This is Part Three of the Sojourn Series. You might enjoy reading the first two chapters before this post. In this story, I speak about my journey into the Anabaptist Movement.
In 2009, I was not looking to leave the Vineyard Movement. I felt at home, called, and invested. This was my people. I had come to deeply love Christ’s church, Christ’s cause, and Christ’s calling. I believed the local church was worth my time, my talents, and whatever teaching gift I had to offer. I could not imagine being anything other than Vineyard.
However, it was an uneasy time in the world around us, and that polarizing political season planted seeds that became conviction. Somewhere around 2008 and 2009, Pastor Jerry and I read The Myth of a Christian Nation by Gregory Boyd, which had come out in 2005. That book shook me awake. It put words to convictions that had been forming under the surface. The move from punk rock and spiritual pilgrimage to Vineyard had not been a hard shift, and the next turn would not be either. The Kingdom of God demanded my loyalty, and my country had never held it in the same way. Boyd helped me name and understand the dangers I was seeing in the rising religious right and in nationalistic, empire-shaped religion appearing in pulpits across the country. Honestly, I realized for the first time that this was one of the reasons I left the churches I grew up around. The Kingdoms could not, and would not, share space. Though I did not agree with Boyd on everything, the book was prophetic in my life.
Shortly after reading Boyd’s book, I encountered The Politics of Jesus by John Howard Yoder. It was a brilliant theological book written by a very broken man. That book gave me a framework for what was developing in me, and I threw myself into Anabaptist theology. A local closing Christian bookstore with a timely clearance rack helped fuel it, too. After several trips, I walked out with about a hundred books for under five dollars each. Many of them did not stand the test of time. Anabaptists are not always the most fabulous stylists, and Herald Press certainly didn’t produce the highest level reads. Regardless, I was learning. God used those voices to break me of nationalistic, imperial ways of thinking. Those books ruined me in the best possible way.
The Mennonite picture in my mind
Growing up, I did not know much about Mennonites. I remember one in the first church I attended. She helped lead Sunday school. In high school, the Mennonites I encountered seemed odd to me. Their convictions did not seem to match their lives. On my spiritual search, I mostly met conservative Mennonites, and I was certain that was the last thing I would ever want to be.
The word Mennonite carried a particular picture for me. Plain clothes. Unique head coverings. Rural farms. A culture set apart from time. The stereotype blurs the lines between Amish and Mennonite, and it is whimsical and half-true. For me, it conjured the memory of the boy who boarded our school bus with shoes caked in a sticky mud we suspected was not from a field. It was a muddied memory of stained clothes and flashy white sneakers. It was people trying to hide inevitable German looks and plain clothes by shopping at Abercrombie and Fitch and changing in the parking lot, before rebelling with a worldly shopping trip or nightclub experience. It was cliquish accents and historic traditions that seemed to care little for neighbors, modernity, or the earth. If you grew up around Mennonites, you may recognize these images. I knew I was not one, and would never become, a Mennonite.
Ironically, my great-grandmother was Mennonite. I did not realize that when I was a child sitting beside her, I only knew she dressed differently. However, when she joined us for a volleyball or whiffleball game, I never noticed any difference. My maternal family also stemmed from the Brethren in Christ movement, which was influenced by Anabaptism. One of my many great-grandfathers helped start that new movement. I did not know then how much that would matter later.
Seeds that were already in the soil
Even in my wandering years, I was forming convictions around peace, nonresistance, and the Kingdom of God. I read constantly. Goodwill provided a cheap way for me to read books on Ethics, anthropology, history, faith, and sociology. These were often college textbooks I was reading for fun, even though I was somewhat antagonistic towards higher education at the time. I took in everything from Martin Luther to Gandhi. As I began to find my way back to Jesus, C. S. Lewis and Brennan Manning met me where I was. As I journeyed toward church again, James Emery White, George Barna, and Frank Viola gave me language. I am still sincerely amazed by these authors, even when I disagree. If you haven’t seen Frank Viola’s blog on Patheos, The Deeper Journey, you should. When I landed in the Vineyard, John Wimber, Jack Deere, George Eldon Ladd, Neil Cole, Ed Stetzer, and others helped me imagine church with hope.
As my convictions deepened, the Kingdom of God gave new meaning to peace and nonresistance. I picked up more books. Gregory Boyd and John Howard Yoder were among the many. Early Christian thinkers and the early Anabaptist writings all became critical studies for me. Outside of reading, I spent time with my grandparents, who deeply shared some Anabaptist convictions. There was always an open ear, a homemade cookie, and Meadow Tea at their door. They took complex matters and made them simple truths.
