A copy of Adaptive Church has sat quietly behind me in my office for the last twelve months, perched on a bronze inkwell. Shortly after my book released, I quickly learned one of the ten commandments of book publishing: Thou shalt make your book visible. I complied, looking for something around my office to prop up and hold a rather hefty book. This inkwell from my grandfather, outfitted with a pen holder that could support the front edge of my book, seemed like an excellent candidate. I situated them alongside several other books and didn’t think twice about the unlikely combination of these two items. Keeping the commandments: check!
Adaptive Church sitting on an ordinary and overlooked inkwell
Over time, I’ve realized the deeper meaning of this ordinary object, a tarnished, unused inkwell, that props up Adaptive Church. On the one-year anniversary of Adaptive Church’s publication, I want to offer a brief meditation on the relationship between this ordinary object and what I’ve learned over the last year. First and foremost, I want to say thank you to all the readers, communities, colleagues, friends, and family who have gathered around this creative and collaborative work. We truly are better together.
First, this inkwell is a reminder of the stories we carry. It belonged to my grandfather, and I received it when he passed in 2011. It is one of a handful of material objects that provide tangible reminders of his life and the many lessons he offered. This and other ordinary objects provide tangible reminders of the lives and memories we carry with us from others. We are not our own. We are stewards and shapers of stories. Just as these stories shape our lives and communities, one day, others will carry the memories and tell the stories of our lives.
One of the great honors of writing Adaptive Church was stewarding the stories of so many individuals and communities. I focused on two organizations, The Parish Collective and Office of Church Engagement, and the many individuals and communities that are gathering around this work. It is a story of the shifting structures and new organizational forms that surround our lives. It is a story of the risks it takes to imagine and support a more adaptive church. When illumined by the words and witness of these people and communities, it is a story of hope.
Second, this inkwell illustrates how our lives, stories, and research literally takes up space because the good work other people support it. This second aspect is a fairly simple and straightforward connection, but the twin insight cannot be overlooked: 1) the work and wisdom of an adaptive church takes place. There is a return to place in this moment—as so many authors and leaders have noted—that invites us to think about the place(s) we inhabit and the complex stories of our places. And 2) our work and ministry in these places is only possible because of the faithfulness of others. The endnotes of Adaptive Church include the trail of conversation partners I followed along the way (dear reader, please read the endnotes). And conversations over the last year have only drawn me into deeper conversations with new colleagues, conversation partners, and critics. We do not do this work alone.
Third, this ordinary inkwell points to the craft of creative work. In a moment when it seems like the creative enterprise is under siege by technologies that produce at rates exceeding human capacity, there is a temptation to think writing is simply a product of technical production that is meant for our consumption. While the technologies that surround this creative work have and continue to change, this simple inkwell provides a reminder that working with words is and always will be a craft. Just as previous generations had to learn how to draw dark ink, swirling with endless possibilities, into a pen and begin the slow work of putting letters on a page, writing and research are possible through the combination of technologies and the wisdom that guides creative expression. At its best, the work of Adaptive Church and other forms of creative work reflect a craft of individual and collective creativity. I am even more convinced than ever that words and ideas have the capacity to transform individuals and communities.
Fourth, my grandfather’s inkwell provides a prompt for conversation. When people and students enter my office for the first, they will occasionally wander around, looking at the various items (mostly books) that surround them. While most will comment on a particular book, noting the name of a friend, teacher, or trusted guide that is on the shelf, some will comment on the inkwell. “What is this?” some will ask. I then get to tell the story about this ordinary object and some of the memories it carries.
Adaptive Church is as an invitation to conversation. I’ve had the great privilege over the last year to visit and speak with individuals and communities across contexts and continents. I’ve been spoken to groups gathered in Durham, England; San Francisco, CA; Houston, Dallas, and Waco, TX; Victoria, BC; Princeton, NJ; and Pittsburgh, PA. I’ve spoken to pastors, graduate students, undergraduates, community organizers, ecclesial entrepreneurs, nonprofit leaders, and so many brilliant and imaginative people. And thanks to possibility of digital connection, I’ve been able to hear stories from each of these communities that give me great hope for the future of our faith communities. We are certainly in a time of great change, but I see and hear a kind of possibility that reaches beyond certainty in so many communities.
Finally, this inkwell is a reminder of that gratitude is the only proper response to the gifts that make faith and a broader common life possible. Our lives and communities exist in and through the grace of God, a grace that we did not deserve and could not acquire on our own. Similarly, I did not go looking for or seek to acquire the inkwell that sits behind me; it was given as a gift. And while God’s grace far exceeds the gift of this ordinary inkwell or any gift Adaptive Church may offer, it is a reminder that we can only receive the gifts of God in and through the community God calls into being. A similar surprising encounter with generosity marks much of my experience over the last year: a kind word, an invitation, new collaborations, some unexpected resonance. These are the kinds of things that we cannot produce or acquire on our own; we can only receive them as a gift.
So, thank you for joining the conversation and offering your time, resources, stories in some way. As the novelist Marilynne Robinson notes, “There is more beauty than our eyes can bear, precious things have been put into our hands to do nothing to honor them is to do great harm.” This simple, ordinary inkwell is a surprising thing of beauty. Wherever you are and however you serve, may you see the great beauty that surrounds you.
Better Together,
Dustin
P.S. If you’d like to follow the conversation, you can always contact me or signup for a newsletter to receive periodic updates and similar reflections. Similarly, if you’d like for me to speak at your church or event this fall or spring, let’s explore what’s possible together.