Where Do I Go From Here? An Article by Ryan Milner, Page 2

So there went my Kool-Aid cult. The whole thing was as Bible-based as any traditional church I’d ever stepped foot in, maybe even more so. We ended the tour in an empty room. In addition to the kitchen, the living room, the foyer, Linnea’s studio, the 24-7 Prayer US offices, and the bedrooms for whatever transients needed a place to stay, the yet-to-be-completed crown jewel of the community would be this empty room. It would be a Prayer Room. A purely monastic space. A holy of holies. With carpet and couches and air conditioning and a stereo for music and brick walls to scrawl on. Journals to pour into. Clothes hangers to clip notes or news pieces to. A single window looked east to Troost Avenue. Code in Kansas City for the poor part of town. The dangerous line where white and black, have and have-not, meet. Bustos was always pretty upbeat. Mr. Personality. Life of the party kind of guy. But you know what? I heard the slightest crack in his voice when he told me about the Prayer Room. About what it would mean to him and his community, the city, and maybe the world. I’ve never been what they call a prayer warrior. I’ve never heard God. I’ve felt him, but not heard him like so many purport. I’ve never been one of those who God would talk to and tell which highway to take to work. I’ve never been what they call a prayer warrior. But the Prayer Room is what sold me.

Funny thing about that night is that the teaching and the singing were an afterthought. And I’d still contend that they’re world-class. The most talented speakers and singers in the world exhorting and serenading fifty twenty-something hippies. But, in the past, the teaching and the singing was why I went to church. It was all I ever got out of it. It was the only thing I could think of to persuade people to come with me. It was all any other Christian ever talked about when they talked about their church. Like they were reviewing a club. Like faith and Christ were nothing more than the teaching and the singing. Like a life of ignoring any kind of higher call, any responsibility to our family of believers and family of humans, was made up for because your worship had guitars and your pastor had an earring and a stirring voice. At the Kansas City Boiler Room, the spectator part of faith faded to the background. Baptisms were done in backyard pools before cookouts. When someone said they’d pray for you, they mostly stopped and did it right then. Life was lived communally, intentionally. So much more real. So much more scary. So much more vulnerable, both to God and to each other. But so much more rewarding.

As I said my goodbyes that night (leaving with two dinner invites), I already knew that I had taken a step toward healing the wounds. And in the process, began to understand a little more about the quest. Understand that movement wouldn’t come solely from pious introspection and earnest study. That friendship, and community, and love would be the movement. That they always have been. I had walked into that Boiler Room simultaneously broken and haughty, hell-bent on keeping myself closed off and dying alone. I had come, clutching my wounds, asking where I go from here, but not really wanting the answer. As I walked out of the Kansas City Boiler Room that night, I still didn’t know where I would ultimately go from there, save for the happy realization that I would be back there the same time next week.
 

To find out more about the Kansas City Boiler Room, visit their website where you'll find information on weekly gatherings, biblical teaching podcasts and an excellent reading plan for understanding God's Story through the Bible.