I would trade almost anything for one more of those conversations. They belonged to a small denomination begun generations earlier by one of my grandmother’s forefathers. The Brethren in Christ were a hybrid of Anabaptism, Pietism, Wesleyanism, and Evangelism. Their early Anabaptist influence made them a historic peace church, and my grandparents lived it quietly and sincerely. Once while husking corn, my grandfather offered a sentence that still guides me. “If I kill, it either sends someone to hell without the possibility of redemption, or it kills my Christian brother. Both of them I have been called to love.” That line still pierces me. Vineyard had Quaker roots, so I started exploring those influences too. Katie was with me in those years, and we felt like the disconnects in our youth with faith were finally coming to light. Both of us love those conversations we had with my grandparents.
Every Church is a Peace Church, and a friend named John
Learning how the Kingdom manifests in peace, citizenship, ethics, shalom, and healing led me to an organization called Every Church a Peace Church. The hope was simple. Churches could turn the world toward peace through the teachings of Jesus. The organizer I met was John Stoner, a Mennonite who shattered my stereotype. Pastor, Christian Peacemaker Teams leader, and more of an activist than I was in my best days. We met for breakfast and had conversations that often drew others in. He pointed me to authors like Ched Myers and Dale Brown. I did not agree with everything he held, but his friendship was a signpost on my road—he gave resources and answered questions.
Scripture did the deepest work, but God used all these voices. Yoder’s book. Stoner’s activism. My grandparents’ answers. And my growing unease that we in the Vineyard struggled to address nationalism with clarity. The pull toward Anabaptism grew.
2009. Plans change. We move.
By 2009, Pastor Jerry announced he was moving to Ethiopia. I had hoped to church plant with him in the Vineyard. Not only were the politics a mess at that time, but my world also felt like it was coming apart. I took a detour to Virginia for a job and a music touring opportunity. It also included activism and some of the best money I had made to date. By then, Katie and I had been married for three years and together for five. She was walking her own transformation in college. She had grown up in a military-proud background, and she was moving toward pacifism and Spirit-filled convictions. She told me where she was on our first official date, and it was encouraging to hear her share my sojourning yearnings.
As we moved to Virginia, we were torn between a local Vineyard as our church home and a Mennonite Church about 40 minutes away. Something clicked about exploring Anabaptism for both of us, and that won out. We both felt we would come home someday to the Vineyard, and I have prayed for it for many years since. In this season, we were convinced of the need to explore Anabaptism. We visited a Mennonite church in 2009, and braced for the stereotype. The website looked like it was from 1990 and had little to no photos, leaving us wondering what we would walk into. We made an exit plan, devised ways to signal each other to go, and planned to sit near the back, eyes on the door, with a head nod ready in case things got weird.
We did not need the head nod. From 2009 to 2010, we attended Dayspring Mennonite Church, and we were warmly welcomed. It was not strange at all. We sensed we were to make our home there for the time we had. We drove almost forty minutes for Sunday worship and small groups. There were lots of meals, lots of learning, and lots of patient answers to our questions. They were more traditional and fundamental than my friend John Stoner back in Pennsylvania, but their quiet witness offered a prophetic challenge to a world chasing attention and loyalty. They had boundaries that kept them from trying to be like every other evangelical church. Though we missed the worship, low-key community, and Holy Spirit teachings in the Vineyard, we felt at home. Actually, we felt God told us to put our roots down for a season when we walked in. A little later, we were invited to share on a Sunday night and then on a Sunday morning. It felt like family.
In that season, I joked that I must have been a Charismatic with a Mennonite in the Closet, and for a season, we would be a Mennonite with a Charismatic in the closet. Both of these things were radically opposed to what I was taught about church, Jesus, and the Kingdom growing up. However, I found God alive, breathing, and with practicality around each corner in both of these movements.
In 2010, my job didn’t work out, and in a hurry, we prepared to move to Southern California. We still carried a passion to plant a church. Instead of moving forward through Vineyard USA, I found myself licensed for ministry with Rosedale Mennonite Missions and the Conservative Mennonite Conference (now Rosedale Network of Churches). There is a longer story to tell another time about the irony of my joining any group with the word Conservative in it.
