We were hanging out with some friends the other week, and the grown-ups had sunk into one of those conversations, the deep-in-the-weeds, slightly-too-serious kind about church politics. You know the type: furrowed brows, long sighs, and someone eventually drops the classic, “I just don’t know anymore.”

Right in the middle of that emotional crescendo, my son, who’d been orbiting the edge of the group with busy hands and an even busier imagination, jumped in like he was born for the moment.

He blurted out, “You know, I don’t know why they just don’t build the church one of the big TV walls so we could play Minecraft on it for Youth Group!”

…Silence.

I was halfway into the classic dad reflex, you know, the tight smile, the “not now, buddy,” and the gentle redirection toward anywhere but here, when Hannah gave me the look.

Not the “handle your child” look, but the “this is how he learns” look.

And just like that, she preached a better sermon than I had all month.

He didn’t know he had just swan-dived into a conversation about leadership burnout and budget cuts. He just wanted in. To be part of the world he saw us taking so seriously. To try on the grown-up voice for size, even if the fit was awkward.

It hit me later, adult conversations are like riding a bike with no training wheels. And kids? They need space to wobble. To interrupt. To completely miss the point sometimes. Because that’s how they figure it out.

So now, when he jumps in with something completely unrelated or wildly off-base, I try to take a beat. To listen. To affirm. Because I don’t just want to raise someone who knows when to speak, I want to raise someone who knows he’s worth hearing when he does.

And hey, who knows? Some game time at church might just solve more problems than we think.

Picture this: We were driving to church this morning, my wife, kids, and me, coffee in hand and shoes barely tied. My son took over the car stereo, and the vibe started to settle in. You know that moment when the pre-church fog starts to lift, and you’re trying to shift from “where’s your other shoe?” to “let’s get our hearts right before Jesus”?

Then it happened.

Jelly Roll’s new song with Alex Warren, “Bloodline,” came on. The beat dropped, the lyrics spilled out raw and honest, and then the Spirit did what the Spirit does, hit me like a freight train wrapped in grace. Right in the middle of this gravel-voiced, tattoo-covered, country-rap anthem, God whispered something that got louder and louder until it echoed in my bones:

“He’s just a baby.”

Now hold on, before your theology sirens start going off, hear me out.

We live in a fast-food faith culture. Everything is instant: sermons, study guides, even salvation plans. We want souls saved, sanctified, and streaming sermons within a week. But when a new believer shows up, still reeking of the world they came from, we squint and start looking for the ‘off’ switch. Too raw. Too rough. Too real.

But here’s the thing: babies don’t come out of the womb quoting Romans. They cry. They stumble. They make messes. And we don’t scream at actual babies when they mess up, we laugh, we clap when they try, and we clean them up without shame. Why don’t we do that for spiritual babies?

When Jelly Roll talks about Jesus or sings about  generational curses or with the desperation of someone clawing for freedom, and Christians start dissecting his theology like it’s their senior thesis, I can’t help but hear that cry again:

“He’s just a baby!”

Look at Jelly Roll. The man’s story is full of addiction, pain, prison, and searching. He wears his scars like ink on his skin. When he talks about grace, it’s not theory, it’s oxygen. The Church should be rallying around him, helping him walk this thing out, not watching with arms folded, waiting for him to say the wrong thing so they can tweet a takedown.

Same with Kat Von D. She spent years immersed in witchcraft, fame, and self-reinvention. She’s newly baptized, posting pictures of her Bible, stepping away from her old life. And instead of rejoicing, many Christians sit back like fruit inspectors judging her authenticity.

And Joe Rogan? No, he hasn’t had a public altar call moment. But the man is searching, going to church on a weekly basis. He asks better questions than many lifelong believers do. He wrestles out loud, which is more honest than most.

We’ve confused arrival with conversion. And that’s not how this works.

When Jesus called the Twelve, they weren’t rabbis. They weren’t spiritual elites. They were fishermen, tax collectors, political radicals. The only thing they had in common was that they said yes.

They didn’t understand parables. They argued over who was the greatest. One betrayed Him, one denied Him, most abandoned Him. But Jesus never said, “You’re too immature. Come back when you’ve read Isaiah cover to cover.”

Instead, He invited them to follow Him. To eat with Him. To learn from Him.

Look at Mark 4:33-34 (NIV): With many similar parables Jesus spoke the word to them, as much as they could understand. He did not say anything to them without using a parable. But when he was alone with his own disciples, he explained everything.

Jesus knew their capacity. He didn’t overwhelm them. He walked with them. Explained things. Gave them room to grow.

In Matthew 5:13, Jesus calls us the salt of the earth. Salt is a preservative. It’s healing. It’s flavor. But it only works when applied with intention.

Hospitality is the ministry of making room, room for healing, for GROWTH, for questions, for failure. It says, “Come in. You don’t have to have it all figured out. There’s a seat at the table anyway.”

And yet, so often, our churches are more like country clubs than emergency rooms. We want clean people, not broken ones. We want testimonies without the mess. We want polished packages, not process.

But process is where discipleship happens.

Paul’s tone in 1 Corinthians 3:1-2 (NIV) is one of both frustration and grace:

Brothers and sisters, I could not address you as people who live by the Spirit but as people who are still worldly, mere infants in Christ. I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it.

Milk isn’t shameful. It’s necessary. It means you’re alive. It means you’re growing.

We expect people to digest deep doctrine when they’re still figuring out that Genesis isn’t just a band.

God doesn’t judge the eloquence of our words, He weighs the intent of our hearts. Think of the criminal on the cross beside Jesus. No seminary degree. No baptism. Just this: “Remember me.”

And Jesus responded with, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

Our faith begins with the heart. Romans 10:9-10 lays it out plainly:

If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.

There’s no footnote that says “after six months of behavior modification and a small group study.”

I’ve got three kids. And kids say the most ridiculous things.

One time my son tried to explain the resurrection with the game Fortnight, and I swear I saw a heresy form in real time. But did I yell? Did I correct him harshly? No. I laughed. I was proud he was thinking about God.

That’s what God does with us.

When we say dumb things in prayer, when we stumble in our walk, when we sin and come crawling back for the hundredth time, He doesn’t turn away.

He leans in. He says, “You’re still mine. Keep walking.”

What the Church Should Do?

Celebrate the spark. When someone starts to believe, even awkwardly, we rejoice.

Correct with compassion. Discipleship means lovingly pointing people toward truth, not shaming them.

Share your own baby stories. Be vulnerable. Talk about when you didn’t know any better.

Stop being fruit inspectors. Only God gets to judge the harvest. We’re called to water and wait.

Jelly Roll might not say it right. Kat might still have tattoos and a past. Joe might cuss his way into a question about Christ. But God is at work.

Let them GROW.

Stop expecting full-grown trees when the seed just got planted. Don’t dig it up to see if it’s growing. Water it. Love it. Stay close.

If we could see the way Heaven rejoices over one soul getting curious about Jesus, we’d spend less time criticizing and more time celebrating.

**So the next time you hear a new believer say something theologically off, maybe don’t pounce. Maybe pause. Smile. And remember:

He’s just a baby.**

Stay Salty