“We think that its best for Neighbors Abbey that you no longer be Presbyterian” were the words she said. But what I heard was: “Just 3 years in we’re backing out of our 7 year grant commitment, and now you have 6 months to double your annual fund raising from $25k to $50K.” It reminded me of the arrows I shot in scouting camp as a kid. Hers landing dead center. Mine… well I’d pulled the string but there was no chance it was gonna go where I’d aimed. Not any more. I didn’t even have to watch to find out.
There’s always more to a story. I’m sure there is more than I will ever know about what that decision entailed as well as details that I probably leave out (or have blocked out) to try to save face. But the truer story is in the course of events that led up to and followed that tipping point.
Four years earlier, Neighbors Abbey had begun on the back porch of our innercity SW Atlanta bungalow. We’d been living in that area since 2004: I’d managed a coffee shop, we’d helped small local churches, led neighborhood causes or cleanups, and tutored and build friendships across religious and racial bounds. The Abbey was a place that centered around faith practices (rather than dogma) and was committed to following Jesus into the art of neighboring. In many ways we were a house church… but growing into a storefront church. We sat on that waver line for 12 months (which is probably the primary cause for my presbytery’s withdrawal of support). We were multi-racial, but also fairly homogenous when it came to weekly worship gatherings—all college educated types. Together, we grew in our emotional IQ, recovered from bad theology, and walked toward a generous love of God, Christ, and the other. We’d developed meditation practices, justice advocacy work, multi-cultural neighborhood based projects, and mentorships with community kids.
For me the Abbey was/is a huge point of pride. It was proof that I “fit” somewhere. It was an entre for befriending atheists, pagan, or Muslim and Jewish neighbors. If you’d been burnt by Christianity I could say, “well not this kind of Christianity.” It was evidence that my hunches about practices, community, and beauty were well founded. The Abbey helped me feel legitimate in the eyes of my father and other evangelical leaders that I wanted to be proud of me. I was half way into writing my first book and the Abbey would prove my thesis. The Abbey was a “plausibility structure” for a new way of life that my wife and I really needed to believe was possible. And the Abbey was the way, in my assessment, that real justice could get done in SW Atlanta. If not the only, at lease the best way that victims of child sex trafficking would be rescued, or that literacy and creativity could be truly cultivated in our blighted community.
So you can just imagine all those things going away because of one conversation.
Well they didn’t. I would not let them.
I doubled down on the non-profit we were starting. We hired a director, I really pushed our young board to raise money. We’d shut down the Abbey as a church, and move laterally to being a community based organization- new name but same people. That would pay my bills. It would keep all those other needs in play. And I’d be part of the action. I dreamt that one day, Nightline or some Lilly foundation would discover us and we’d get the recognition we needed and deserved, and sustainability would be reality.
But then my non-profit’s board resigned (not everyone, but enough to make it impossible). My daughter’s education situation was getting worse. The value of our house had dropped by 80% and the other local school and library were closing. Our two cars that had been parked in front of our house were both wrecked at once by a kid in a stolen Escalade. We were hitting a wall!
I needed some space to rethink everything. I went for a week to the Pastoral Institute in Columbus, GA. While there I started admitting how far out on a limb I’d gotten. And when asked to consider giving some or all of it up I fell into a deep depression. Almost nihilism. If those things of such value were no longer possible then life felt meaningless. My compass had been joy and justice and beauty. If I weren’t able to trust that compass anymore then there wasn’t much left to life.
Here is the point where a good story teller says that God shows up‑was always there leaving footprints in the sand, or something like that.
Instead we slugged through some marriage therapy. We wrestled with moving to a new neighborhood in Atlanta but couldn’t make the numbers work. I tried a couple other job ideas. But not much changed in our situation. Eventually I took a job in Cincinnati where I could use some of my talents and scratch a little at that itch of invention. We had to short-sell our beloved 100-year-od bungalow and move into a ranch rental. Once we got a month into things I still felt that loss of the Abbey and the loss of identity. People in Ohio didn’t need me or appreciate me the way (I needed to think) they did in Atlanta. And no end seemed in site.
It’s hard writing when no end is in site. Its always hard writing a blog or short story that discloses so much without offering a conclusion. I guess, then, that this is more of an ode to that place that emerges after giving up on the conclusions.
At least my book did get done. And in it I refer to the creative process—how creations are born from dreams, requiring a hovering-focus, risk, listening and reintegration, and how rest is part of the process-not the book end of an idea or project. Such an image of repeating circular cycles is enormously challenging for dreamers who want to see an arrow move from the bow through the air and finally rest upon the desired target. Cycles imply that the arrow just orbits in circles. Cycles have no clear end or beginning.
