The fellowship hall at Atlanta Christian Church (ACC) looked like it had time-traveled and jumped two decades into the past. Beneath glowing string lights lay a smorgasbord of junk food: pizza, neon Kool-Aid Jammers, Gushers and Dunkaroos — an altar to the late ’00s and early ’10s. The only update? A modest plate marked “gluten-free.”
Down the hallway, a rubber ball smacked against the four square court. “Wait — what are the rules again?” someone shouted. On the windowsill, a blinking Bluetooth speaker filled in for the old boombox, pumping out classic youth group anthems from DC Talk, Relient K and Switchfoot.
There, a group of 30- and 40-somethings — some identifying as exvangelical, most having emerged from the deep caverns of deconstruction — assembled as their high school selves. Among them were the eyeliner-clad emo kids in band tees, athletes in khaki shorts, and the pious, with zippered Bible cases and WWJD bracelets.
In my day job, I work with churches interested in innovative ministries with young adults, so I’m familiar with the usual strategies of reaching young adults in mainline denominations — breweries, brunches and service projects. Thus I was surprised when I heard that two young adults from ACC pitched a throwback youth group night. I’m not sure I’ve met anyone else who wants to relive high school.
“What do you hope to get out of this?” their pastor asked.
I wondered too. So I joined them. What I discovered was nostalgia, laughter — and healing.
Conversations about adverse youth group experiences have become commonplace in many churches. These range from small, awkward, uncomfortable aspects — like the bad sermons from a youth pastor sporting a soul patch and frosted tips — to truly life-altering experiences with lasting impact. What many long for — but seldom encounter as adults — is a place to unpack it.
But this night provided some space. Participants reminisced about everything from hell houses filled with demons, drug addicts and — always — a woman having an abortion to “Left Behind” books that portrayed God as both hero and villain. Many had internalized a faith shaped by fear.
As one young adult said, “Who didn’t feel a jolt of terror that the rapture took place when Mom’s car was in the garage but she wasn’t?”
The infamous Lifehouse “Everything” skit was burned into the memory of an entire generation, just like the Sunday night altar call (“with every eye closed and every head bowed”).
“I remember when a friend got saved so we could get to lunch on time,” another said.
Laughter filled the room, but there was an uneasy truth underneath the smiles — it wasn’t OK.
Purity culture was layered on to the fear, with its shame tactics and gendered double standards. Girls bore the weight: They were warned that their bodies were stumbling blocks, that modesty was their responsibility, that their worth could be measured in sexual “purity.” One young adult recalled the solemn purity ring ceremony, where hormonal teens vowed abstinence by candlelight. No one wanted to be “chewed gum.”
None of this would surprise many former youth group kids. Although I am older than the folks who hosted the gathering, my youth group experience was not that different from theirs. What was surprising was how renaming and revisiting those experiences armed with a fully developed prefrontal cortex felt both cathartic and complicated. The memories aren’t just good or bad; they are a layered landscape where moments of joy exist right alongside deep pain.
There was genuine goodness in youth group for many people. It was fun to play four square with Relient K blaring in the background, overtaking the king square and keeping dominion until someone could return a Pete Sampras-level serve.
The worship, including the music with bad theology, did facilitate an experience of God as we were beginning to understand our mysterious and sacred world. For many, the community did provide a space to explore who we were and bestow the confidence to step into who we wanted to become.
Youth group was the venue where generations of Jesus followers learned to be human and Christian at the same time.
What I think many folks needed — and still need — is a space where gratitude and grief are allowed to coexist. There was healing in naming it, and even a kind of joy in replaying the script.
I’ve come to see that what happened may have been a kind of narrative reenactment, a spiritual processing that unfolded as the young adults revisited and relived their formative years. What was once a rigid, top-down experience of pressure and powerlessness was reclaimed through rebellion, using sarcasm and irony. Something done to me became something I now choose to step into.
I saw how belting out “Lord, I Lift Your Name on High” and giggling while pantomiming a grave for Jesus became part of the healing process. It wasn’t outright mockery — it was a kind of satirical commentary on a subculture many of us have left behind.
The group reclaimed this song and others, prompting laughter rather than pain.
To be clear, this experience was not therapy (nor was it intended to be), but it was therapeutic. In retrospect, it might have been wise to have a trained clinician present, but I don’t think anyone was deeply triggered by it.
The throwback night felt healing because it opened a basement door and folks dared to go inside. Pain can ease when exposed to air and light — to laughter and tears — and, most importantly, to friends who understand the good, the bad and, obviously, the cringey.
Young adulthood can be a period to weave together identity and purpose, moving from borrowed beliefs to a faith and confidence that are truly one’s own. Some young adults have deconstructed their adolescent faith and carefully pieced things back together; others remain wary of organized religion. Some have leaned into an eclectic mysticism, others into doubt, and many have landed somewhere in the hazy space of being spiritual but not religious.
The young adults at ACC seem to experience the church as a container big and gracious enough for them to sort out their spirituality. At times, that means revisiting the place where the foundation of faith was planted: a fellowship hall with a rubber ball, a guitar and, most important of all, four square, Reliant K and Dunkaroos.
