Wild Goose Chase: Finding Faith on the Fringe
If you believe the words “progressive” and “Christianity” don't go together, you haven't been to the Wild Goose Festival, a Carolina gathering that challenges perceptions of Southern Christianity.
The crackling noise of crunching gravel fills my ears, followed by a hum that sizzles like a fatty steak. I catch the source and watch half a dozen golf carts scatter over this pasture-turned-makeshift parking lot. They zig, zag, and abruptly stop near vehicles with license plates from all over North America. I collect state mottos as I make my way to the end of the row, hoping to catch a golf cart driver’s attention.
Live Free Or Die
While I Breathe, I Hope
Excelsior!
New Hampshire, South Carolina, New York, and many more. All have made their way to Union Grove, an unincorporated town in western North Carolina. It is one of the few areas of my home state I haven't set foot in before today.
It is not an hour's drive from where I was raised, but distances in Appalachia are not so much measured by miles or minutes but by chasms of cultural quirks. Don't believe me? Try calling a sonker a cobbler in Mount Airy, North Carolina. You'll break a granny's heart and maybe get asked to step outside by a feller who looks like Andy Griffith.
Union Grove is home to Van Hoy Farms, a place with a unique history. It became a mecca for bluegrass pickers and cloggers starting in the 1920s when local teacher and fiddle player H. P. Van Hoy had an idea to raise money toward a new high school for the community. H.P., his wife Ada, and a handful of family and friends hosted a fiddlers’ convention to secure the needed funds. The event was a success and became a yearly occurrence. Attendance grew, spreading out over the school grounds like kudzu.
By the time Neil Armstrong strolls across the moon, the Old Time Union Grove Fiddlers’ Convention, now marketed as the “World Championship,” draws close to 100,000 visitors over the Easter holiday weekend.
Decades pass, wounds are licked, and the spotlight on old-timey mountain music shifts.
Born out of progressive Christianity, a branch of the faith where tradition is questioned, diversity welcomed, social justice uplifted, and care for the planet an absolute must, the Goose has been labeled either an experiment in Beatific love or a hotbed of heresy.
This year marked the 100th anniversary of the Union Grove Old Time Fiddlers Convention. But the competition took place during the IBMA Bluegrass Live Festival in Raleigh, the state capital.
Nowadays, the farm is recognized as an RV and campground destination, nd the Wild Goose Festival has taken up residence, which is why me and mine are here. Born out of progressive Christianity, a branch of the faith where tradition is questioned, diversity welcomed, social justice uplifted, and care for the planet an absolute must, the Goose has been labeled either an experiment in Beatific love or a hotbed of heresy.
I've been invited down from my perch in Connecticut to see what all the fuss is about, to experience the weird, the awesome, and all things unorthodox firsthand. I've come to see what sort of crowd flocks to the Goose.
But most importantly, I come carrying a question.
After a decade of working as a minister within the institutional church, witnessing division, stuffed budgets and empty pews, resistance to change, and a never-ending supply of apathy, I'm nearing the end of my rope. Lately, there have been too many nights when I lie in bed and say into the darkness, "This can't be it." Something is missing.
I'm going to the Goose, into a wilderness surrounded by fellow seekers, to see what that something might be.
Across the picnic table from me sits Claire. She's been coming to the Goose since its inception in 2011, when it was held at the Shakori Hills Community Arts Center in Silk Hope, North Carolina. Claire is a minister, musician, and one of the maestros of mayhem who helps lead the nightly gospel sing-along under the soft glow of string lights in the Pub Tent. We're waiting for a welcome dinner to get underway.
Vegetables are chopped. Last-minute prep happens over the barbecue. Cobbler is scooped in bowls, and the pop of beer cans can be heard from every direction. We salivate and talk the way strangers in the South do, with unbridled ease. Several times, I try to ask Claire why she does this. Why come year after year to roast in the summer heat? But our conversation keeps getting interrupted because everyone knows her.
"Claire!" a man with a shaved head yells. Claire stands, "Greg!" and the two embrace.
"When you'd get here?" she asks. The wind is picking up, sweeping her silver hair across her face. Brushing it back, I see she's wearing a smile as warm as a summer tomato on the vine.
"We left last week. Been here since Monday," he says.
Claire sits back down, Greg joins our table, and the two keep playing catch-up.
“My wife and kid came the first couple of years but don't anymore. Too hot. They couldn't do it, so now it's just me.”
