Raised in a loving family, I knew of God from my first breath. I was part of the third generation to be born in the Bruderhof, a Christian communal movement that began in the 1920s. To me, being a Bruderhof child meant growing up in a happy world, one rich in both family and community.

I loved the group mealtimes with over two hundred people in a large dining hall. It was fun to eat and sing together. Sometimes the older people did skits or performances. Other times children gave recitals. As a community, we had picnics, watched movies, went on hikes, and held church services together. The school allowed for hours of outdoor play – bare feet permitted until the first snowflakes fell; opportunities to ride horses, swim, ski, skate, and toboggan – not to mention the many indoor activities: hours in the pottery studio messing about with clay, or crafting homemade marshmallows in the school kitchen. Wonderful teachers introduced me to literature and art. I loved the library, and I lived in the stories I read.

But a glorious childhood did not prevent me from becoming an egocentric teenager. Perhaps growing up with God, good examples, and the safe boundaries of a close-knit church saved me from some mistakes, but these did not save me from selfishness. I was aware that the sacrifices adults who lived in community made were real: they gave up their money and time, and they devoted all hours of the day to each other and God. I was not interested in that. After a turbulent junior year, I dropped out of high school, kissed goodbye the supportive efforts of my parents, and flew to a smaller Bruderhof in Germany.

Far from home, I cheerfully set about doing exactly as I wished. I found friends who, like me, pushed away the big decisions, choosing instead the momentary dissipation of youth. It was easy for me to turn on the loving people who raised me, and mock people who did not measure up to my idea of “normal.” I laughed at the old-world costume Bruderhof members wore, and I disparaged their morals as prudish piety. Despite attending church services and communal meals, I closed my ears to Christianity. How simple it was to oversleep, get away with minimal work, and live purposelessly, even on a Bruderhof community. But in my freedom from limits and obligations, I became desperately unhappy.

C. M. Dudash, Rose Shadow Study, oil on linen, 2003. All artwork used by permission.

Secretly I envied the joy of my parents and others members outside my clique. It irritated me that they could be so fulfilled in what I saw as their narrow lives. I pined for similar joy, but what I really wanted was for God to make me happy with no effort on my part. Guilt gave me a stomachache. I did not sleep well, and I wagered with God at night. I promised him things in exchange for sleep, and then took back the promises in daylight.

One midnight, the dam broke. Desperate for peace, I arranged an appointment with my pastor and his wife. When the dreaded time came in the morning, my face glowed with shame as I poured out the lies and deceptions that had churned my guts, keeping me wide-eyed in the dark of night. Smiling faces, kind eyes, reassurance met my humiliation. The pastor offered not judgment, but hopeful words. His wife simply offered understanding: “You must have been so unhappy.” Their words restored my shattered confidence.

I spoke out my sins initially for relief from torment. But the act of confession gave birth to contrition. I felt sorry for how I had hurt God, my parents, my peers. Remorse gave me a new outlook. I understood for the first time that God required something of me, and, grateful to be released from the weight of guilt, I wished only to serve the God who truly frees.

Alas, in an earnest desire to be perfect for God, I tumbled from repentance not to peace, but frustration and despair. As the saying goes, the devil really was in the details.

Prioritizing perfection unleashed two new fiends. Devil One pointed out other people’s failings. Suddenly those around me did not measure up to my ideals. In the past my friends’ and coworkers’ shortcomings had not bothered me at all. Now I had no patience for their weaknesses.

When I was not annoyed at others, Devil Two kept me perpetually afraid of people’s opinions. I followed Christ’s commandments not out of love, but because I wanted to be seen as correct. I feared the reaction of those around me more than the quiet voice of God inside me. Fear, not love, drove me to serve.

Joy left me. I made radical changes in my life – avoiding the music and literature I loved, abandoning pursuits such as sports and social gatherings, and resolving each day not to waste a moment on myself. At every turn, I set about sacrificing myself for God and others. In a sense, these years were probably the most upright of my life – and the most miserable. How well I understood Martin Luther’s complaint that “if one were to confess his sins in a timely manner, he would have to carry a confessor in his pocket!” I could not escape relentless temptations, and I felt ill-used by a God who wielded a mighty refining tool.

How strenuous to be good! At least living a life of evil and selfish pursuits had been fun (at the time), and confessing my sins had been difficult but straightforward. Three years later, I faced something even more confounding: how to overcome myself. I prayed for deliverance.

