…Rooted in the Heartland
For years, I’ve carried the label “spiritual nomad.” It fits, I suppose. My path hasn’t been a straight line, but more of a winding, often confusing, yet ultimately beautiful exploration. And like any journey, it has a starting point, a place where my spiritual curiosity was first evident. That place was a small, little known Anabaptist sect that came from the Mennonite/Amish tradition.
My childhood was steeped in the rhythm of mostly rural life, the scent of freshly turned earth and the clang of metal from my grandfather’s welding shop. He was a farmer, a man of the land, but also a seeker of sorts. He possessed a hunger for knowledge, a desire to understand his faith. And in our small community, he was a lay minister, and to me, a voice of authority and guidance.
I remember the five-volume set of J. Vernon McGee’s “Thru the Bible” commentary, always within reach of his armchair. McGee’s down-to-earth approach to scripture resonated deeply with my grandfather. He embraced the dispensational view, the intricate tapestry of “end times” and the rapture. His sermons, delivered with a farmer’s directness and wisdom.
Sunday evenings were a ritual, with the extended family gathering at my grandparent’s house for a meal and inevitably became space for theological wrestling.The air would thicken with the buzz of biblical and theological debate. The men would gather around the kitchen table then move to the living room, arguing, discussing, and dissecting their latest musings. My grandfather, the patriarch, would hold court having the final say among the many interpretations.
I, a silent observer, would absorb it all. The cadence of their voices, the passion in their arguments, the weight of their words – I was schooled in layman’s theological discourse. I didn’t understand everything, of course. I was grappling with the complexities of faith and the looming shadow of the “end times” they so fervently discussed.
Looking back, I realize how profoundly those Sunday afternoons shaped me. They were my first seminary, my introduction to the labyrinth of religious and spiritual thought. My spiritual questioning started there, amidst the pages of McGee’s commentary and the passionate debates of my family.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? That a tradition so rooted in tradition, so seemingly fixed in its propositional beliefs, would ignite a lifelong journey of exploration. The rigidity of that childhood faith, the certainty of its pronouncements, would quickly become the catalyst for my wandering. I needed to see beyond the boundaries, to question the unquestionable.
That small sect, with its simple faith and its fervent beliefs, was my cradle, my starting point. It was a place of both comfort and constraint, a place that both nurtured and challenged my spirit. And though I have wandered far from its path, it echoes as strongly within me as my DNA, forever intertwined with the story of my nomadic soul.