"Where you set up?" she asks.
Greg motions with his head, but before he can answer, another man in thick-framed glasses plops beside him, and the welcomes start all over again. Tuf introduces himself, saying his name (“toof”) twice and spelling it once. He and Greg live in Michigan, have been coming to the Goose for years, and, like Claire, are musicians. They host Beer and Hymns Detroit, leading the patrons of public houses, sports bars, and coffee shops through hymns, spirituals, and praise songs while pints of ale and ciders clank in approval.
Tuf asks me if this is my first time at the Goose. I nod and give a little back story about the long car ride to get here with two small kiddos.
"My wife and kid came the first couple of years but don't anymore. Too hot. They couldn't do it, so now it's just me," he says.
My family are back at the hotel, fifteen minutes away. Suddenly, I've got a pang of guilt for not being with them. I know I'll need to find one of those golf-cart shuttles and head back soon. I make more of an effort to finish the beer in front of me and leave shortly after.
Back in the car, I realized Claire never told me why she keeps coming back. But after watching her interact with Greg and Tuf, I feel confident that I know the answer.
The next morning, I breathe dirt as the golf cart's tires spin, seeking traction. Our driver possesses a pair of white knuckles and a voice like the men who used to sit outside my grandparents' house in metal lawn chairs, drinking Pepsi from glass bottles and telling lies while heat lighting exploded above their heads.
"Where y'all looking to get dropped off at?" he says. His Southern Appalachian accent is present in every word.
My tongue produces the same sounds. "Oh, it don't matter."
"How ’bouts I put you somewhere down in the middle?" he says.
"That'll be all right ," I say. I stretch the "right" in the same way a clown does a ballo0n at a child's birthday party. He nods and whips the buggy to a stop.
"Here's as good as any," he says. "Walk that way, and you're on what's called the main drag."
Slipping out, I toss my youngest child up on my shoulders and immediately regret offering her some of my breakfast as her weight settles on me. My spouse, Lauren, wrangles our other offspring. She's a witch in this way—able to place a spell of magnetism on our children that ensures they circle her like a set of moons drifting around a planet. We move down the path, our own little galaxy.
Tents are everywhere. Small pop-ups, like those you would find at a farmers' market, nestle between massive circus-sized domes able to shelter hundreds. The big tents will host nonstop musical acts, film screenings, and big-name speakers: Jim Wallis, the pastor who founded and still edits Sojourners magazine, a constant voice for mixing spiritual renewal and social justice. Obrey Hendricks Jr., an elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church and the author of several books, including The Politics of Jesus and Christians Against Christianity: How Right-Wing Evangelicals Are Destroying Our Nation and Our Faith. Jacqui Lewis, the Black minister and theologian whose books and shows on MSNBC and NPR advocate for racial equality, gun control, economic justice, and LGBTQ+ rights. The smaller ones host publishers, denominational representatives, podcast hosts, workshop leaders, and vendors.
“Oh, there’s this psychedelics-and-spiritual-care workshop later today I'll probably try and go to. And I just like the people here. I see the same ones every year. We camp beside each other.”
There is so much here, an ecclesiological buffet for anyone willing to dig in.
Need to relax with a reiki session? There's a space for that. Want to congregate in a drum circle? You've got some choices. Looking to unload some grief, trauma, or some generational family bullshit? Go sit with the Unitarian Universalist chaplain for an hour. Concerned about the rise in Christian Nationalism? You can vent and cuss with other like-minded souls at Convo Hall or attend one of many presentations on why it's dangerous. Want to grab a hot-glue gun, scraps of broken wood, finger paints, beads, and a Mason jar full of silk ribbons and spend an afternoon creating a one-of-a-kind religious icon? The answer is yes. Asking yourself, "Can I find a piece of clothing that sums up how I feel about the Supreme Court??"
You bet your ass you can. The "Abort the Supreme Court" tank top is just one of your options.
I spot countless water hoses running like harmless garter snakes across the property in all directions. Some help refill water bottles. Others are hooked up to makeshift misting stations, causing even the most adamant full-immersion Baptist to concede and allow themselves a sprinkling of cool salvation.
RVs line the festival's borders, everything from Class A motor homes to a few sweet-looking modern Airstreams. I'm not the outdoorsy type, but I'm feeling a slight tinge of camper envy.
