There’s No Pitch For Selling A Church
But There is a Prayer I Say Every Time.
In my life, I’ve sold… a lot.
I got my start in restaurants, sweet-talking folks into adding a top-shelf margarita to their enchiladas and definitely saying yes to the dessert tray. From there, I went full throttle into car sales. Hondas, Mazdas, Fords—you name it. I once taught someone to drive a stick shift just so they could buy a used Mustang off the lot. (You’re welcome, world.)
I’ve sold gym memberships, personal training packages, my own belongings on Facebook Marketplace, and a wildly overpriced faux leather couch to a pawn shop guy named Chuck who definitely knew better.
Fast forward: I’ve sold lake houses, beach houses, brand-new builds, bungalows, mini-mansions, and one cul-de-sac that basically turned into a group project. Just this morning, I helped my kids run a lemonade stand on our front lawn like a pre-licensed version of Shark Tank.
But never—until now—have I sold a church. I mean, as far as real estate goes, a church for sale is pretty rare.
To be fair, technically, it’s no different from selling any other kind of property. There’s square footage to measure, doors that stick, HVAC units to explain in hopeful tones, and plenty of concrete parking. And yet—it is different.
You feel it the second you step through the doors. This isn’t just real estate.
This is holy ground.
The church I’ve listed was built in 1950. It’s got stunning stained-glass windows, the kind that filter sunlight like a kaleidoscope made by angels. The chandeliers are gold-trimmed with little crosses. There’s a baptismal pool, and a choir loft that feels like someone might come walking out in a white robe, ready to sing.
I walk through it reverently. Quietly. And let me tell you, that’s not my usual showing style. Normally, I’m channeling a walking HGTV episode—this closet’s a game-changer, that porch is built for SEC Saturdays, and have you seen this pantry?
But in this church, the tone changes. The “selling” part takes a backseat.
Because how do you pitch a place that has held someone’s wedding and another person’s funeral?
How do you explain the value of a sanctuary where countless people stood, knelt, cried, laughed, sang, whispered prayers, and maybe even yelled a hallelujah or two?
It’s more than just floors and walls. It’s more than the roof or the baptismal plumbing or the kitchen that smells faintly like 75 years of potlucks.
Every time I walk in, I say a little prayer: that this church finds its next chapter, that another congregation fills its pews and brings the walls to life.
Lately, I’ve shown it to all kinds of organizations—small and large, traditional and contemporary, new churches looking to plant roots and older ones looking to relocate. They walk through and look for all the usual things: seating capacity, classrooms, acoustics, accessibility. But they’re also searching for something intangible.
Connection. Purpose. Spirit.
And isn’t that what all buyers (and people) are looking for, in some way?
Whether it’s a family searching for a backyard big enough for a dog and a trampoline, or a couple wanting their dream kitchen to host Thanksgivings, every buyer is trying to imagine life within the walls. That emotional pull is part of the deal—even when the deal is a church.
Maybe it’s not so different after all.
Except… it is.
Because every so often, during a showing, I’ll pause in the sanctuary while someone’s walking the halls. And I’ll imagine a room full of people here. Singing. Praying. Starting something.
It gives me goosebumps. And I’ve been in this business long enough to know when something’s special.
And whoever ends up with this great space, I hope they feel what I’ve felt every time I’ve walked through those doors: reverence, responsibility, and a quiet little wish whispered up to the rafters.
May this church live on. May it echo always with music and joy. And may the next chapter be just as sacred as the last.
