The Guadalupe River, which winds through the Hill Country of Texas, reminds the author of her childhood.
Do we make church more complicated than it needs to be? A social entrepreneur revisits her hometown friends and reflects on friendship and what is holy and enduring about life in community.
Recently, after many years away and numerous COVID-related delays, I made my way back to the place of my childhood. I grew up along the winding Guadalupe River in the Hill Country of Texas, in the city of Kerrville, to be exact — a small town where I inhabited 11 different houses as a child.
Not only is this the place I grew up, it is also the place where I planted a church called the Soul Cafe in the late 1990s. I had anticipated going back for quite some time, and to my surprise, I found that not much had changed.
I was comforted to find a vibrant main street where I could still eat breakfast tacos on tortillas made fresh that morning. It was nice to sip coffee at Pax, have lunch at Francisco’s and enjoy the region’s wine at Grape Juice, all locally owned.
I drove over low water crossings, remembering the thousands of trips down these roads in my 1985 turquoise-blue Camaro. I swam in the river and basked in the early-autumn sun below an enormous swarm of vultures circling overhead.
It’s easy to look back at the past, full of nostalgia, but my childhood was more thorny than rosy, and that spilled into my experience of church as well. When I was a teen, I endured a season in which my mother dropped my brother and me off at a different church each Sunday, hoping we would find one we liked. It was painful.
Despite an expressed emphasis on being welcoming, the churches I experienced felt anything but. Awkwardly, I’d enter, looking for a familiar face but sensing only impermeable boundaries roped off with pleasant smiles and perfect-looking families.
My family was far from perfect. Dad had left when I was 5. Mom cycled through a series of relationships that kept us moving. My brother started using drugs at 13. Entering church, I stood out like a ragamuffin. I could find nowhere to hide, and it was impossible to blend in.
I ended up choosing the church where Regina went. A friend from school, Regina saw me at once and ushered me in to sit with her family. She truly and personally invited me in. Regina is someone who knows the art of friendship — someone I am still friends with over 30 years later.
In fact, she and her husband were part of Soul Cafe, the church I planted to reach young adults. Soul Cafe closed several years ago, but there is still a group of people who are deeply connected by the experience of community it offered. I was keen to see them on my visit.
On a Sunday night in September, we gathered for a “come one, come all” potluck. In a familiar backyard under the stars, we jumped right back in with one another. We shared stories, conversations about people who had moved away, photos and tall tales from weddings and other special events. We visited with adults who had been babies when Soul Cafe started, and we shed tears over people no longer with us.
As I sat listening to stories and taking in the laughter, I kept thinking: This is a holy space. This is what endures.
People have asked over the years what made Soul Cafe special. My answer is always the same: community. It wasn’t that the worship was awesome (it was!) or that we were pioneering the coffee shop church movement (we were!). It was the way we did life together.
We were friends, loving one another in good times and bad — and there were plenty of both — supporting each other, holding one another accountable, wrestling across differences, including political ones. Yes, both Democrats and Republicans live in Texas!
Soul Cafe ended after 11 years. At the 10-year mark, the elders decided to pause for one year to discern whether or not to keep going. You see, it had started as a church for unchurched young adults but had grown to be a family church. Because family churches abound in Kerrville, the leadership thought perhaps new things needed space to emerge.
Soul Cafe ended without conflict. The leadership distributed its resources into ministries that had sprouted out of the church. Soul Cafe as a noun, a place, ended — but the community, the doing, the depth of friendship certainly didn’t end. We’d been woven together, stitched into a sacrament with invisible threads. This rich community fed my soul back in the ’90s and sparked my imagination on my trip home.
It left me wondering: Do we make church more complicated than it needs to be? Do we underestimate the power of friendship?
After all, the gospel was lived out in the company of friends. Jesus walked with his friends; he ate with his friends; he performed miracles at events with his friends. It was his friends who lamented when he died and who shouted from the rooftops when they realized the grave couldn’t contain him.
Scripture says people will know us by our love for one another (John 13:35). It is the connecting act of radical friendship that counters the cultural norm of every-person-for-self.
What if friendship re-imagined is the crucial element for the church? Not just friendship among people who are alike but friendship defined more broadly. Deep, engaging time that breeds responsibility and care, not only for each other, but for a widening circle of concern.
We are living in a time when people of all ages are experiencing excruciating isolation. One study shows that 1 in 3 young people feel alone most of the time and 40% say they don’t have anyone to talk to. What if more gospel-infused friendships called us to create pop-up dinner parties and backyard barbecues that lived out abundance for everyone — the recently unemployed neighbor, the young person struggling with addiction, the lonely older person down the street?
As a social innovator who often trailblazes new forms of community out of necessity, I’ve repeatedly felt ready to throw in the towel. Time and again, though, my community has showed up to sustain me. People have buoyed me along the way. Like Aaron and Hur, who held up Moses’ hands when he tired, people have appeared to lift me up.
They have called me to return to radical action; they have stirred up reservoirs of empathy, encouraging me to keep taking risks and imagining new tributaries where the Spirit is flowing.
At our backyard gathering in Texas, we shared a ritual. We drank from a common glass of red wine, passing it from one to another, communion-style, each blessing the next with one word of affirmation. Words such as “passion,” “steadfastness,” “integrity” and “joy” described how people are showing up for life. These affirmations echo in my memory and call me to imagine.
Encouraged in the possibility of a church reawakened by focusing on an expansive charge to befriend more boldly, I embrace this blessing by poet, mystic and soul-friend advocate John O’Donohue:
May you be blessed with good friends.
May you learn to be a good friend to yourself. …
May you be good to [your friends] and may you be there for them. …
May you never be isolated.
