I didn’t expect to cry walking into an arena.
But there I was—nineteen years old, bleary-eyed from the drive, carrying the usual mix of college-kid exhaustion and quiet cynicism—and the moment I stepped inside the arena where that year’s Passion Conference was being held, I felt something crack open. It wasn’t the music, or the lighting, or the thousands of students gathering around me, though all of that was impressive.
It was the feeling that someone had prepared this place for me.
Not for a number. Not for a demographic. For me.
Everything about that space—from the way we were greeted at the door, to the way volunteers guided us through check-in, to the warmth and welcome in every corner of the building—told a story. It was unmistakable: this place had been prepared with people like me in mind. Not in a generic sense, but with real care and clarity about who they were welcoming, and why it mattered.
And the story was: You matter. We’ve been expecting you. God is going to do some incredible things these next few days. Will you lean in with us?
Hospitality like that hits different when you’re used to environments that are transactional—when you’re ushered from one line to the next, processed, not pastored. So to walk into a space where kindness was offered freely, where no one seemed rushed, and where every small detail seemed to anticipate your arrival—it was disarming in the best way. The care was sincere. The welcome felt personal. And something in me exhaled.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed to feel seen until I was surrounded by people who’d made it their mission to make space for me to be.
And it wasn’t just the people. It was the space itself.
The atmosphere wasn’t an afterthought. It was a ministry.
Before I ever led a creative team… before I produced anything for a stage… I was a quiet kid who kept to himself. I didn’t want to be a part of theater at all. In fact, I thought theater people were weird—and they are! (I can say that because I am one now.) I just needed a fine arts credit in high school. I couldn’t draw to save my life, so art class was out. And I wasn’t about to stand on a stage and act, so I settled— reluctantly—for technical theater. What started as a practical choice quickly became something more meaningful. I discovered a space where I could contribute, learn, and quietly grow into myself—one cue, one scene, one show at a time.
I came into that department still quiet, still unsure of where I belonged. But something about the combination of artistry and technical skill began to stir something in me. I started to understand how the unseen pieces—the cues, the lighting shifts, the way sound filled a room—could shape a story just as much as the actors on stage. For the first time, there was a way for me to create and express what I was feeling that felt safe. Inviting, not threatening. Purposeful, not performative.
My sophomore year, I was asked to join our One Act Play team—the group that would take a show to competition across Texas. That invitation felt like a turning point. For the first time, I felt like a contributor—not someone on the sidelines, but someone trusted to help shape what we were building together. I had a role. I had people. I had purpose. Aside from the early opportunity I had to serve on my church tech team, this was one of the first moments in school where I felt genuinely needed—that my presence and contributions meant something. It was different. It was real. And it stuck with me.
Rehearsals for our OAP weren’t just about running lines or practicing cues. They were about formation. Every single one of us—cast, crew, tech —did everything together. We warmed up together. We cleaned the dressing rooms together. We swept the stage and organized the scene shop together. No job was beneath anyone. We learned each other’s rhythms. We anticipated needs. We became a system so in sync we could unload our entire set from a 10×10 box and build a fully dressed performance-ready environment in under seven minutes… all without saying a word.
The first time we pulled it off silently, we just stood there and looked at each other like, *“Did that really just happen?”*Something clicked. We weren’t just a team. We were a body. Every person knew their role, understood their purpose, and trusted the people next to them to do the same. And in that silence, in that unity, I saw something holy.
It reminded me of the Church—not the building, but the body. Everyone doing their part, unseen but essential. That’s when I realized… we weren’t just performing a show.
We were creating an atmosphere of collective excellence. And that atmosphere had the power to move people. That moment felt like a turning point. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a background player. I had a role. I had people. I had purpose.. I didn’t know where I fit. But somewhere along the way, someone asked me to get on a light board and showed me how to bring a story to life behind the scenes. It wasn’t just an outlet—it was a language. A way to express something I didn’t yet have the words for. And slowly, I began to see how the space around a moment could speak just as powerfully as the words within it. I spent most of high school backstage, adjusting lights, hanging rigging, running sound cues, or moving quietly in the wings while others delivered their lines. And that’s where I first started to notice it—how space could tell a story before the actors ever spoke. In fact, we obsessed over our opening moments. When the house lights went dark and the curtain rose, that was our first impression—the moment we invited our audience into the world we had built. And we treated it with reverence. Every detail mattered: the color palette of the set, the timing of a sound cue, the intensity of the first lighting look, the movement of fog or shadows or silence. We said so much before a single word was spoken. And we wanted that moment to carry weight—to set a tone, to extend an invitation, and to help the audience feel something they couldn’t quite name.
