Several nights a month I dream about my former denomination and the friendships I lost. They are difficult dreams. As happened last night, I often dream of our national convention, which I attended every year from 1966 through 1971, and again from 1981 through 2013, a total of 39 national conventions.

My first North American Christian Conventnion was in Atlanta in 1959. I was eight years old. We stayed at a nice motel with a pool and my cousins got ridiculously sunburned. My parents let me buy a Bible storybook published by Standard Publishing. I remember what the exhibit hall looked like – concrete floors and a plethora of colorful exhibits. I still have the book. Forty-four years later I went to work for Standard Publishing as Editor-at-Large of Christian Standard, the denominational magazine published since 1866.

Standard Publishing no longer exists. The North American Christian Convention no longer exists. Yet they persist in my dreams.

I loved the convention because that is where my friends gathered. We ate meals together and planned for the ongoing growth and health of our religious community. It was a safe space, where you could relax with others in similar positions of responsibility. The convention was where I raised money for the ministry I directed, found staff for our new churches, and dreamed dreams of a growing future.

I was talking with an old acquaintance from that world last month and he told me how many people from my denomination quietly and respectfully watched my transition, understanding that I had been called to give up my former life for the more authentic life I am living today. I was grateful for the conversation, because it came in the same month as another former friend castigated me for “always having lived a lie.” It is interesting that I knew enough about that person’s life to have gotten him fired fifty years ago. But as was my inclination, I opted for grace and mercy. I have discovered that many of those who have attacked the most vociferously are those who had the most to hide. When you know that, you are less inclined take their attacks personally.

That world is gone, though I would still be a part of it if I could. For a decade nothing rose to take its place. I was a part of the Open Network from 2016 to 2018 or so, but its leadership was transferred to a group with whom I did not have much affinity, and it died a year or two later.

Last year I spoke for the Post-Evangelical Collective Conference, a ministry established by church pastors from around the nation, including two from my former denomination. I did the opening keynote and received a wonderful response from the crowd. It was the first time I was in a religious community whose response was as animated as the audiences are when I speak for corporations or the TED world. It was marvelous.

I was invited to speak again this year. I led a workshop, interviewed another keynote speaker, and closed the conference with a call to action. After the final session, eight attendees from my former denomination gathered for a picture. Each night of the conference I spent time with dear friends who have also walked through fire and come out the other side intact, stronger, wiser. The conversations were similar to those I enjoyed at my former denomination’s national convention, but deeper. I probably do not have to explain the deeper part. We ate meals together and planned for the ongoing growth and health of our religious community. Most were guys. I’m not sure what that means.

All of this year’s keynote speakers were wonderful, unafraid to go where they felt called to go. I have great respect for their wisdom, insight, intelligence, oratorical skills, and spirit. Unlike my previous life, where I loved the convention but avoided the main sessions because of the predictable messages, at the Post-Evangelical Collective Conference I did not want to miss a single speaker. Aha moments were frequent.

These people have paid a price to be where they are, and they have the wisdom, insight, and prophetic voices that come from having followed the path less traveled by. It is an honor to count them as friends and to navigate through the shoals of post-evangelicalism together. I am grateful for my new friends from the Post-Evangelical Collective. I look forward to many years serving together.

Still, one longs for continuity in life – the book of Bible stories that is 66 years old – the people who stood with you at your wedding – the co-worker you sat across from as you set themes, chose writers, and shared gratitude for the heritage you share. Those things are gone. But that is life. Chapters close and new chapters begin. I think about this as I repeat lines from Chaim Stern’s poem, Tis A Fearful Thing:

Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch

A fearful thing to love, to hope, to dream, to be

To be, and Oh, to lose,

A things for fools this, and a holy thing

For your life once lived in me

Your laughter lifted me, your word was gift to me

To remember this brings painful joy

Tis a human thing to love, and a holy thing to love what death has touched.

Friendships are lost and friendships are born. And so it goes.