Mobile kitchens offer hamburgers and dressed-up hotdogs. Lemonade shacks help to fight off the lingering specter of dehydration. The midmorning sun glares off the stainless steel of food trucks. One in particular catches my attention. Bright orange and hocking one of my favorites: yardbird. Lightly tossed in flour and spices, submerged in peanut oil. The result is my vice and Southern identity, wrapped together and deep fried. It's only 10 a.m., and my mouth is watering. I wait an hour before jumping in line.
After ordering, we wait for our names to be called, and I meet a woman named Diann. She is pacing with ravenous anticipation.
"This place is so good,” she says, holding a sticker-covered water bottle. “A little slow, but I swear it's worth the wait. I ate here every day last year"
I tell her how hard it is to find food like this in New England and how much I've missed it since moving away six years ago. I run through a menu list of must-have dishes, and she nods in affirmation.
"So, you've been here before?" I say.
"Oh yes. My ex-husband brought me years ago. He's more of what you might call a political activist. You know the type? During the week, he attended town planning meetings, and on the weekend, he'd head off to march or attend some rally. That never was my thing. I hate crowds."
I tilt my head and chuckle. "But aren't both of those things a big part of the Goose? Activism and large crowds?"
"Oh, sure, but I never go to any of those talks, and the ones I do are usually small and about counseling, guided meditation...oh, there's this psychedelics and spiritual care workshop later today I'll probably try and go to," she says. “And I just like the people here. I see the same ones every year. We camp beside each other."
"Does your ex-husband still come?" I ask.
"No, when we divorced, he got the house in Florida, and I got the Goose." She grins, and I can't help but think it sounds like the opening lyrics of a country song.
"Diann?" the woman inside the window yells. Diann turns to grab her food.
"It was good talking with you," she says over her shoulder, walking toward a small collection of tents near the edge of a tree line. I watch her leave, and a few moments later, the same woman hollers my name.
I tell myself I'll wait to find my family and a table before I dig in, but the smell wafting into my nostrils melts any notion of self-restraint. The first bite blisters my tastebuds and breaks my will to stop at just one.
Blissfully chewing away, I think about Diann and wonder: If I return next year, will she remember me? I also think she got the better end of the deal in the divorce. Who needs a house in Florida, anyway?
I'm spending my morning in The Commons. If there is an epicenter to the Goose, this is it. Vendors, food, art exhibits, beer, workshops—everything is at my disposal because, for the next two hours, my children will participate in age-appropriate activities supervised by saintly adult volunteers. I sip my beverage, tasting hops and a freedom I rarely experience anymore as a parent, and let my eyes scan the possibilities.
It's early, but people are on the move.. Some are young, some are mature. Kids are running around, and babies are on their parents' hips. There are carry umbrellas, or wear straw cowboy hats and trucker caps to fight off the sun. Tattoos cover a lot of exposed skin, and instruments are strapped to backs. Lots of facial hair. Hair tied up in messy buns droops toward the ground or stretches to the heavens. Everyone waves, everyone smiles at each other. People are seen, heard, and saved in their own way.
It's hard not to notice what I don't see, too. No MAGA apparel. No Back the Blue banners. No Punisher skulls colored in red, white, and blue.
Then, out of nowhere, a teenager strolls into my line of sight. No more than fifteen, she flops down onto an inflatable couch and sprawls out. Within seconds, her phone is out, her earbuds in, and the expression "I'm so over this" rests on her lips beside a couple of piercings. Her pink hair, Dead Kennedys T-shirt, and fishnet stockings drip with angst. She's invoking the same right I did at her age—the right to be miserable no matter your surroundings.
But I try to check my assumptions. Who knows? She could be listening to ABBA on her phone. Maybe she's a Swiftie reliving the Eras Tour? I won't get an answer, but this thinking has led me to deliberate on the kind of people who come here. And for this question, I do have some ideas.
They grew up inside—or in close proximity to—the strict confines and “purity culture” of American Evangelicalism. These folks limped away after years of abuse, accused of bringing down the wrath of God upon themselves for many reasons.
Reaching out to friends and colleagues who've attended in the past, I'm led to believe the Goose base is built on the bones of Christians who are “deconstructing” their faith.
One of the Goose’s speakers this year was Sarah McCammon, an NPR political reporter who grew up in a strict evangelical household and had just published her book The Exvangelicals: Living, Loving, and Leaving the White Evangelical Church. Many of the people at this festival have lived stories like the ones McCammon reports in her book. They grew up inside—or in close proximity to—the strict confines and “purity culture” of American Evangelicalism. These folks limped away after years of abuse, accused of bringing down the wrath of God upon themselves for many reasons.
