Tag Archives: vine

One Year Later

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It’s exactly a year to the day since the Vine ended, one of the most ash-grey moments of my life.

I don’t know why, but up until this point, I have felt very little about all of it. I did not experience anything but bone-weary relief when the Vine closed. I did not mourn when we sold our house, moved from the city that we had tried to call our home. I did not cry when we said goodbye to our friends, smiles on our faces like paint on cracked plaster.

I don’t know exactly why that all changed this last weekend.

Perhaps it was simply this year mark.

Perhaps it was being on a retreat with my new faith community, seeing the faces around me, and thinking about the people who are no longer in my life.

Perhaps it was having the retreat led by the pastor of a new church, one I had helped out during their opening worship gathering, in the very same weeks that the Vine was drawing to a close.

Perhaps it was the Taize music, bringing back nights and morning in a tiny house in our early years: two couples praying, over-full on hope; all those dreams painful rubble just a few years later.

But, for the first time this weekend, I wept.

And I missed it.

I missed the best moments of the church I tried so desperately to plant, of the times when I saw people come alive, when I watched friendships blossom, when I experienced those giddy times when I knew we were undiluted outpourings of God’s goodness to our world. I miss those moments when I felt like I had discovered an expression of church that didn’t require all the backdoor institutional compromises, one that felt like the purest offering of love that I could lift up with my life.

I miss my house. This is perhaps the most visceral of my losses. It was a glorious home; one that offered us the very best of what gave us life and the very best of what we hoped our lives would be. I miss our hardwood floors and big windows. I miss our double sized living room, our working fireplace, our wall to wall bookshelves. I miss the meandering curve of our second floor hallway and my office with its slate green walls, contemplative windows, and solid wood-block of a desk. I miss our quiet bedroom, our hopeful sitting room, our lead glassed windows, our small hidden cabinets. I miss the promise of our empty third floor, decorated with the prayers and hopes of our friends and family, waiting for a future spring, full of guests, children, and joy.

There is much that I don’t miss: the suspicious water spots on the ceiling, the sloping pitch of the floor, the sinking feeling, as our dreams slipped through our hands, that we really couldn’t afford a place like this and still build a life together.

Still, I know we will never live in a house that beautiful again.

And –  I miss, I miss my city, which still feels like home.

I miss the unpretentious beauty of its old houses.

I miss the downtown in all its struggle and hope.

I miss our friends: the young hipsters, the idealistic boomers, the dirty-fingernailed street people, the beautiful children, and the good hearted business owners.

I miss the trees and the lakes.

I miss the farms.

I miss the feeling of roots, of love for place that grew from stilted practice to effortless habit within me.

While its landscape is scarred with trauma and hurt, while often the very crosswalks and stop signs taste of bad memories, of deep doubt, of creeping, bitter disappointment, while I don’t know that I could ever have been more than a dancing puppet of my best self there, I still miss it.

I miss it. I miss it. I miss it.

I feel like I’m at a pause right now, catching my breath on a journey to somewhere. And, I admit, this pause is indeed a pleasant, peaceful, healing one.

But there are days I look back at the road behind me,

See the shape of that stillborn future,

And weep.

“By the rivers of Babylon—

   there we sat down and there we wept

   when we remembered Zion.

If I forget you, O Jerusalem,

   let my right hand wither!

Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,

   if I do not remember you.”

Psalm 137

Part Seven: Quick Everyone! Act Normal (1/2)

Nearly everyone asked us, “So what are you?” during the first few years of our ministry.

This one topped the list of several important questions which popped up like lice in the kindergarten classroom that was the first few years of our ministry.

“Are you a church?” was a popular one.

“Where is your building”, was another one, followed every time by “When do you plan to get one?”

“How do you get paid?” was another top hit, followed by head shakes of speechless admiration that we’d do all this work for nothing

“Do you have group sex?” was a question asked us by several less discreet Christians who believed that any group of non-biologically related people living together, praying together, and helping their neighbors together, must, in fact, be doing it so they can live in their own Jesus-themed pornography.

Over time, I came up with a set of stock answers.

No, we’re not a church, we just worship, study scripture, pick up trash, and love people like Jesus did.

No, we don’t have a building and we don’t plan to get one, hence the reason why I described us as church without walls.

No, we don’t get paid, except with the deep satisfaction that comes from following Jesus (and with lattes, lots of lattes. We literally spent over half of our first-year budget at one local coffee shop.)

Fuck no. Literally. No group sex.

However, it was that first question which managed to crawl into my brain and bother the hell out of me.

“What are you?”

The answer to that question changed, depending on the time of day, the people I was talking to, or what mood I was in.

Here were a few common ones I used:

A) We are a group of neo-monastic church planters, embodying an Acts 2 community while planting small, deeply relational groups throughout the city.

B) We are a church without walls, building spiritual community based on nothing but friendship.

C) We are a church using the multipling cell-group model (or the Missio model of discipleship or the 3dm missional community model – we tried a lot of strategies.)

D) I don’t know, but if you figure it out, will you please let me know?

All of these answers and their million other variations were all true at one point or another over the course of my ministry..

To a certain extent, this was just simple, healthy experimentation. When no one (or at least, not many people) have done what you’re doing, there is no playbook, no accumulated wisdom, and no long-hallowed (and long-fossilized) set of best practices. You find out what works and what doesn’t by throwing a lot of crap at the wall. Sometimes it sticks there. Sometimes it just ends up sticking on you.

I remember talking with the pastor of one of our partner churches during dinner at a conference. He was trying to describe us to another person at the table. He opened by saying, “Every time I talk to them, they’re doing something different. They change more in six months than my church does in six years.”

For him, that was a genuine compliment.

For me, it contained a note of uncomfortable truth.

What Do You Think?

1)When have you had to interact with people who didn’t understand the life choices that you made? How did you respond to their questions?

2) What are the challenges of living in a way that looks different than the rest of the culture?

Coming Friday! Part Eight: Quick Everyone! Act Normal! (2/2)

Poetry Mondays – Faith is Not

Faith is not belief

That echoes hollow

Cold statements

in stone spaces.

Faith is not belief

That cocoons

A cloak

From pain and failure.

Faith is not belief

That swings

Like a sword

On other’s blindness.

Faith is a seed

That grows or dies

In dark, fertile places.

Faith is a vine,

Engulfing

Even unwanted spaces.

Faith is a tree:

Roots always deep, without thinking

Branches always wide, without stretching

Leaves always reaching, without trying.