I’m not sure where my obsessiveness over Neighbors Abbey began. And I’m not sure how it will end. I suppose I could tell you where I think our family’s new life in Cincinnati got started. But I can’t say how it will end either. I can’t even say, for sure, if we’re in a dreaming stage or a risking stage, or a Sabbath stage.
So I wonder. Do you feel between stages too? If so, what has it felt like for you? Are you finding any joy in being out in the orbit and no longer on target? What do you miss about the target? And if you can’t identify, do you ever wonder what would happen if you did let go? What if your arrow got lost in orbit instead of landing safely where you’d aimed it?
Troy Bronsink makes life with his wife and two kids in Northern Cincinnati. He’s the author of many chapters and articles and most recently Drawn In: A Creative Process for Artists, Activists, and Jesus Followers.
The Old Testament is full of stories like this. Joseph has these visions of great things given to him, then spends years as a slave or in prison. Moses realizes his position in Egypt prepares him to help his people, tries to help, and flees to the desert. Decades pass before the burning bush. It’s like God gives the vision, then says wait. And when you think it’s gone forever, that’s when he gives it back.
At least, that’s what I remember when the waiting gets discouraging.
Heather, I agree that our old texts do not shirk from these conflicts of faith/calling. I was careful, though, not to put an equal sign between a “closed” story with all its editorials. Sometimes God-speak can diminish the whirlwind by domesticating what I am to learn and experience here-and-now. In both your examples the protagonists had to let go of things before they knew what to listen for. Joseph’s arrogance about his since of vocation is what got him in trouble in the first place. And Moses’ rage was what sent him running, (probably) not the voice of God.
I’m not picking a fight, just admitting that the Bible, as well as many great songs, literature, movies, and paintings- can give us metaphors for this confusing life. But God’s presence is not “taught” its felt and experienced- or not. The courage to admit in both times is key for me. I do experience life as if God’s face were shinning on me. But I also find myself lost at times, and being honest about I’ve found to be very very important.
I relate so much to your story. I am still healing from the pain of putting heart and soul into church and ministry and seeing multiple cycles of failure and hurt. I’m in the midst of trying to shake off the dust of fear of more failure to accept my now deeply dented faith and move forward.
Just this weekend I spoke with another friend spit out by a church matrix just last week. Julie, you aren’t alone. Sometimes friends of faith will be enough. But sometimes it’ll feel like no one of faith, no church, could understand and appreciate. Fortunately I’m currently more in the former than the latter these days. But God knows I can relate to your more recent pain. Hopefully the orbiting arrow is a little image that can help in the interim.
Similar story. The church my husband andI gave our lives to for fourteen years fizzled and finally closed in August 2010. Although we are now with another church, I’m still sad and a bit disillusioned with “church.” I’m ready to be done with wallpaper arguments and wonder how in the world Jesus is going to come back for a unified Bride.
I wonder how many other folks could say the same thing?
Great story! The arrow floating in the orbit is something I both love and hate. There’s a certain excitement that I find in a story that has not quite reached its target. Sometimes, the same old big “targets” make boring stories.
And sometimes, a wandering arrow like this seems to pierce through many small targets on the way to its destiny.
Word! Orbiting arrows are the antidote to trite theology that is always ‘focused’ on a determined target… an antidote that I’ve had to swallow WAY too many times.
Dear friend, I am old, and have been in ministry (missionary to the Philippines), and have many relatives in the ministry (Baptist). I have had many friends and relatives go out on their own, and request financial support for their ministries. It is very difficult to give money to support these fledgling ministries while supporting one’s own church. While many are very good wonderful aspirations,and the people leading them are wonderfully dedicated Christian people, there is something to be said for working through churches. I know many on this blog have been hurt by churches, but there are many wonderful churches doing wonderful ministries. If you can find a church that does fit with your beliefs, I believe you will go further toward achieving your dream. Many people are willing to give through a church for special ministries, when they are not willing to give to an individual because of the many times those start-ups fail. I know this is not what you want to happen, but perhaps if you pray about it with this as an option, God will lead you to a church where you can minister. For many people, this is an issue of pride (not saying that is true for you) because we are driven as humans to create, achieve, and truth be told, to make a name for ourselves. I pray that God will bless your ministry, and that your zeal for Him will be met with enthusiasm by others around you,and that you will find ministry partners with hearts for those not typically seen in church pews. God bless you, my friend.
