Beauty isn’t Optional

Re-thinking Mobility in Church Planting, and the Call to Rootedness

Over the years, I’ve heard pastors and church leaders speak with pride about their decision to never own a building. Many are committed to renting indefinitely, pointing to practicality as the primary reason. Renting, they say, allows for flexibility, mobility, and freedom from the burdens of property ownership. On the surface, this approach seems sensible—especially for church plants that need to adapt to changing circumstances. But I wonder if practicality is always the sole motivation. Could there be more to this trend, and does it reveal something deeper about how we think about the Church?

This approach has been championed by many respected leaders. I have even had conversation with pastors in my home state who have made the strategic choice that their churches will remain mobile forever, avoiding the permanence of owning a building. While these decisions are often framed as sacrificial and mission-oriented, they raise important questions: What are we losing by embracing transience? Is this approach really sustainable—or even biblical—in the long run?

There’s no denying that mobility offers real advantages, especially in the early stages of a church plant. Renting can help reduce financial strain, enable flexibility, and allow a church to grow without the immediate burden of maintaining a building. These are valid considerations. But I’ve observed another dynamic at play. For some churches, the decision to remain mobile seems tied to an unspoken ambition: scalability. Renting makes it easier to expand, add services, and grow numerically. But this raises a critical tension. You can’t scale endlessly if you commit to a beautiful, rooted, and permanent space. A permanent building forces you to plant deeper rather than wider. It necessitates investing in a specific community, perhaps even birthing smaller parishes instead of building a central megachurch. And many leaders, understandably, find this difficult to reconcile with the metrics of modern success.

This leads to a broader question: is there truth and goodness without beauty? Historically, the Church has answered with a resounding “no.” Truth, goodness, and beauty were seen as inseparable, each reflecting the glory of God. The architecture of cathedrals, the poetry of liturgy, and the art of worship all bore witness to this unity. Yet in much of the contemporary Church, beauty has been sidelined. We view it as optional, perhaps even unnecessary—a luxury we’ll address only after the practical concerns are met. But this disconnection isn’t neutral. It reflects a deeper shift in how we understand the Church’s mission and calling.

It’s time to rethink the scorecards. If beauty, truth, and goodness are truly inseparable, then a church without beauty might not be as healthy as it appears. And perhaps, just perhaps, we’ve been taught to value things that are quietly eroding genuine vitality.

Scripture shows us a God who values beauty. The tabernacle was adorned with intricate craftsmanship. The temple was a place of awe-inspiring splendor, designed not for efficiency but to reflect the majesty of the Creator. These were spaces where the people of God encountered His glory, not just in words but through their senses. To overlook beauty in our worship and spaces is to miss a vital part of what it means to bear witness to the God of truth, goodness, and beauty.

The decision to remain permanently mobile isn’t just a logistical one—it’s a theological statement. In Scripture, homelessness and exile are not celebrated but mourned. God’s redemptive work is always oriented toward dwelling—with Him, with one another, and within creation. To remain mobile indefinitely is to risk embracing a state of dislocation, one that Scripture consistently portrays as unnatural.

Of course, there is a difference between a church that aspires to beauty—working toward it patiently, as resources allow—and a church that rejects rootedness entirely for the sake of convenience. Some churches genuinely lack the resources to build or maintain a beautiful space, and this is understandable. Others, however, have the means but choose transience as a deliberate strategy. This choice often stems from a desire to remain flexible, but it also risks sending an unintended message: that the church itself is temporary, experimental, or uncertain of its future.

This brings up an important consideration: how tied is the failure rate of church plants to this emphasis on mobility? Statistics show that many church plants fail within their first five years. Could it be that a refusal to put down roots contributes to this instability? By contrast, churches that commit to a place—investing in its beauty, permanence, and sacredness—communicate stability and faithfulness. They become fixtures in their communities, tangible witnesses to God’s enduring presence in a world of change.

Beauty matters. It’s not a secondary concern or an optional extra. It’s a core part of how the Church fulfills its mission. In a world starving for depth, mystery, and transcendence, the Church has a unique opportunity to offer what only it can: a glimpse of the divine through spaces, worship, and practices that reflect God’s truth, goodness, and beauty. If we fail to offer this, people will look for it elsewhere—and often find it distorted or hollow.

The time has come to recover what has been lost. Let us re-evaluate the metrics by which we measure success. Let us ask not only whether our churches are growing numerically but whether they reflect the truth, goodness, and beauty of God. Let us not fear rootedness but embrace it as a sign of faithfulness to the communities we serve.

This is not just about buildings. It’s about embodying the Gospel in every way—through the truths we proclaim, the goodness we practice, and the beauty we create. The Church was never meant to be merely pragmatic. It was meant to bear witness to the eternal. Let’s not settle for exile when we have been called to dwell in the presence of God and invite others to do the same.