There is a nondescript house on Brookfield Drive in East Lansing, Michigan, whose address I forget though I remember everything else about it. It’s where I lived for almost three years in the 1970s as part of a religious group called Shiloh Fellowship. When I’m in town, I sometimes drive slowly past it, letting my thoughts disappear into the past. I haven’t reached the point of ringing the doorbell to ask whoever lives there now if I can look at the rooms I once shared with the brethren.
The house, when I lived there, was part of the Kingdom of God. To the eye of faith, so was everything else. I was saved when I was in high school, and to the extent something like that can be explained it was for a common reason: I wanted everything to be saturated with meaning. This is a cruel demand to make of the world, but as a sixteen-year-old I felt comfortable making it.
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