Homestead Heritage is an agrarian Christian community a few miles north of Waco built around a fusion of Anabaptist tradition and Pentecostal theology. In 2005 Christian historian and theologian, Roger Olson, characterized the group as “a bold experiment” in intentional Christian community, and, as with any countercultural stream, the group has had its share of proponents and detractors.

For six years I’ve worked among these people for eight hours a day, Monday through Friday. My family and I have visited their craft village several times, dined in some of their homes, welcomed them into our home, and taken part in many of their special activities. We have friends in their community, we have friends who have almost joined their fellowship, and we have friends who have once been a part of their community, but, for whatever reason, decided to part ways. I believe we’ve seen them from just about every angle possible, without actually being part of their congregation.

With that said, this post isn’t about theology (though it will, at times, wax theological), and it’s not about what I disagree with them about, but rather it’s about what I’ve learned through them, and how I believe that my family and I have benefited in so many ways from the good, positive things that have been modeled through their day-to-day lives.

I’d like to also add that it’s not my intent to turn this into a forum for ex-members to discuss problems and disagreements with Homestead Heritage doctrine, practice, or theology. Therefore, please be aware that I will be moderating the comments (assuming this post actually generates comments).

Now, on to the point of my post: What I’ve learned from Homestead Heritage. The list is long and varied (I won’t list everything here), and, in reality, my wife and I have had many similar convictions to Homestead Heritage before we were ever acquainted with them (e.g. homeschooling, complementarianism, et cetera). This list is in no particular order:

Did you receive the Holy Spirit when you believed?

That’s the question that Paul asked John the Baptist's Ephesian disciples in Acts 19:2, and, as one of the Thinklings’ patron saints, John Piper, has said, “Now that is a remarkable question for contemporary American evangelicals who have been taught by and large that the way you know you have received the Holy Spirit is that you are a believer” (see Piper’s sermon, What Does It Mean To Receive The Holy Spirit?). Homestead Heritage has helped me appreciate the fact that the baptism (or filling) of the Holy Spirit is, as Piper also said, “experiential, not just inferential.” When a Christian is filled with the Holy Spirit, he (and others) ought to know it. It’s not merely an inferential, theological position, but a manifested reality.

Like most branches of the Pentecostal tree, Homestead Heritage emphasizes “the Holy Ghost,” and unlike many thinkers from my childhood Baptist heritage (which I’m indebted to), they see the baptism in the Holy Spirit as a distinct, essential component of Christian discipleship that’s manifested in an experiential manner. To once again quote the incomparable Piper:

We scratch our heads and say, "I don't get it, Paul. If you assume we believed, why don't you assume we received the Holy Spirit? We've been taught that all who believe receive the Holy Spirit. We've been taught to just believe that the Spirit is there whether there are any effects or not. But you talk as if there is a way to know we've received the Holy Spirit different from believing. You talk as if we could point to an experience of the Spirit apart from believing in order to answer your question."

And that is in fact the way Paul talks. When he asks, "Did you receive the Spirit when you believed," he expects that a person who has "received the Holy Spirit" knows it, not just because it's an inference from his faith in Christ, but because it is an experience with effects that we can point to.

As Piper infers, it’s important to ask yourself the question Paul asked the Ephesians, and Homestead Heritage has, in many ways, helped me realize that.

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might ...

That’s what the Preacher of Ecclesiastes said, and working (or laboring) with all one’s might is a noble and valuable character trait for any Christian. As another founder of our feast, C.S. Lewis, said in Mere Christianity, “God is no fonder of intellectual slackers than He is of any other slacker.” Lewis’ point, I think, speaks to the idea that a strong work ethic is essential to Christian growth and discipleship, and I’m sure Lewis’ New Man (as described in the same book) would be someone who works for the joy of labor, as a means of communion with the Vinedresser (John 15:1), and not merely as a means to an end.

In other words, Homestead Heritage has taught me that work is a joy -- and, with that in mind, I believe work can be seen as something very similar to a sacrament. God is proactive, He’s creative, and His Gospel advances through the Kingdom of Darkness. God works, and so should we. What's more, we should work with joy. Our culture sees work as a way to get what it wants, and not as a way, as the 17th century monastery kitchen worker, Brother Lawrence, said, to “practice God’s presence.” (Brother Lawrence was continually in the presence of our Lord while doing his job -- washing dishes -- so much so that he said he saw no distinction between that time of work and fixed hours of prayer.)

For in Him dwells all the fullness of the Godhead bodily (Colossians 2:9).

When the great -- though not uncontroversial! -- 20th century theologian Karl Barth visited America in 1962, he was asked to sum up his theology (which had been expressed in his voluminous Church Dogmatics), he responded, “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” Homestead Heritage has reaffirmed a simple truth that I believe I have known since I was a child: that JESUS does love me, and that it’s alright -- necessary, even -- to worship Him in all His fullness. While I tend to doubt that Homestead Heritage’s theologians favor the often-misapprehended Barth, I think they’d agree wholeheartedly with his conclusion.

And Yahweh God planted a garden eastward in Eden, and there He put the man whom He had formed (Genesis 2:8).

A little over a year ago my wife and I bought a small 2-acre farm north of Waco. Since then we’ve tilled the ground, raised animals, slaughtered animals, worked the land, and have witnessed the ancient rhythms of life that humanity has been an intricate part of since Yahweh placed Adam in Eden. Out on a farm you feel seasons, you witness the principle of sowing and reaping first-hand, and you find a place of tranquility, being at one with God and His creation. It’s a beautiful life, and we wouldn’t trade it for the world. If we hadn’t met Homestead Heritage, we would have likely never pursued such an existence.

While I could think of many more examples, I won’t belabor the point: I have learned so much from an imperfect community of people who are, in many ways, strangers to me. My wife and I have, to some extent, walked among them, but we are not part of them. By no means do we believe that the fellowship is a panacea, but God has been faithful to allow us to learn from them, and to be all the better for it. We’re thankful. I’m thankful.