ly fenced. 

So when peo­ple walk away, it’s often not because they want less holi­ness. It’s because they are starv­ing for the kind of holi­ness that heals. 

When creation preaches what the church forgot 

PsychWitch sings: 

“Now I wash my hands in the riv­er, bap­tize my feet in mud / Got a new con­gre­ga­tion, run­nin’ in my blood.” 

To some Christian ears, that lan­guage sounds dangerous. 

Almost sac­ri­le­gious. But bap­tism itself didn’t begin in church buildings. 

Jesus was bap­tized out­doors, in a mud­dy riv­er, among peo­ple the reli­gious estab­lish­ment had large­ly over­looked. The Jordan wasn’t sanitized. 

It was pub­lic. 
Messy. 
Embodied. 
Alive. 

Throughout Scripture, God con­sis­tent­ly meets peo­ple in creation. 

God speaks through a burn­ing bush. 
A whis­per­ing wind. 

The Psalms declare that the heav­ens reveal God’s glory. 

Paul writes that God’s nature is vis­i­ble through what has been made. 

So when peo­ple say they find God in the woods, the riv­er, the stars, or the dark soil beneath their fin­ger­nails, they aren’t invent­ing some­thing new. 

They are remem­ber­ing some­thing old. 

“Traded pews for for­est floors and ser­mons for the breeze.” 

That isn’t aban­don­ing wor­ship. It’s relo­cat­ing it. 

Judgment was never a fruit of the Spirit 

One line in the song feels espe­cial­ly revealing: 

“Traded their harsh judg­ment for the whis­per of the flood.” 

Jesus gave us a mea­sure for healthy spirituality: 

Love. 
Joy. 
Peace. 
Patience. 
Kindness. 
Gentleness. 

Harsh judg­ment nev­er made the list. 

When church­es become places where belong­ing must be earned, peo­ple often begin search­ing else­where for what their souls need most. And if Christians are won­der­ing why Paganism, folk spir­i­tu­al­i­ty, or earth-based prac­tices appeal to so many peo­ple today, this matters. 

Those spaces often offer what church­es some­times failed to provide: 

Belonging with­out inter­ro­ga­tion. 
Ritual with­out shame. 
Sacredness with­out threat. 

That doesn’t mean every­thing found there is right or com­plete. But it does mean peo­ple are respond­ing to a hunger that deserves to be tak­en seriously. 

Freedom was never the enemy of the Gospel 

The song says: 

“The box they built was stur­dy; the walls were thick and high / But a soul that’s meant to wan­der can’t be afraid to fly.” 

Institutions pre­fer order. God often seems more inter­est­ed in transformation. 

Jesus broke Sabbath expec­ta­tions to heal. 
Touched the unclean. 
Challenged reli­gious lead­ers who loved rules more than people. 

So when peo­ple say: 

“They called my free­dom sin; I just call it a new reply.” 

Sometimes that reply isn’t rebel­lion. 
Sometimes it’s dis­cern­ment. 
Sometimes it’s some­one say­ing:  I still believe in the sacred. I just no longer believe it looks like what harmed me. 

Baptism still happens — just in familiar waters 

“No more holy water, no sir / Just the riv­er run­nin’ deep.” 

For some Christians, that line sounds like loss.  But maybe it’s an invitation. 

Because in these hills, water has always been holy. 
Creeks bap­tized scraped knees and bro­ken hearts. 
Rain car­ried prayers into the ground. 
Mud held the weight of grief and kept grow­ing things anyway. 

Before doc­trine decid­ed who belonged, water did the welcoming. 

Baptism didn’t begin in a sanctuary. 

It hap­pened in mud and mov­ing cur­rent, among peo­ple who knew what it meant to be washed clean by some­thing that asked noth­ing of them but presence. 

Even as church­es tight­ened their grip, the creeks kept calling. 

Offering renew­al with­out inter­ro­ga­tion. 
Grace with­out fear. 
A place to begin again. 

So when some left the steeple behind, they weren’t leav­ing holiness. 

They were fol­low­ing it downstream. 

Maybe the ques­tion isn’t why peo­ple are leav­ing the church. Maybe the ques­tion is why the riv­er feels safer than the sanctuary. 

If God is love, then God can­not be con­fined to places that wound the peo­ple who enter them. 

Some are meet­ing God again: 

In moon­light instead of flu­o­res­cent lights. 
In silence instead of ser­mons. 
In dirt instead of doctrine. 

Not because they hate Christ. 
But because they are still look­ing for him. 

And per­haps, if the church is will­ing to lis­ten instead of defend, repent instead of explain, love instead of con­trol, it might dis­cov­er that the Spirit it fears los­ing has sim­ply been mov­ing where it always has. 

Out beyond the walls. 
Down by the riv­er. 
Still speak­ing. 
Still heal­ing. 
Still wel­com­ing peo­ple home.