Our theater department was run by an incredible woman named Suzanne Ray. She had high standards and high expectations—not because she wanted or needed control, but because she believed excellence was an act of respect and we were all capable of it. To her, bringing your best wasn’t about showing off. It was about honor.
Honor for yourself.
Honor for your cast and crew.
Honor for the audience.
Honor for the story being told.
Everything mattered. The way we walked into the classroom. The way we spoke. The way we dressed when we ushered on show nights. She would say things like, “Don’t just stand there. Stand with purpose.” And somehow, it stuck. Even before the curtain rose, you could feel it: the intention. The care. The quiet reverence in the air that told you this wasn’t just another high school show.
It was sacred space.
We didn’t use that language at the time. But I’d argue that’s exactly what it was. And that’s what stayed with me—not just the performances, but the atmosphere.
Years later, I sat in the audience at Sight & Sound Theatre in Branson, Missouri, watching their production of *Joseph.*And though I already knew the story- I had heard it a hundred times in church- something about that performance undid me.
It wasn’t just the acting. It wasn’t just the story. It was everything else.
The lighting shifted with the emotional arc of the scene. The sound wrapped around you like weather. The set moved with such grace you barely noticed the transitions. And the smells—yes, the smells—pulled you deeper into the world of the story until it wasn’t just a show anymore.
It was an encounter.
And I remember thinking, This is what happens when environment is done right. When every element is calibrated to support—not distract from—the message. When creativity doesn’t compete with the story, but carries it. When you’re not just seeing something… you’re feeling it.
We talk a lot in ministry about what people hear. But we forget that most people feel long before they’re ready to listen. The ministry of atmosphere isn’t about emotional manipulation. It’s about spiritual hospitality. It’s the intentional shaping of space to reflect the welcome of God.
You belong here.
You’re safe here.
You’re seen.
You’re loved.
Sometimes I think creatives get stuck trying to make the moment happen. We try to produce something powerful—as if the Spirit needs our help showing up.
But I’ve learned that production doesn’t create presence.
It prepares for it.
There’s a difference between manufacturing a feeling and creating room for one. I’ve done both. And I’ll tell you—the second one is way better. Because when you learn to play the supporting role to the Spirit, you stop trying to steal the spotlight. You stop chasing “wow” and start cultivating “welcome.” You stop asking How do we impress them? and start asking How do we prepare for Him?
I’ll take presence over polish any day.
I’ve seen what happens when we get it backwards.
When production tries to be the main event—when atmosphere becomes spectacle instead of service—it might still look impressive. It might even get a few wows. But something gets lost.
There was a season when I thought the best thing I could offer was excellence. And don’t get me wrong—I still believe in excellence. I still believe it matters. But I’ve also come to believe that excellence without empathy falls flat. You can execute everything flawlessly and still leave people feeling disconnected.
Because ministry isn’t about flawless execution.
It’s about faithful invitation.
One of the most defining moments came the night before we opened Lone Star Lights for the very first time. My team and I had been working around the clock—installing, testing, troubleshooting, resetting—running on adrenaline and the hope that the pieces would all come together in time. By the time 5 a.m. rolled around, we were out of words. We moved around in quiet exhaustion, each of us making final rounds, adjusting decor, adjusting the final lights.
I remember standing alone for a moment near the center of the park. The sky was beginning to shift into the soft tones of morning, and everything around me felt still. No guests. No soundtrack. Just the weight of what had been built. Twenty acres of stories, scenes, and experiences—some whimsical, some reverent, all intentional—crafted from vision and prayer and sweat and long nights.
We had talked about these spaces for months. Prayed over them. Argued about them. Spent hours on site walks and layout sketches, debating the placement of lanterns or trees or how many beats a moment should take before the next one began. And now it was here. A pause before the doors opened. A deep breath before the invitation was extended.