Little by little, grace penetrated my misery. The realization that God did not want my effort was an epiphany of grace. All the human determination, so earnest, so futile, faded away. Miraculously, personal striving was replaced by a dizzying upward release, away from myself. In almost giddy gratitude, my searching and questioning merged into one simple response: How could I truly serve Jesus?

Three years from my gut-churning midnight encounter with God, I requested membership into the Bruderhof. Like any vocation to join a religious life, this was a deeply personal decision. It is not possible to be born into Bruderhof membership, just as it is not possible to be born into a convent or monastery. Children like me might be raised in the Bruderhof, but without a personal encounter with God, lifelong vows cannot be taken. Knowing that my parents and grandparents had made the very same commitment years before me did not make my decision a foregone conclusion, but, if anything, complicated it. Nonetheless, I discerned this calling for myself as well.

C. M. Dudash, Red Daisies, oil on linen, 2003.

So it was that on January 14, 1995, I stood before a large congregation and proclaimed the ancient poetry of the Nicene Creed, affirming that I believed. Then, with joyful intention, I entered the pool and knelt. The waters rushed over my head three times and I rose, reborn. I became a sister. When I stepped out of the baptismal waters, dripping and joyful, I felt not that I had arrived, but that I must travel. A new life in Christ beckoned. I didn’t want to be a solitary traveler, but part of a band – a troop of believers that spanned the centuries. I desired the camaraderie, accountability, and inspiration others could give. As Augustine of Hippo wrote in the fifth century, “He who does not have the church as his mother does not have God as his father.” The church I sought was like a mother – a ferocious protector, a provider, a holy and beautiful expression of the Holy Spirit.

When I made a lifetime commitment to the Bruderhof I joined a community of families and singles who had also surrendered everything to serve Jesus and each other. Vows of faithfulness to my brothers and sisters linked me to the mother church that went back to the time of creation.

Conversion has brought me life in threes. For every sinner, there is the old life, the new life, and the life to come. For every convert there is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. But for those who, like me, have made vows of lifetime faithfulness in a religious community, there are also the gospel counsels of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

These are not the easiest virtues to live by. Initially, they appear narrow and restrictive – how much of myself must be stripped away? What must I renounce in this world for the sake of the world to come? But this is not the only way to look at them. Daily life is a better measure of fulfillment, for I am happy, and yes, after almost thirty years of communal living, still a bit giddy.

Poverty is the easiest. Growing up the way I did helped. Even as a child, I saw what people did with their money, and I observed that stockpiling it did not produce happiness. The love of money often brought out weakness, while those who shared were like hardwood, resilient. I also knew that private property and the urge to hoard or collect earthly things was at best a distraction, at worst idolatry. Since I owned nothing before my commitment, a much larger consideration was the decision to lay down the possibility of future earnings. Now I am relieved to be free of personal ownership, to live a life of sharing.

Years ago, the vertigo that accompanied my conversion disoriented me enough to see beyond the narrow definitions that poverty, chastity, and obedience sometimes hold.

Chastity is harder. Like many others, this did not come naturally to me, and I squirmed under chastity’s great bright light. But repentance humbled my heart to appreciate the dangers it warned off. Sexual purity prior to marriage and fidelity within it hinge on my readiness to not grudgingly but wholeheartedly pledge agape as superior to all other forms of love. My love for Jesus must be deeper than my love for any human being.

Obedience is the hardest of all. Like every Christian, I wish to follow the Holy Spirit, but often conveniently confuse the third person of the Trinity with my own ideas. I seldom if ever feel a direct call from God that clearly tells me anything. Fortunately, repentance has tempered my mind. Over the years, I have developed a healthy doubt about my own wisdom, and a desire to listen to other church members. I’ve learned that the voice of the Holy Spirit speaks most certainly through other people. Occasionally my ideas match my coworkers’, but sometimes my wishes are selfish, or they miss the bigger picture. No matter how inconvenient obedience is then, it protects me in my faith. George MacDonald wisely wrote, “What in the heart we call faith, in the will we call obedience.” With humility, I’ve learned to receive clarity of direction through brothers and sisters who are also modeling respect and forbearance.

There are times of frustration with myself and perhaps equal times of disappointment with others, but in the end, life in church community does not depend on perfect human beings. Years ago, the vertigo that accompanied my conversion disoriented me enough to see beyond the narrow definitions that poverty, chastity, and obedience sometimes hold. These three gospel counsels remind me of the interconnecting nimbus of vines that halos the ringed or Celtic cross, with Jesus at the center. And this is our calling, to live a life close to the cross.