The doorbell is ringing. Again.
There are small hands banging on my front door. Again.
And the baby was been startled awake from her nap. Again.
The neighbourhood kids all like to hang out at my house. I am less than thrilled about it.
Years ago, when I first stumbled into the missional church conversation, before it was Christian-marketing-speak or a buzz-word, I felt like I had come home to my people. This was my tribe. Yeah! Now I had labels, names, books, a vocabulary and lexicon, leaders, theologians, and co-conspirators for what was already stirring in my heart about the message and life of Jesus. I yearned to experience the truth of Christ and then bring that truth into my daily walking-around life.
It sounded sexy and exciting. I wanted to be part of making space for God in the world, I wanted to be part of God’s mission to restore and redeem and renew creation. I read and underlined all of the books, downloaded podcasts, I wrote and waxed philosophic about discipleship, about the theology of place, about community, sustainability, intentional organic church practices, justice, mercy, redemption, I was seeking an active and inclusive living out of the Jesus-life I knew right now.
And over the years, as I’ve been committed to missional life in actual practice rather than theory, a life that seeks to be outside of structures and institutions and programs and models, centered on embodying the mission of God, my life has gotten considerably more messy and uncomfortable.