Moving Boxes, Eucharist and Tables

"You okay?" he whispered so our guests in the other room couldn't hear. He's intuitive and after being together for almost three decades I think we can sense what's up with each others' hearts before we can our own sometimes. I wasn't really okay; but beyond the fact that I was being triggered while sorting, throwing away our stuff and packing up boxes of what's left again I couldn't really verbalize the why for my tears. "I'm really tired - I'm well into the 40's now for how many houses I've lived in in my life and I'm tired of moving." I said quickly while digging through a box of Legos. It's all I could get out. 

Most all of our kids are intuitive too and I knew they'd flock to any sort of emotion being shared upstairs if we didn't wrap up the conversation. I'm not quite sure if it's healthy and I don't know if it's something we've done, but all six of these kids are strong, opinionated leaders - alllllll of them. A disagreement between their father and I does not find them scurrying to their rooms, but it seems to be an invitation to them to interject and offer perspective. I love it most of the time, but when I'm crying I just want a hot minute by myself, thank you. :)

He shook his head in a knowing way and said, "I'm sorry...I understand...we're almost there." I wasn't blaming him. Even when I did, he's never wanted a patriarchal marriage. We've always made decisions together - just like we decided to move to Tennessee. Moving was tiring, but even more than that it was the "why" behind what got us even thinking about moving in the first place. I was just navigating triggers, that's all and nothing much to be done for it. He gave me a hug and went back downstairs to work on preparing the house for the photographer that the realtor is sending out next week. Houses are selling within hours here in our part of the country so we know we need to be ready or not.

I had wanted to raise my kids in the same house - to give them the stability I'd always longed for as a child, but I'd packed that dream up over twenty years ago when we sold our first home so the Lawman could get his doctorate of jurisprudence in a dusty west Texas town. So much has happened since then and here again at the eleventh house our family has called home, it's time to pack that dream again.

Our highschool friends drove six hours to our daughter's graduation party. It was SO GOOD to see them. There is something so special about history with friends and we are blessed all around with dear friends who have known us for as long as we've been us. But Brant and Rose Mary knew us before we had our drivers licenses. :) They shoot straight with us and are free to tell us how crazy we are or, because she's Mexican, how we might be unknowingly racist.:) Those kinds of friends are so valuable to us these days - shoot straight, but know our whole story...it matters. 

We were asking them questions about them and their kids and then telling them what's up with us. I told them that I felt like the lady in her 70's who dresses like a teenager and everyone has an eyebrow raised thinking, "Honey...that's not a good look for you." I knew that our move across the country, buying a city home just to sell it a year later and build a tiny home to live in on the farm - and we've never farmed - and I'm pushing 50 years old...we can feel the raised eyebrows from folks watching our story unfold.

Rose Mary started laughing and right when I thought she was going to say, "Yall are freakin CRAZY!!" tears came to her eyes and she said, "You're so brave - I'm so proud of yall." And of course, I started crying too...she and her husband know more about us than any other friends and her words felt sacred. When you feel so vulnerable that you wonder if you're not actually crazy, an honest word from a friend can bring healing and send shame back to Hell. Brave is not what I would use for our story, but her words brought hope like the first drops of rain at the end of a drought.

The Lawman and I can quickly get drunk on story, especially if the story involves hard work and risk and some measure of heroism. We are self aware of our brokenness. But it's that brokenness that kept us going for so long in missional evangelicalism. Mention that it's kingdom work and we will quickly turn off our brains/spirit and jump feet first. Everything for the kingdom is okay, right? No. After this last bit we are like addicts in AA...we know our weaknesses and we know too that we can never be a part of that kind of Christianity again. Strangely enough, our journey outside the building actually lead us to the table, again.

If you are ever around a table of church refugees the last thing you should probably say is that one day they may be back in church. Not helpful. Although it may be true. :) The best thing you can do is listen and keep listening. When we left the building it's where a group of us found ourselves - around a $5 fold up table we found at a garage sale. 

It was very much ecclesial (Christ centered community), but nothing like church. We always talked about Him and tears salted the meals we shared together, but none of us had plans beyond who was bringing plates and food. Someone from our old church stopped one of us once and said, "So how's the church plant going??" We didn't even know how to respond because sharing a meal didn't feel like church, but we could see how it made for a good story..."Those Burrs are off starting a church." Jesus help. Actually, gathering around the table to share meals and hearts was all all of us knew to do. We knew that together was better on this journey outside. That was it.

I no longer think the institution of the church is pivotal to walking with Jesus. He never went to church and I don't think we need to either, but there is something very beautiful about gathering with others who love Him too. I also believe we can share agency in how that happens. It can look so very different and basic. The simple kind is my personal favorite. Being together is very much important to following Him. It's just that together may happen at Starbuck's rather than a chapel.

Tish Warren says that of all the things "He could have asked his followers to do something impressive or mystical - climb a mountain, fast for 40 days, or have a trippy sweat lodge ceremony - but instead He picks the most ordinary of acts, eating, through which to be present with His people."

What would happen if that was what the American church kept central - practicing remembering Him around a meal of common foods. Sharing our stories - the kind that invite a Redeemer - and being present in each other's lives. I wonder if Jesus was saying, "If you can't fit around a table you'll lose something of me in the gathering." Instead we seem to keep building larger buildings to stack people in to experience "excellence" in lecture and song. 

Many church refugees who do go back into the building find themselves in Anglican sorts of churches. What is missing from most of these types of churches are personality driven preachers (relevant/great speakers), male privilege, mega anything, growth initiatives, "next level" worship, missional quests that keep the best close and the not so great on the edges...any sort of product that a consumer might want. What is at the center of the gathering is the Word and the Eucharist.

What you do find is ancient tradition, responsive prayer, passing of the peace, a pastor who may not be a great speaker, but is truly pastoral, body life that looks like participating from the beginning when the cross is carried in to the end when your five year old responds to the priest's offering of the bread and wine with small crossed hands and a little voice saying, "Thanks be to God." It's in this old tradition of faith that I first learned that "We receive the bread and wine rather than 'take'...we are all here to receive Him, never to greedily take from Him."

As we walk back into the building what we long for is to participate in ancient practices that collectively train our bodies and spirits - the most beautiful instruments of worship - to turn to Him no matter where we find ourselves. To have a priest who loves to care for people - that's it. He's not out to grow his audience, staff, network or salary; he just wants to walk in the mantel he's been given, shepherding. 

While old dreams die, new ones (maybe ancient ones) are waking up. Some of them take some getting used to - like literally casting all of our cares and sins onto the cross at the front of the chapel. And some of them seem oddly familiar - like farming. If hair color, skin type and personality can be passed down through DNA maybe the agrarian lifestyles our ancestors practiced can too. 

Our next house will be less than 800 square feet, but there will be a long table. The table - it's one of the few things that remained when everything else fell down in our practice of Christianity. It's where we found real incarnation and later transformation. I feel sure the table will always remain the altar we gather around to remember Him no matter what house our family lives in in the future. It's where we'll find Him in the dreams that died and the ones that come walking out of the tombs.