From the beginning, two issues were central to Jubilee’s strategy: place and race. Jubilee committed itself to a “parish” approach, learned from John Perkins and the Christian Community Development movement. We wanted to be a church of neighbors, not commuters. More than once I overheard our pastor thank someone who had driven to Jubilee from another part of town – and then encouraging them to find a church closer to home to join.

Being committed to our neighborhood meant taking the question of race seriously. Though a number of us were White (myself included), we all shared a commitment to honoring Black leadership (our community was over 75% African-American at that time), striving toward a Black musical style, and spending lots of time talking about how race affected our fellowship. Those of us who were White were aware that our very presence compromised this priority at some level. So we tried to figure out how to provide behind-the-scenes leadership whenever possible.

Eventually, Jubilee had nearly 75 people worshipping on Sunday mornings – probably 25 more than our little room could comfortably accommodate. Three or four years ago we were wrestling with a decision about whether to add multiple services, rent space at nearby Manual High School, or search for a bigger building to buy. Ultimately, none of these were necessary because our numbers began to decline.

I’ll leave it to church-growth experts to figure out why Jubilee changed from a growing church to a shrinking one. It seemed like we had all the right pieces in place: godly leaders, lots of gifted people, a free place to worship, good Bible teaching. So what went wrong? Was it the music? The preaching? Too many White people? Too many Black people? Was it the challenges of the inner city, or the changes that gentrification brought to our neighborhood? Did we have the wrong church polity or theology? Did we not work hard enough, or invest enough blood, sweat and tears? We sure didn’t fight too much at Jubilee. One observer called it “the most stress-free church I ever saw.”

I’m certain that our commitment to racial reconciliation was a complication that many folks just didn’t care to mess with – especially our Black neighbors, for whom dealing with race is not some kind of optional social-justice project. And we probably shot ourselves in the foot by committing our youth ministry to serving high-risk kids from the neighborhood, rather than making it a fun, safe place for the church kids.

We were an informal bunch, to say the least: Perhaps too informal for those looking for something resembling the churches of their childhood. Sometimes our worship services were downright comical. Like the time that the only elements we could find for communion were orange Tang and a stale tortilla. Or the (many) times that nobody prepared to lead worship, so we just passed around hymnals and hollered out requests.

The "program" on Sunday mornings was rarely impressive. We just sang, prayed, studied the Bible, took communion (every week), and talked about what was going on in the ministry. That's it. We probably didn’t have “special music” (i.e. a soloist) more than a dozen times over the years.... Unless you count Lucy (and we all counted Lucy), who got up regularly to sing for us a song that she would be making-up even as she was singing.

Lucy is middle-aged but developmentally-delayed, with the thought processes of a seven-year old child. She almost never missed church at Jubilee. She brought her recorder-flute to play along with the worship team, and played with such enthusiasm that it sometimes made it difficult for the rest of us to find the tune of the song. So we convinced her first that tambourine, and then maracas, and finally a small “shaker-egg” might work better. So although her instrument got quieter, she still shook that egg with everything she had, oblivious to the tempo or feel of the song. Sometimes in the midst of a quiet, contemplative tune Lucy would erupt with a burst of shaker-egg passion. She just shook it for Jesus, because she loved being in his family! And that’s the way she sang, too; “Thank you for Jesus,” Lucy sang, “thank you for my church, and my son and my auntie and stuff like that!” Lucy’s impromptu solos always brought the house down, and might have been the best thing Jubilee ever produced.

Sometimes I went to church just to hear Matthew James pray. Matthew was confined to a wheelchair after a life of unbearable physical (and emotional) affliction. But every week he prayed, “Lord, thank you for my illness. Because with out it, I would have never found my way back to you!” I pitied the preacher who had to follow those words.

But even Lucy’s music and Matthew’s prayers weren’t enough to keep Jubilee together. And so we've come to the end. This winter, Jubilee quietly ceased to exist as something the neighborhood would recognize as “church.” It passed so slowly and peacefully, like a gentle snowfall, that we’re not even sure exactly when the end really came.

As our numbers declined, we decided to try the house-church model to see if it would work in our neighborhood. After all, house churches are exploding around the world from China to suburban Denver. But house church is probably a little too far off the map for most of our neighbors, especially those raised in traditional Black churches. So now we’re down to a handful of folks worshipping in my living room on Sunday evenings. (We’re enjoying this quixotic little thing called “house church,” by the way, but that’s a story for another time.)

Although I started this post by saying our church has been a failure, I don’t really believe that. Sure, by the typical marks of “success” – which usually boil down to one thing: numbers of people – Jubilee failed.

But in an age of commuter churches, Jubilee worshipped, prayed, studied scripture, and served kids from lower-income families in one inner city neighborhood for over twelve years. One can only imagine the profound ways that experience shaped the spiritual lives of our families, and particularly of our children. Not to mention the long list of neighborhood kids who were loved, welcomed, embraced, taught, fed and discipled along the way. (And it's important to say that Neighborhood Ministries is still doing that important work, even without the presence of Jubilee.)

During the “most segregated hour of the week,” Jubilee consistently pursued the challenge of being a multi-ethnic church. (We weren't always real good at it, but we learned and grew so much personally in the process.)

In an age of consumer churches, we chose to remain in a church that didn’t stand a chance of meeting most of what church-shoppers usually call their “needs.” Rodney Clapp suggests that staying in a struggling church is one of the most counter-cultural acts available to Christians in our day. All I know is that the folks who were part of Jubilee Community Church were taking a decidedly non-consumeristic approach to church membership.

I’ve heard plenty of stories over the years about churches splitting up, dying out, and closing down. Typically there is controversy and strife, leaving people feeling wounded, gun-shy about their next church experience. Not so at Jubilee: I’ve been struck by how much kindness and how little acrimony has characterized the final days of our fellowship. Fact is we probably would have closed down a year ago, except for two things: We enjoyed one another’s company; and we shared a deep concern for the most-vulnerable among us (including Lucy, our church soloist).

Jubilee Community Church never managed to be purpose-driven, seeker-friendly, highly-effective, dynamically-growing, or any of the other hyphenated terms that come to mind. But it was a very good thing in our lives and our neighborhood, and for that we give thanks.