Who's Not Here Yet

Who’s Missing—and Why the Church Should Care

A few Sundays ago, I stood at the back of the sanctuary, coffee in hand, watching people arrive. It was a good morning—the kind where the music was already filling the room and the conversations buzzed with familiar energy. You could feel it—the sense that people were happy to be there. And I was, too.

But as I looked around, something stirred inside me. Not quite a thought—more like a question slowly rising, like a hand raised in the back of the room.

Who’s not here yet?

Not who’s late, not who’s on vacation, not who’s usually in that pew. But... who’s missing? Who doesn’t realize they’re welcome here? Who’s never even thought this could be a place for them?

It’s a question that unsettles—in the best possible way. Because it invites us to consider not just who’s present, but also the edges, and that’s where Jesus always seemed to focus first.

The Welcome That Starts with Jesus

If you read through the New Testament, you notice something: Jesus had a way of seeing the people others overlooked. He wasn’t drawn to status. He didn’t network at the temple. He observed the ones on the outside—sitting at wells, hanging on the fringes, climbing trees to get a glimpse. He didn’t wait for people to fit in before welcoming them. He welcomed them first—and then invited them to grow—not into sameness, but into belovedness.

There’s a passage in scripture that I have been thinking about lately:

“Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.” (Romans 15:7)

That’s the whole playbook. Not “Welcome people who agree with you.” Not “Welcome people who are easy to love.” Just: “Welcome one another... as Christ welcomed you.” And if we’re honest—Christ welcomed us when we were still figuring it out. Still unsure. Still unfinished. Maybe still skeptical. That’s the kind of welcome we’re called to offer—not a polished greeting, but a radical openness to the other. Not a welcome that waits for comfort, but one that moves toward relationship.

Real Stories, Real Tension

I’ve witnessed the beauty of that kind of welcome in the church. I’ve seen it unfold in quiet, everyday ways that feel anything but ordinary. I’ve observed an older congregation greet a young adult arriving alone — not just handing over a bulletin but pulling up a chair, creating space at the table, and asking questions that cultivate real belonging.

I’ve seen young families walk into unfamiliar sanctuaries and gradually—sometimes tearfully—realize that there’s space for their children, their chaos, and their longing. They didn’t just find a friendly church. They found a place that said, ‘You belong here, too.”

Those are the moments I want to hold onto—because they remind me of the kind of community faith is meant to create. But if I’m honest, I’ve also seen the other side. I’ve watched people grow visibly uncomfortable when someone who didn’t “look the part” walked into the sanctuary—tired, carrying bags, looking for rest. No one said, “You don’t belong here.” But no one said, “You do,” either. And sometimes silence speaks just as loud.

I’ve seen churches invite new people in, only to turn them away when their ideas feel unfamiliar. I’ve heard quiet complaints about kids being noisy during worship… as if joy, movement, and life are disruptions instead of signs that something sacred is still unfolding.

I’ve seen congregations become anxious when a pastor attempts to change the shape of worship—not for creativity’s sake, but to reflect the needs of the community around them. A community that no longer resembles the people sitting in the pews.

And that’s where the question comes back with force:

Who’s not here yet?

And maybe more importantly: Why?

What Happens If We Don’t Ask

This isn’t a rhetorical question. Because when we stop asking who’s not here, we begin to believe the lie that the church is only for us. We confuse comfort with calling. We protect familiarity instead of embracing faithfulness. And eventually, we stop noticing that our gospel has become too small.

In a world where polarization is profitable and differences seem threatening, the Church can easily become just another curated space for the already-convinced. But Jesus didn’t build echo chambers. He built tables.

The Question That Break The Mold

“Who’s not here yet?” isn’t a growth strategy. It’s spiritual discipleship. It’s not about boosting attendance or expanding programs. It’s about cultivating hearts—hearts that notice who’s missing and care enough to respond. It’s about breaking the mold.

It’s the kind of question that jolts us out of autopilot. Because when we pause and look around—not just at who’s present, but at who’s missing—we start to notice the quiet edges of our community. Edges where someone has been waiting for an invitation. Edges where someone used to be, but no one followed up. Edges where someone doesn’t even realize they’re welcome.

And if your church feels just right to you, it might be because it was built around you. But the gospel doesn’t call us to create a church that’s comfortable for ourselves. Instead, it calls us to become a people who make room for someone else.

The Unspoken Rules That Keep Us Small

This question pushes us beyond the comfort of “our people” and into the humility of God’s people. It challenges the unspoken rules:

• “We already have enough.”

• “They wouldn’t feel at home here.”

• “They can come if they want to… but we’re not changing anything for them.”

But welcoming someone—a real, Christlike welcome—requires more. It urges us to listen. To stretch. To create space not only in our buildings but also in our habits, in our leadership, and in our lives. Because a church isn’t full simply when the seats are occupied. It’s full when people feel they belong—and understand they matter.

Invitation to the Reader

So, maybe take a walk through your life this week. Not just your church pews, but your routines, your inner circle, your go-to conversations, your dinner table, your neighbors, and your calendar. Then ask gently—not with guilt, but with curiosity.

Who’s not here yet?

Who have I overlooked? Who has slipped away while no one was watching? Who never showed up because they were never truly invited to belong?

You don’t need to change everything this week. But you can notice. You can listen. You can make a little space. Because welcoming someone doesn’t start with programs. It starts with…

· A conversation.

· A gesture.

· An invitation.

· A choice to speak up when someone’s being left out.

· A decision to move toward someone instead of away.

You don’t need perfect words. You just need a heart willing to stretch.

A Table That Grows

Here’s what I believe:

Jesus didn’t come to preserve an exclusive circle—he came to shake it up. He arrived to extend a longer table, where grace is the main course and the invitation is still unfolding. And if we’re not adding more chairs... we’re not truly following Jesus.

So let’s keep asking the question—again and again. Let it shape our worship, our leadership, and our way of life. Because the love that welcomed us was never meant to stop with us. And the Church was never meant to stay quiet while someone waits on the edges.