Shortly after arriving in California, Katie faced significant health challenges. I was driving a Limousine, working in the reservations office, and trying to start a church plant without a team. I worked and met with people while she lay on bedrest due to preclampsia. When she was feeling up to it, we met two brothers in the Brethren in Christ Movement who encouraged us, Perry Engle and Jeff Wright. However, then came the emergency c-section, the diagnosis of epilepsy, and after a year of hitting the pavement, merely a few people interested in church planting with us. She was the first to say it. We needed to return to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I hated those worlds. In late 2011, we moved back to care for Katie and to care for my grandmother until her passing. That return was one of the most challenging and dark moments of my journey. It still perplexes me at times. We visited the Vineyard and a few other movements upon our return, but spiritually, we did not sense a release from the Mennonite Church. We were hurting, but we still identified with this movement. For two short years, we helped a Church of the Brethren church plant.
Finding our footing back home
My licensing with Rosedale Mennonite Missions and the Conservative Mennonite Conference ended in 2012. Through a California Brethren in Christ friend, Jeff Wright, we connected with the Atlantic Coast Conference of Mennonite Church USA. Our overseer, Warren Tyson, was personal and encouraging in a way we had not experienced before. Our time with that conference was short, but we appreciated the friendship and resourcing. By this time, the writings of Frank Viola and Mike Breen had collided in our heads, and we found ourselves more interested in missional and organic models.
For the next year, we attended a church that belonged to the Atlantic Coast Conference of Mennonite Church USA. I preached occasionally, but we were mainly focused on missional communities on the South Side of Lancaster City, which we called The Community Haus. Somewhere in here, we realized it. We had become Mennonite. Even so, the Vineyard still held influence, honor, and deep fondness in our hearts.
In 2013, I accepted an Associate Pastor role at East Petersburg Mennonite Church in the Lancaster Mennonite Conference of MC USA. The conference’s relationship with the denomination was in turmoil. Our congregation mirrored those challenges. In 2018, the conference our church belonged to left MC USA and became its own fellowship of churches. Three years later, I became the Lead Pastor. As a side note, this is unhealthy in this church and the responsibility of this role grew me, gave me value, and destroyed me in unhealthy ways all at the same time.
By then, I had learned a hard lesson. There is a noticeable difference between being Mennonite culturally and being Mennonite theologically. I was the latter. I often say I am not Mennonite culturally, but convictionally. In this church, where I began pastoring, it was early in our time there when a former pastor of the congregation, who still attended, greeted me and said he was glad I was there, even though I would never be one of them. When I asked what he meant, he said we did not have a Lancaster County German last name. Therefore, we would never fully be inside, at least in his mind. It was the first of hundreds of similar remarks I would hear and endure across seven years.
I discovered that many attended Mennonite churches not because of passion for the mission or agreement with Anabaptist theology, but for historic and family reasons. I am sure that is true in many traditions, but it did not match the passionate foundations I had seen in the Vineyard, where people were often radically transformed by something God did in or through the church. My story included.
I was licensed for ministry in Lancaster Mennonite Conference in 2013 and ordained in 2015. As mentioned above, in 2017, I became the Lead Pastor of this neighborhood church. For all its struggles, there were many good people and much good that happened. I invested in the neighborhood and also in the broader network of churches we belonged to. I served on a denominational Strategic Direction Task Force, led several learning cohorts, spoke in many churches, and hosted an annual resourcing day for pastoral leaders. Flashforward, in 2025, I am still licensed and serving a church in this network.
Where the threads meet
The Vineyard gave me back grace, worship, and belonging. The Mennonite Church taught me simplicity, peace, and the long obedience of community. Together, they have both deeply formed me. I am less convinced by labels and more persuaded by the Kingdom, and I will get to that in this series. I believe Jesus is still forming a people who love enemies, care for neighbors, and live quiet, faithful lives in ordinary places. In this next season, I found myself returning to Vineyard life with those Anabaptist convictions still alive in me.
Coming next: Becoming Vineyard Again.
The story circles back. I will share how we returned to a Vineyard community, what we carried with us from Anabaptism, what we found waiting for us, and how that homecoming shaped our family, our ministry, and the way we follow Jesus now.
Let’s reflect together.
- When did a book, a mentor, or a conversation quietly shift your convictions about following Jesus
- Where have you seen the difference between cultural belonging and theological conviction
- What practices help you live a Kingdom-first life in a world that tugs at your loyalties
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