The Internet Destination Church

Most of church life isn’t conferences or the sort of stuff that makes the highlight reel.

In my late twenties, I was part of what you might call an “internet destination church." The pastor had a popular blog; he wrote plainly, poked at sacred cows, and tackled subjects most others avoided. It drew a decent online following, and whenever we hosted conferences, people would fly or drive in from all over to be there.

For us, those weekends weren’t normal. You’d rearrange your week, maybe take a day off work to serve, tidy up the house for guests, prep meals, and host folks you’d never met. It was a kind of family hospitality sprint. We already had strong fellowship and a lot of joy in our church, but conference weekends turned everything up to eleven. They were mountaintop moments, months in the making.

I had a lot of conversations with visitors who’d say something like, “This place is incredible. We’re thinking about moving here.” I’d tell them the truth: it was a great church. But it was still just a church. I’d caution them not to mistake a celebration weekend for the regular rhythm of life. Most people appreciated that honesty and never moved. A few did, and many of them settled in fine.

But not all. Some came with their expectations dialed up to fantasy level. One woman arrived full of enthusiasm, talking like she’d finally found heaven on earth. A few months later, she hated the place. My wife and I pulled her aside and told her as gently and clearly as we could: “You set yourself up for this. You built up a picture in your head that no church could live up to.” She didn’t argue. But she did unfriend me on Facebook that same day.

That was a lesson from the Lord, and it turned out to be preparation. Because years later, during and after the COVID lockdowns, I found myself leading another “destination church.” Only this time, I was the guy with the internet platform.

East River was planted right in the middle of a mass migration. Families were fleeing the chaos of big cities and looking for something saner. The best ones were picking a church before they picked a zip code. Our emphasis on localism, small-town life, and household faith struck a chord. For a while, especially in 2021 and early 2022, I was fielding a ton relocation emails and calls every single week.

Some of the people were solid, just looking for stability and a church that preached the Word. Others were deep in consumer mode. They’d come with a laundry list of theological questions. “Do you practice weekly communion?” “How many Psalms do you sing?” “Are you theonomic?” “What’s your stance on head coverings?” “Postmil or Amil?” “Do you sing hymns or modern stuff?”

Now, I don’t mind real questions. But you can usually tell when someone has crammed their head full of online theology without really understanding what they’re talking about. They’re trying to assemble their dream church from a YouTube playlist of lectures.

So I tried to disappoint people early. I’d tell them we’re not the church of any one doctrine. We’re trying to build something that will last a hundred years, a church that preaches the whole counsel of God and applies it to real life.

Now, a word to my fellow pastors...

If you ever find yourself in the position of leading a “destination church,” here’s some advice: disappoint people as fast as you can.

I don’t mean self-sabotage. I mean tell the truth. Be clear. Don’t let people build false hopes on your silence. Make them face reality before they buy a house down the street.

Because here’s the pattern: fanboys become haters. And it happens faster than you’d think. I’ve seen it. I could have leaned into certain aspects of my personality, chased the clicks, played up the more extreme parts of my personality to draw even more people in. But it would have poisoned the well. That kind of growth burns hot and fast, and leaves you with scorched earth.

Hold the line. Let people come for the right reasons, and let them come knowing what they’re signing up for. The best church communities are made of people walking the same direction, for the same reasons—not chasing an idealized version of you, your town, or your preaching.

A lot of folks did move here. And almost all of them have been a blessing. But even they had to face the truth eventually: after the adrenaline of the big move wears off, normal life kicks in.

And that’s the point. Most of church life isn’t conferences or the sort of stuff that makes the highlight reel. It’s work. It’s long-haul faithfulness. It’s shoveling snow, hosting one more family for dinner, praying for your kids, and getting up for Sunday morning after a hard week.

It’s good out here. I love my county. I love our church. But the real beauty isn’t in the big moments. It’s in the ordinary ones—stacked up over time by people who stayed long enough to stop dreaming and start building.