Participating this year in the State of Formation fellowship with other up-and-coming religious and ethical thinkers has been an exciting opportunity for me, though not one that I could have anticipated given my religious upbringing. My own distinct journey to interfaith dialogue has been an unexpected gift, and it has made me wonder how more of us might cultivate authentic interreligious encounters despite the many divisions that keep our faith communities apart. I was raised in a small rural town in central Texas, in the heart of the Bible Belt, and was devout from a young age to my Southern Baptist Christian roots. There were no synagogues or mosques in my town to press me to consider my understanding of other religions, and I was led to view even fellow Christians of other denominations with skepticism as to whether they really knew “salvation” as I understood it. It is somewhat embarrassing to admit now, but I did not start forming friendships with people of other religious heritages until my mid-twenties, as neither my undergraduate studies at a Baptist university nor my years of Evangelical ministry post-college exposed me much to faith communities outside of my Protestant tradition.

When I moved to Austin at age twenty-five, my community of friends grew to include many more non-Christians—mostly agnostics and atheists, but also friends who were grounded in other faith traditions. One surprising environment for this was a local, organic farm where I volunteered every week for a few years. There under the Texas sun, as we harvested fields of tomatoes and collard greens, I engaged in robust conversations on faith and spirituality with Jews, Sufis, Catholics, and other truth-seekers. None of us had originally come to the farm to have interfaith dialogue—we were all just looking to support a local farming family in their CSA operation, to enjoy the sweat and soil, and to take a bag of organic vegetables home at the end of the day. But most of us were drawn to sustainable agriculture because we were seeking to live healthy and good lives, and for many of us, that also included an exploration of theology and ethics. So as we rolled up drip tape and carted wheelbarrows of compost together, we shared with each other our own experiences of God, of religious tradition, and of spiritual practices.

I consider those days out in the fields of Green Gate Farm to be some of the most sacred of my life. It wouldn’t have looked much like a worship service from the outside—full of our cursing the mosquitoes and the weeds, and sometimes drinking cold beers well into the summer nights. But to be able to share spiritual quests with others in a spirit of generosity, curiosity, and appreciation is quite a beautiful gift. Countless were the number of days when I drove home feeling awe and gratitude for whatever Divine Love we were all swapping stories about.

Now, as I navigate the bustle of downtown Boston and constantly interact with folks from diverse spiritual and religious backgrounds, it can seem strange that I was ever so isolated in a Baptist “bubble.” Yet I think my life experience is not unlike that of many Americans who grow up in mostly homogeneous communities, especially in less urban areas of the country. If physical distance between religious communities doesn’t create barriers, then economic and cultural divides often do. Without real-life relationships to influence and inform our understanding of others’ faiths, many people across the country are left relying on media for their education about other religions, which can obviously lead to less than accurate assessments about each other’s actual beliefs and traditions.

Isn’t that always the work we all are being called to—in different circumstances, in different neighborhoods—to nourish life?

I have wondered how the beautiful fellowship I was a part of in Austin could be replicated in other places in ways that would nurture healthy interfaith communities across the nation. Except of course, my friends and I had not been seeking interfaith discussion; it just seemed to happen once we started sharing our journeys about how we came to volunteer at an organic farm on the edge of one of the fastest growing cities in America. Maybe that is part of why it was as glorious as it was—nobody came with the aim to critique dogmas or debate sacred texts. We just gathered and labored together to try to grow and distribute something that could give life to our city and to our own bodies. Isn’t that always the work we all are being called to—in different circumstances, in different neighborhoods—to nourish life?

I believe our religious communities have so much we could teach each other about how to nourish life well. As much now as ever, we need to be finding places and times to overcome the divides between us so we can learn together. Geographic, political, economic, and cultural barriers can separate us in stark ways, but being intentional about traversing those divisions feels increasingly necessary. We all are in need of life-giving wisdom beyond merely the communities with which we are the most familiar. As we pursue better systems of healthcare and medicine, as we aim to mitigate environmental catastrophes, as we create art that inspires peace and beauty, we will likely find that our partners in goodness will be grounded in religious traditions different from our own. I would hope that in exploring our differences in theology and spirituality, we might appreciate how our diverse faith practices could expand, rather than threaten, the ways in which we understand how to nourish life in the world around us.