Written by Jeremy Mitchell, Executive Director, His Way Recovery Center of Georgia
When I look back over my recovery journey, one thing that stands out loudly is fellowship.
The Bible talks often about the power of community, and I believe God designed us to walk together—especially in our weakest moments. The enemy wants to isolate us, just like a lion separates its prey from the herd. (1 Peter 5:8) And let me tell you, that strategy works. Every time I’ve failed in recovery, it followed the same pattern: I started strong in community, then slowly drifted away distancing myself until I was wide open for a fall.
This time around, it’s been different. I’ve stayed rooted in fellowship, both in my recovery community and in the church. I’ve been surrounded by accountability, some of it natural, and some intentional. I’ve had people to counsel me, train me, challenge me, and pray for me.
And I honestly don’t believe I’d be where I am today without it.
The Church That Embraced Me
When I first walked into Central Church, I didn’t look the part. I was tattooed, broken, and wearing the only clothes I had. I remember praying before I went in,
“God, I don’t need to be fully accepted—I just want to stand in the presence of Your people. That would be enough for me.”
But God gave me more than enough.
From the moment I walked in, I was hugged, welcomed, and loved. I still remember this older woman asking if she could tattoo her scalp to cover her thinning hair—it was a weird conversation, but exactly what I needed. It made me feel human. It made me feel seen.
Later, I prayed to God and said,
“Thank You for letting these people love me like this. But if You don’t mind, could they love me just a little bit less? I’m exhausted!”
It wasn’t just church services, it was invitations into homes, conversations over coffee, meals, events, and real relationships. That kind of fellowship made me feel like I belonged.
When you’re in addiction, that’s one of the deepest cravings: to feel like you belong somewhere.
Learning to Worship Together
Worship has been one of the most surprising parts of my recovery journey. When I first came back to church, I was spiritually malnourished—starving for anything that could keep me alive. It reminded me of the guys we see come into His Way in those first few days: thin, shaky, emotionally wrecked, and just trying to survive. They raid the kitchen, stash food in their rooms, and eat like they’ve never eaten before. They aren’t worried about flavor or nutrition—they’re just trying to stay alive.
That was me with church. I wasn’t there to participate. I wasn’t there to serve. I came in desperate—starving for truth, for comfort, for hope. I soaked up the sermons like they were my last meal. Every worship song, every communion reflection, every handshake at the door was a lifeline.
But something changed over time.
As I began to grow—through discipleship, accountability, and spending time in God’s Word—I stopped showing up hungry and started showing up healthy. I didn’t need to hoard spiritual food anymore. I wasn’t just taking in. I was ready to give out.
Worship became less about what I could get and more about what I could give. I started noticing the people around me more. I looked forward to seeing the older men who shook my hand every week, the women who smiled at me like I was family.
And eventually, I found myself stepping into roles I never imagined I could hold. Teaching a class. Preaching a sermon. Helping someone else feel like they belonged, just like others had done for me.
That’s the beauty of worshiping together. When you’re in survival mode, you come to church with empty hands. But when you’re walking in grace and growth, you come with open hands—ready to give.
Church became more than a building. It became a table. And I wasn’t just eating anymore—I had a seat and a purpose at that table.
Worshiping together taught me that God doesn’t just heal us privately—He grows us publicly, in fellowship, in community, side-by-side.
Mentors and Accountability
One of the greatest blessings in my recovery—and in my life—has been the men God placed around me. I didn’t find healing in isolation. I found it in connection, in correction, in counsel, and sometimes just in quiet presence.
I like to say I’m a collector of men. Not in some weird or shallow way, but in the sense that when I see something Godly in a man—something I admire, something I want to grow into—I try to keep him close. I learn from his life. I watch how he carries himself. I listen more than I speak.
Tom Reynolds is one of those men. He was the director of the program, and when I first met him, I told him straight up that I didn’t trust him. I gave him all the reasons why, expecting him to distance himself. But he didn’t. He stayed. He showed up. He earned my trust—not through words, but through consistent presence. He didn’t need me to believe in him; he believed in me.
Then there’s Darryl Floyd. We went through the program together, and while he’s older than me, we walked side by side through a lot of the same growth. We held each other accountable—sometimes with truth, sometimes with grace, but always with a shared understanding that failure wasn’t the end.
Gary Benford started out counseling me, but over time he became something more—a mentor, a spiritual guide, a friend. Same with Jim Norville. Jim’s been in ministry for over 50 years, and he carries wisdom like few people I’ve met. He doesn’t have to say much for you to feel like you’ve just sat through a sermon.
