I was recently in conversation with a progressive friend about the Catholic Church—its history, its internal tensions, and the burdens it continues to carry, from abuse scandals to its place in contemporary political life. At some point, with more confidence than sensitivity, I suggested she might consider the Episcopal Church—its progressive posture, its interpretive flexibility, its willingness, in many places, to meet the modern world on its own terms.
It was, in retrospect, not my finest moment.
The suggestion landed less as an invitation than as a category error. I might as well have asked an Arsenal supporter to take up Tottenham. One does not simply change such allegiances. They are not chosen in the ordinary sense; they are inherited, absorbed, and lived into over time. One’s church, like one’s club, is often less a matter of preference than of belonging.
For most of history, this was not merely cultural but structural. One worshipped where one was born, within the traditions available. Choice, in the modern sense, scarcely existed. One could attend more or less frequently, believe more or less fervently—but the framework itself was largely given.
That world, of course, has changed.
In the United States especially, religious life now presents itself as a field of options. Within Christianity alone, the range is vast—not only across denominations, but within them. A short drive reveals not one church, but many, each with its own tone, rhythm, and theological emphasis. One can, if one wishes, choose.
And we do choose—sometimes consciously, sometimes by drift. We look, we compare, we settle—not on what is given, but on what fits. We select for style, for schedule, for community, for alignment with our understanding of scripture or our broader view of the world. Worship, in this sense, begins to resemble other forms of modern life.
There is something liberating in this.
There is also something quietly disorienting.
What was once received as obligation can now be approached as preference—and preference, for all its freedoms, rarely asks very much of us at all.
I grew up in an African American Baptist church—three-hour services, gospel music of extraordinary power, a congregation fully engaged, and preaching that left little ambiguity about the stakes. Sunday was not simply a ritual; it was an event, a gathering point for the community, a place where charisma, talent, and conviction were on full display. It was, in its way, unforgettable.
It is not, however, how I now understand or practice spirituality.
And yet, I find myself drawn back to it in unexpected ways. Through YouTube, one can move across traditions, continents, and styles of worship—sometimes within the span of an evening. What was once bounded by geography is now fluid, and what was once inherited can now be sampled. I have found myself listening to an Anglican priest in Nova Scotia, whose tone and cadence differ entirely from the world I knew, yet carry their own quiet authority.
The pandemic did not create this shift, but it accelerated it. What was once local became accessible; what was once fixed became optional. The geography of worship, like so much else, has expanded.
We often speak of how the internet and social media have unsettled institutions, blurred boundaries, and multiplied choices. In matters of faith, the change is less remarked upon, but no less profound.
Choice has expanded; certainty has not.
We are, many of us, no longer confined to the traditions we inherited.
But neither are we entirely free from them.
And somewhere between inheritance and selection—between the church we were given and the one we might choose—we continue, however imperfectly, to search for something that still feels, in the deepest sense, like home.