Their backsliding transgressions could be but are not limited to believing God loves you unconditionally even though you have...
- Had premarital sex
- Gotten a divorce
- Refused to believe the universe is just 10,000 years old and that Noah brought dinosaurs onto the ark
- Come out as gay, or bi, or trans, or gender-fluid
- Loved someone who has come out
- Declared that Black lives matter
- Said that a woman can be whatever she chooses to be without her husband’s permission.
Oh, and uplifting science. That’ll get you a stack of divine demerits, too. Organizers and attendees who are hurt, broken, and hollowed out by that kind of religion work to counter shame, judgment, and toxicity in all its forms so that people can come and be authentically themselves—and bring their faith with them. If the Goose is anything, it's a safe place for the faithful and curious to dip their toes back into the river.
To me, that sounds like good news. Hell, that's a gospel for anyone.
Even the emo kid who just wishes she were elsewhere.
Time flies, and darkness falls on our final night at the Goose. My family and I are with some old friends, Carilea and Andrew. Their kids and ours run around and play together. My youngest is as naked as the day she came into this world, making mud pies with water she's accrued from one of two small plastic swimming pools tucked between two RVs. Carrilea's mother, Lulu, ensures we all grab a plate of pork chops and stir-fried squash. Like any grandmother worth their salt, she insists it'll be our fault if we leave hungry.
I've missed the two of them. We talk of the beauty and woes of parenting, about trying to raise youngins in world that is on fire. Carrilea shares about stepping away from full-time congregational ministry. She now works for an ecumenical organization helping communities seek justice around issues at the intersection of faith and health. She seems happy.
"We could do this all the time," she says, looking at Lauren and me. "When y'all moving back down here? I've already got Andrew searching for a large plot of land." She's joking, but my heart silently hopes she isn't. It's a tempting future to dream about. Even if it never happens, it's nice to know somebody wants you around.
There’s magic here in this outpost of civility. Equal parts Holy Ghost Revival, Twilight Zone, and Lollapalooza.
For the last couple of days, I have also sensed the Goose's allure, too. There's magic here in this outpost of civility. Equal parts Holy Ghost Revival, Twilight Zone, and Lollapalooza. The fact that it appears only once a year, almost like the enchanted village of Brigadoon, adds to its mystique. There's a fear that I'll somehow miss something if I don't come back next year and the year after that. The Goose already has a hold on me, like how a loved one hugs your neck, and I don't want it to let go.
Before I can share any of this, more friends arrive, signaling the time has come for a sacred service to get underway. Lauren is getting ordained in the Baptist way. She has felt a call on her life for some time but has needed the right place and people to help her affirm what she already is; a priest to any and all needing her. We did not plan this, but the possibility became real after several conversations with other renegades and dissenters who found themselves free of committees, boards, and institutional bylaws. And so, we gather to practice the laying on of hands, speak over Lauren with whispers of encouragement, and at a time when I don't believe in much anything anymore, these people of the Goose make it feel like all will be right in the world. Or at least as right as it can be on a slice of farmland in the shadows of the North Carolina mountains.
And tonight, that's going to have to be enough.
At least until next year.
About the author
Justin Cox is an ordained minister, late-night baker, and displaced Southerner. He's a regular columnist at Baptist News Global, Good Faith Media, and The Christian Citizen, where his writing often engages the intersectionality of food and faith. He currently resides in New England with his family.
Stacy Reece is a photographer and the co-founder and chief stuff officer of Salvation South. She is the former director of the Georgia Center of Innovation for Life Science, where she pioneered the use of social media in economic development. She was also the director of partnership development for Georgia Bio. After leaving the economic development world, she taught herself to screen print and launched the home goods company, Down South House & Home, for which she hosts the At the Welcome Table podcast.
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Photographs by Stacy Reecehttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/photographs-by-stacy-reece/
Dear Justin, your beautifully-written story gives me hope. Thank you. I periodically am invited to substitute for the minister at a church that doesn’t call itself a church and which serves up a mixture of positive Christianity and Buddhism. Before I read your piece, I was afraid that congregation, and our local UU Fellowship, were in a minority of those standing up for all peoples. I’m happy to know events like Goose exist, and that there are still folks who believe there are many paths to spirit. Blessings, Deb