Even empty, the space felt alive. It felt full. As if something sacred had settled over it. The kind of stillness that isn’t absent of movement—it’s just waiting for the right kind. And in that moment, I wasn’t proud of the product. I was humbled by the preparation. This wasn’t about impressing people with lights or environments. This was about making space for people to feel seen. To encounter peace. To maybe even meet Jesus.
That’s the kind of atmosphere I want to create—not flashy, but faithful.
Because atmosphere isn’t decoration.
It’s declaration.
It declares that this moment matters. That the people walking into the space matter. That something more is happening here than content. There’s care. And where there’s care, hearts open.
I’ve worked on projects that had no budget and projects that had more margin. I’ve used high-end gear and repurposed things from storage closets. But the defining factor—the thing that actually shapes the outcome—is never the size of the check or the stack of tech.
It’s always the level of intentionality.
The most meaningful atmospheres I’ve seen emerge weren’t always the most elaborate. They were the most thoughtfully held. Crafted with care, with prayer, with questions like: What are we inviting people into? What do they need to feel, to notice, to believe is possible the moment they step into this space?
Sometimes that answer is simple—joy, peace, awe, reflection. Sometimes it’s deeply personal—trust, safety, conviction, healing.
But if we don’t stop to ask those questions, we end up producing environments that look good but fall flat. Environments that impress but don’t connect. And in ministry, that’s never the win.
I’ve seen people walk into a room and pause—not because anything flashy was happening, but because the room had been prepared with care. And that care created space for them to breathe. Sometimes you could see it in their body language. Sometimes it showed up in a single tear. Sometimes, they’d say nothing at all—and that said everything.
You don’t need haze machines or LED walls to create that. You just need intention. You just need care. You need to treat space as sacred, not just strategic.
Because when you do, people notice—even if they can’t articulate why.
There’s a temptation in creative ministry to believe that more impact requires more effort. More layers. More elements. More spectacle.
But I’ve learned that sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is make space.
Not fill it.
Not force it.
Just make it.
We had a space at Lone Star Lights called the Prayer Arbor. Simple lights. calm music. No performance. Just a hallway of handwritten tags from guests—each one carrying a prayer, a name, or a note of praise. One evening, a mother and her young son walked through. As they passed by the hanging tags, the boy asked, “What is all this?” His mom replied, “This is called the prayer arbor. It’s where people write down a prayer to God. It’s for people who believe in that stuff.” The boy quietly said, “Oh,” and kept walking.
But later that night, he returned—alone—and asked one of our hosts if he could leave a tag. Our host helped him write a message and hang it carefully among the others. The boy ran off after hanging his tag, off to play at the nearby playground. A few minutes later, the mother came back on her own. She asked if the host could point out her son’s tag. He gently led her to it, then stepped back.
She knelt. Read it. And began to cry.
Her son had written: “Jesus, I pray for my mom.”
That moment didn’t need a script. It didn’t need a spotlight. The space did the work. The Spirit did the rest.
Let the moment breathe. Let the Spirit speak. Let the silence linger.
People don’t always need more information.
They need more room.
I think that’s why I’ve become so protective of atmosphere. Not controlling—protective. Because when you’ve seen what it can do… when you’ve watched a moment unfold that couldn’t have been scripted, when someone opens up or lets their guard down or quietly reaches for something they didn’t know they needed… not because of what was said, but because of what was felt—it changes how you approach everything.
You stop measuring success by applause or attendance and start looking for something more subtle. More sacred. You start looking for shoulders that drop, tears that surface, silence that holds weight. You begin to recognize that impact doesn’t always announce itself—it often whispers.
I’ve come to see myself less as a producer and more as a preparer. Less about managing an experience and more about stewarding a possibility. A possibility that something real could happen, something holy could break through, even if no one notices the work it took to get there.
I don’t need to control the moment. I just want to care for it. I want to set the table. I want to light the path. I want to clear the clutter that might distract someone from hearing what God is already trying to say. Because when you care for a moment, when you hold it with tenderness and intentionality, you make room for God to move in it. And that kind of movement changes everything.
That shift didn’t happen overnight.
