My wife and I seriously considered skipping the Wild Goose Festival this year. 

We are in the middle of packing for an out-of-state move later this month. Our apartment is a wreck. Every room has stacks of boxes in the corners. The cats are confused. Oh, and our apartment complex is making it difficult to close our lease.

Why would anyone attend a multi-day festival the weekend before such a big move? 

We told people we decided to go because I was scheduled for a workshop. I didn’t want to disappoint the folks planning to come. I didn’t want to inconvenience people by throwing the schedule off if I wasn’t there.

And, of course, I was hoping to sell some books.

But as the festival progressed, I realized the workshop was just a convenient truth to cover a deeper, more painful truth: I have been profoundly lonely since leaving my church in September and needed community. 

In the months after that departure, I tried to find places to plug in. But I allowed myself to get comfortable with my fears. 

What if I don’t fit here? What if our hearts break when I leave? What if the next place isn’t the right place? 

I let those questions act as excuses to hide in my apartment, bake sourdough bread and rewatch my favorite comfort movies. I found brief reprieves in places like the Q Christian Fellowship conference in January, but those were simply a glimmer in the mundaneness. 

In the last few months, I’ve let myself be brave and engage with people more, but those fears lingered under the surface. I found myself still desiring the safety of my apartment, even as being with good people replenished something deep in my weary soul.

At Wild Goose, there’s no hiding away; the hospitality of every person there won’t let you. Everyone offers you fresh local fruit, invites you to share a meal and reminds you to stay hydrated.

When people ask you how you’re doing at Wild Goose, it is a genuine invitation to hear how you really are. 

As hot summer days fade to slightly-less-hot summer nights, we dance with neighbors and drink communion wine (or beer) between hymns. We share sports drinks as we get baptized in sweat. We pass the peace of Christ when we hug each other tight and say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Community is a sacrament. We need people who see us for who we are and love us all the same.

When we dedicate ourselves to creating spaces where everyone is invited to be who they are called to be without reservation or fear, we experience something holy. 

That’s not to say holy community is perfect.

Wild Goose still has work to do to ensure it is a truly accessible space for people of all bodies– for people in wheelchairs, with mobility challenges and autoimmune diseases that make being in such miserable heat not only uncomfortable but dangerous. 

What makes community holy is not its perfection but its acknowledgment of its own imperfections and its commitment to growth. Not growth that is concerned with monetization and profit, but the growth that invites us to become better people.

This growth opens our eyes to the expansive horizon of human experience and invites us to actively explore the terrain. 

We’ll stumble as we explore. We’ll get directions from folks who know the landscape better, but we’ll still make the wrong turns. In the right community, though, we all provide and find the love needed for us all to be brave enough to explore.

Holy community is a place where well-intentioned missteps are met with grace and likewise, where correction is met with gratitude.

It is a place where we share resources so we can all “do our homework” without piling shame on one another. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been shamed into positive change.

At the end of Wild Goose, I always feel as if my old self is left behind and I’ve been raised to the newness of life– as if the non-stop sweat was the baptismal water I so desperately needed to be cleansed of my own judgment, ignorance and despair.

This year was no exception. I’ve had my thoughts challenged and I’ve challenged the thoughts of others. 

But at the end of the day, I left with the deep, soul-nourishing reminder that I am not alone in the work of bettering myself and bettering the world. For that, I will always give thanks. 

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