I found myself one summer night standing amongst a crowd of sweaty bodies crammed into a run down house. A beer can was in hand and metal music filled my ears, and the scent of the space was familiar somehow. I couldn’t quite place it.

I swayed and stumbled as I watched people throw themselves at each other with glee; every time someone fell to the ground, the crowd would surge forward to yank them back to their feet. The smell came to me in the rush of bodies, the scent of late night gatherings held at church camp. 

When I had ventured into the DIY show scene, I expected to find a violent, deviant crowd; I was worried about being ousted as a fake for not painting my face with eyeliner or using the substances others were using. But that summer night, as we all jumped and headbanged in unison, I was overcome with a feeling I had only ever felt in the height of godly worship; a feeling I hadn’t experienced in several years. A euphoric feeling that tugged my spirit out of my body and made me see and be seen in a room of complete strangers. Nobody cared what I looked like, or how I spent my free time. As long as I respected these people and the space, there would be a place for me. This was true for everyone who stepped inside. As long as you were there to revel together, joyously, we would lift each other up.
There would be a place for you, too. 

The church is not the building. The church is the people.