I attended a spiritual retreat recently led by author Carl McColman. Though not himself a monk, he loves the monastic tradition and holds a formal relationship with the monastery as a “lay Cistercian” As soon as he began to speak, I felt a strange kinship. In fact, some of his words about contemplation and intimacy with a knowably unknowable (I make up words) God had dribbled from my own pen earlier in the day. I had a chance to speak with him afterwards. During our short discussion, I told him of my fascination with the Desert Fathers (and Mothers) and how I felt that there must be some kind of similar space in Christianity today for those who live at the periphery of the church.
His response filled me with hope. I paraphrase. "We are living in a kind of new Reformation today," he said, "where we have an opportunity to re-imagine the church." Re-imagine the church. I like that. I love the church, but there is a deep and central part of me that longs for something beyond what I have encountered.
I love my Catholic, Episcopal and Lutheran brothers and sisters with their rich history and beautiful liturgies filled with wonder and majesty. I love my Baptist and Methodist and Evangelical Non-Denominational family with their simple pragmatism and fierce devotion to heart-focused faith. I love my charismatic friends whose strikingly supernatural and mystical worldview resonates in so many ways with that of the Desert Fathers themselves. I love the house churches in their clutches of individualized personality and piety. Each is imperfect, but all are beautiful.
And yet, I long for something else. Not so much something more. To say that implies there is something insufficient or inherently wrong with the church in its current form(s). I just feel a calling to something... different. Not something in opposition to the church as it is, but something in relationship with it. Something that takes all the beautiful things of the church and mushes them together into something simple and equal and good. I have tried unsuccessfully for years to articulate this idea or vision or hallucination.
A Lutheran pastor and friend of mine recently spoke bluntly to me. “What you want is a church for people outside the church,” he said. I cursed at him. Then I agreed with him. But that’s not exactly it. Not a church in the common sense of the word. God knows the world doesn’t need another church. There are plenty of good churches, and I have a dark suspicion that one of every two church planters harbors a secret desire to build his/her own little empire. The Christian faith has had enough of empires.
So, let me try again. I envision a faith community without hierarchy, dogma, compulsion or demarcation lines. A resting place for nomads, oddballs, outcasts and the spiritually injured. A wayside gathering for those of us who are going somewhere, but have yet to discover exactly where; who need each other not so much for accountability as for inspiration and company on the journey; who love the church, but are at peace at its edges; who are simply looking for Jesus Christ wherever he may be found. Maybe that dream is too idealistic. Maybe it’s impossible. Probably. Should I want it any less?
What if it’s dangerous? That’s a good question. I suspect that all good things are dangerous. All can be taken too far. All can be manipulated and abused. The gospel, too, is like that. But safety also comes at a cost: an opportunity lost.
Questions:
1. Do you identify with a deep love for the church and yet find yourself not quite "home" there?
2. Do you live "at the edge" of the church? How do you live an active and satisfying spiritual life? How do you find ways to relate to the church while finding yourself at its borders?
3. What would a re-imagining of the faith community look like to you?