Thanks Jane. It didn’t seem germain to the post to mention it but we’re 8 months into a new church experience that is proving to be beautiful. Nevertheless the loss that is experienced in life when people do not hold up to what ideals you project onto them is HUGE. I can only imagine the years of wisdom that could have taught you the importance of crowdsourcing mission funds through a congregation or denomination. I don’t believe its the only way or even the best. But your points are valid.
The bigger issue for me. The reason I wanted to go “deeper” with this story, if you will. Is to as transparently as possible share how “destinations” are not always the moral of the story. Arriving at “end products” do not guarantee whole living.
I’m quite open to whatever conclusions people need to make from there.
Thanks for your prayers and blessings!
Been there, been there, been there. It is so hard. (Or rather I should probably say, “right there with you!”) Your story reminds me of that Corrie Ten Boom quote: “Hold everything in your hands lightly. Otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open.”
One of the hard things about really following God is it means grounding our identity in Christ rather than in anything else while also doing the good which God leads us to do. He seems to allow us to move and then right when it’s most inopportune, he will remove it all so that we learn to lean more deeply into him and ground our identity more solidly in him. It’s painful, but I’ve come to understand that simply because our understanding is limited and we just can’t do these things for ourselves, this is how God leads us, grows us, prunes us and redeems us. Like Christ’s crucifixion, it’s so, so painful and feels very much like God forsaking us. But it is the necessary prelude to redemption. I think that the beatitude were given for just this reason – so we would know that when we are poor in spirit, mourning, hungry, etc that we are on the right track.
Hang in there, brother! God is at work. Praise be to God. And Lord have mercy!
Rebecca. My friend MaryAnn (@revmamd) retweeted your compelling Ten Boom quote and it come me thinking. (caution, I’m gonna get a little theological here).
I couldn’t agree more about the “hold lightly part.” But I’m not prepared to say that every hurricane, homicide, lost job, dead church, or lost child is God’s prying on our knuckles.
This Lent, as much as any, I’ve been looking at the walk of Jesus to Jerusalem. Its not that Jesus was a sleeper cell waiting for this moment to blindly follow a script. Its not that Jesus suddenly saw a loaded gun under God’s coat and courageously jumped into the way to take the bullet intended for God’s other children. Its SOOO much more!
In Philippians 2 Paul points to this: God doesn’t pry open the grip. God teaches us by opening God’s grip too. Jesus did not consider divinity as his ‘precious.’ Jesus held it lightly. And Paul encourages us to try on that that same attitude.
Now I beg other repliers to avoid the temptation to get off topic here and start arguing about the big “A.” I just want to stick with Ten Boom’s quote and my (far less poignant) post. Theologizing about our loss does not lead us to let go. Instead it all-too-often leads us to repeat the same story over and over. ‘Never going any “deeper” (forgive the obvious pun).
I am so sorry for this loss – the loss of a dream, the loss of a community, the loss of feeling supported while you worked it out. I have no answers for you, only prayers and whispers of encouragement. Perhaps when you’re a bit further out from it, you’ll be able to dissect it with less pain. Maybe. Maybe not. It’s hard when it feels like every door, window and crevice is slammed in your face and I’m sorry with you for all of it. Maybe try and meditate on Psalm 130 – it’s a great one for times like these. I am so grateful for songs of lament in scripture, because we live in places of lament a lot, it seems. May you find that waiting on the Lord brings its own sweet release and peace.
I agree, lament psalms are such honest access points to the present, aren’t they? I’ve found many other brighter places since I received that Dear John notice Spring of 2011. But the lamentation remains an important part of telling the story. Thanks Diana.
I have walked this road… AM WALKING this road… And I know how wearying it can be. Thinking of you and your family tonight…
Back at you Alece!
This essays is bringing up the grief of closing a church we poured five years into (I will always think in terms of it dying), and of walking away from another church after it veered headlong into cultishness (it isn’t dead yet, but it’s terminally ill). I’ve felt adrift for a long time, since before the church closed. I don’t know what season this is either. Sometimes I get a taste of hope, that maybe it’s a gestation and something new will be born soon. Other times I wonder if I’ve been sidelined and for how long. I can’t say there’s much joy out here. I find comfort knowing I’m not alone, and I do find joy in little things like my family. But I’ve lost that sense of purpose and direction and knowing what I’m headed towards, and that’s extremely unsettling. For me, it kind of feels like I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, or that I’m fumbling around in the dark.