Byron Hedrick was another important figure. He was a Christian man with a background not too different from mine, but he’d found success in business and family life. Seeing a man who shared my past but didn’t let it define him gave me a picture of what could be.
John Neiland was one of the first people who brought me outside my comfort zone. He took me to Atlanta, let me tag along in his world, and gave me a front-row seat to see what a faithful life looked like in action.
And the truth is, the list goes on and on.
Since I gave my life to Christ, I’ve been intentional about surrounding myself with men who sharpen me.
Proverbs says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” That’s not just a verse to me—that’s a way of life.
Fellowship isn’t just sitting in a circle and talking about our feelings. Sometimes it’s being corrected. Sometimes it’s being encouraged. Sometimes it’s just sitting next to someone in silence, knowing they’ve got your back even if you don’t have the words.
That’s what real accountability looks like. That’s what mentorship feels like. That’s what fellowship in recovery demands: people who will walk with you, fight for you, speak truth to you, and love you when you’re at your worst.
I’m not self-made. I’m community-built.
Advice to the Church
To the church, I’d say this: relax. You don’t need to have all the answers. You’re not expected to be an expert on addiction, trauma, or recovery—and honestly, most of us in recovery aren’t looking for an expert anyway. We’re looking for people. Real ones.
You don’t have to fix anyone. That’s not your job. That’s Jesus’ job. Your role is to show up. To listen. To care. To walk alongside someone even if their story makes you uncomfortable. Especially if it makes you uncomfortable.
One of the biggest mistakes I see in church settings is when people try to “fix the addict” instead of just building a relationship with a fellow human being. Don’t overthink it. We’re not projects. We’re not problems to solve. We’re just people who’ve been through some stuff—and in that way, we’re really no different than you.
We all carry brokenness. We all wrestle with sin. We all want to be seen, known, and loved.
The opposite of addiction isn’t sobriety—it’s connection.
That’s what the enemy tries to steal through addiction: connection with God, with family, with self, and with community. And that’s what the church can help restore—not through programs or sermons, but through people.
So just connect.
Shake a hand. Ask someone how they’re really doing—and mean it. Don’t be afraid to go first in vulnerability. Share your story, even if it feels small. Recovery folks don’t need you to be perfect—they need you to be honest.
Swap numbers. Send a text. Invite someone to dinner. Sit beside them during worship. Be available. Be patient.
Because in my experience, what changes lives more than anything is not the doctrine, the structure, or the services, it’s friendships. It’s the hugs that come before the handshake. It’s the “I’m glad you are here” that’s said with your eyes, not just your mouth.
That’s what saved me. A church that loved me not because I had it together, but because they saw me as one of their own—before I ever believed I could belong.
You don’t need a special degree to love people in recovery. You just need a willing heart and the humility to walk alongside them. That’s it.
Just be a friend.
Advice to Those in Recovery
To anyone in recovery who’s stepping into a church for the first time—or maybe the first time in a long time—I want to say this: just breathe.
I know it feels like the whole room is looking at you. I know the voices in your head are telling you that you don’t belong, that you don’t fit in, that you’re too broken, too messy, too “much.” But that’s a lie straight from the enemy.
What’s really in that room? People. Just like you.
People who are hurting. People who are trying. People who are lonely, who are tired, who are carrying silent battles behind Sunday smiles.
They want love.
They want connection.
They want to belong.
Just like you.
So don’t wait around for someone to approach you. You don’t need a committee or a welcome team to validate your presence. Be a friend. Walk up to someone. Shake a hand. Ask their name. Ask how their week’s been. And if you get ignored or brushed off—try again. Because not everyone’s going to get it, and that’s okay.
You might be tempted to get frustrated when people don’t understand addiction. But here’s the truth: you shouldn’t want them to.
To truly understand what you’ve walked through, they’d have to live it—and you wouldn’t wish that path on anyone.
They’re not supposed to understand addiction.
They’re supposed to understand compassion.
And grace.
And the gospel.
So let them do that—and you do your part, too. Don’t close yourself off. Don’t assume they’re judging you just because they haven’t walked your road. Give them a chance to love you. Let them in.
Because church isn’t about showing up perfect—it’s about showing up. Period.
And recovery doesn’t end at sobriety. True recovery means learning how to live again in community—with God and with others.
So walk through the doors.
Take a deep breath.
Look around.
And remember: you’re not a burden—you’re a blessing.