There were seasons where I got it wrong. Times when I prioritized perfection over presence. When I thought a tighter cue sheet or a more epic opener would be the thing that moved people. Sometimes, we’d execute everything just right and walk away wondering why it didn’t seem to land.
And other times—truthfully, times when things didn’t go right—God would still move. The mic would cut out. The slide wouldn’t trigger. The fog machine would go rogue. Power would go out right in the middle of a night of worship. (true story) And somehow, people would encounter Jesus anyway.
That’ll humble you fast.
Because at the end of the day, the Spirit doesn’t need our excellence. But He does honor our intention.
And when our intention is to prepare the way—to create space, not take it up—we get to be part of something holy.
Not because we engineered it.
But because we made room for it.
These days, I think about atmosphere in layers—not just stacked like design elements, but more like concentric rings of human experience. Each one builds on the next. Each one matters.
The first layer is physical. The environment you can see, touch, hear, and move through. Is the room warm or sterile? Too loud or too quiet? Harshly lit or thoughtfully toned? Are there too many chairs? Not enough space to breathe? These aren’t just decor preferences. They’re emotional cues. They tell people whether or not they can relax. Whether they’re welcome. Whether this is a space to take off their coat—or their armor.
The second layer is relational. Who’s greeting them? Who’s watching the door with a shepherd’s heart instead of a clipboard? Who’s praying over the space before anyone arrives? Who’s anticipating the nerves, questions, or hesitations that might walk in with every guest? I’ve seen a kind smile do more for spiritual openness than a hundred cues timed to perfection. People respond to people. And when they sense intentional presence—someone paying attention to their experience—they begin to exhale.
The third layer—the most important—is spiritual. Have we asked God what He wants to do here? Have we paused long enough to listen, or are we just charging forward and hoping He keeps up? Have we submitted our plans for His presence—or are we just asking Him to bless the thing we’ve already decided to build? This layer is the one that grounds everything else. It’s the reason we don’t just “design services.” We prepare sacred space.
When all three layers align—physical, relational, and spiritual—something happens. The atmosphere hums. Not because it’s loud, but because it’s alive.
I’m not perfect at this. I still get pulled into timelines and task lists. I still catch myself obsessing over the wrong details. But I’m learning to come back to this rhythm: slow down. Pray first. Walk the space. Think about the quietest person in the room, and the burden they might be carrying. And then create from that place.
Because my job isn’t to fill the space. It’s to steward it.
And that stewardship—that blend of intentionality, humility, and hope—is one of the most sacred roles a creative can carry.
I’ll never forget the moment I watched a guest family walk into our Christmas park, Lone Star Lights. They stepped through the archway and just… stopped. Not because something flashy happened. Not because music blared or fireworks erupted. But because the space around them had been prepared with such care that it caught them off guard.
The mom turned to me later and said, “I don’t know what it is, but we felt peace the second we walked in.”
That’s the win.
Not the lights. Not the layout. Not the number of tickets scanned.
Peace.
Presence.
Jesus.
Atmosphere isn’t just about creating cool spaces.
It’s about cultivating sacred ones. Spaces that carry intention, not just design. Spaces that become more than the sum of their parts—because they’ve been prayed over, thought through, and lovingly built with people in mind. It’s about knowing that environment has a voice of its own, and it’s always saying something—even before anyone speaks.
And if you’re in ministry—whether you’re the one designing the lobby, programming the opener, mixing the audio, or even just setting out the chairs—you’re part of that ministry. You’re not just filling space. You’re forming it. You’re not just making things look nice. You’re making them feel safe, seen, and welcoming.
You’re helping prepare the way—for someone’s first impression, for someone’s return to faith, for someone’s quiet prayer they don’t even know how to say yet.
You’re helping hearts breathe again. Helping people let down their guard. Helping someone exhale the weight of their week and inhale the nearness of God.
You’re helping remove barriers so someone else can step into something holy. It might be the first time they’ve felt peace in months. Or the first time they’ve let themselves hope. It might be the place where a seed is planted, or where healing begins, or where they finally whisper a yes to something God’s been whispering to them.
Not because of your creativity, but through it.
Because creativity, when surrendered and aligned, becomes more than art. It becomes invitation. And invitation is holy ground.
