It’s a Sunday in Mission Hills when Pastor Ryan Pyror casually strolls to the front of the room, a stack of papers in one hand and a leisurely gait in his step. The wooden floors beneath his feet creek softly, the overhead lights casting a gentle, golden glow on the crowd below.
“May we create brave space for each other because we recognize that this will be a vulnerable and imperfect gathering,” he begins, as he does with every liturgy, “We are invited to be honest, to not take ourselves too seriously, to listen to our bodies, to trust ourselves, to be challenged, and to experience love, so that we may be transformed by an encounter with grace to go into our weeks and live well.”
Ryan continues, and it becomes apparent that his typical garb of dark, full-framed sunglasses, a colorful snapback, and some sort of Baylor University memorabilia on his person are a far cry from that of a stereotypical Christian pastor. Pressed suits traded for jeans and sneakers replacing loafers, he exudes an overwhelming sense of approachability.
By all means, it’s this unorthodoxy that has seemed to serve him well during his 8 years as lead pastor at Mission Hills Christian Church in Mission Hills, CA. Although he does not perceive himself as an activist – and cheekily adds that he has to be arrested before he could even be considered an activist – he’s advocated for Mission Hills as an all-inclusive, safe environment for everyone interested in or even recovering from Christianity. Marching for LGBTQ+ rights and environmental justice, Ryan notes that, no matter how historically controversial they have been in orthodox church spaces, it’s up to churches to have a “theological response.”
TEXAN-BORN, BAYLOR-BRED
Ryan’s story begins in the Lone Star State, a state saturated with orthodox religion and Christian rhetoric. “Growing up in Texas, religion is just everywhere. They’ll play Christian music in the grocery store, and that sort of thing,” he describes, “Even if you don’t consider yourself incredibly religious, you culturally grew up going to church every now and then.”
Although coming from one of these “culturally Christian” families, Ryan admits that he wasn’t terribly interested in religion until high school, when the years following September 11th unraveled an uncomfortable truth: that Christianity could be weaponized to support war. And in a post-9/11 world, when it had become a religious endeavor to stand united against terrorism in the Middle East, problematic theology often ran rampant, unchecked, and alongside American patriotism.
What should we learn from this? How could we start conversations? Deeply unsettled by these persistent thoughts, Ryan turned to Baylor University to pursue a B.A in Religion and a Minor in International Studies to develop his dictionary and answer some of those deep-cutting questions that spirituality and culture co-presented. In the small college town of Waco, Ryan found that he naturally gravitated towards the literature and lectures of academics who had learned to question the orthodoxy of Christianity and embraced “the full spectrum of what life and spirituality could be even beyond the bounds of any kind of traditional notion of faith.” In these formative years, Ryan became a sponge, soaking up every bit – from global justice and creative writing to the history of Christianity – and letting it transform and challenge his views of what faith could represent.
Ryan graduated from Baylor with some fleeting thoughts of master’s and doctoral programs down the line, ultimately opting for a year-long internship program in Maui working with junior high school students. Filling his days with volunteer projects at food banks and charities, he fondly recalls that his time in Hawaii was a learning experience overflowing with friends and fun across the islands.
But, importantly, Hawaii had taught Ryan where he didn’t belong: in the evangelical megachurch scene, where blind faith could often go unquestioned and radical conversations drowned out. “It showed me that I didn’t have a place in evangelical Christianity,” he says, “That the gap between where Christianity seemed to be going and where I was headed was just so far, far apart.” At the conclusion of his internship, Ryan thanked Maui for the experience and returned to the mainland in search of something new.
THE TRANSITION YEARS
Around 2014, Ryan knew that it was time to listen to those thoughts of returning to school, opting to move to Pasadena, CA with soon-to-be-wife Andrea and attend Fuller Theological Seminary. Ideally, Ryan would have found Fuller to be as intellectually stimulating as Baylor once had been, with days filled with thought-provoking lectures and riveting discussions. “But I was a little shocked at how easy grad school was,” he notes with a soft chuckle and a sheepish look, “That was the hardest thing. I was having a difficult time not being intellectually challenged and engaged.”
It took a while before he could find his groove – theology, art, and culture – and hone in on what life would be like after his M.A. Yet, this begged the even larger question of what Ryan had wanted out of his studies: to stay in an institutional form of Christianity or to carve out his own niche. But in 2015, on the eve of the Supreme Court legalizing same-sex marriage, the thought of staying in institutional Christianity seemed fairly grim. Asking their views on same-sex marriage, churches often would gauge whether or not applicants were eligible to move onto the next step of the hiring process based on their willingness to denounce the Supreme Court’s decision. “I would just copy and paste my answer of being affirming,” Ryan says, “And I would never get an interview.”
Yet another political storm was brewing on the American front: the budding standoff between Hilary Clinton and Donald J. Trump. Ryan understood that there needed to be space to relieve pressure, to talk about vulnerability and anxiety on the eve of such a monumental election. Again, turmoil worked to reinforce his decision to carve out his own niche. But this time, learning of a certain church back in Los Angeles meant that he could lean into his decision to leave institutionalized Christianity. While Ryan and Andrea had just returned to Texas in December of 2015 in search of work, such an opportunity had undoubtedly piqued their interest.
Situated in a one-story, white stucco building off of Devonshire Street, Mission Hills Christian Church had been an aging congregation, one that was looking for a fresh restart. They were willing to take their risk on Ryan as their lead pastor – then a young, twenty-something who had, ironically, not been to church in about three years. But Mission Hills meant a large risk for Ryan as well: with no organizational experience, he would have to quickly learn how to wear a lot of hats. The interview had gone well, and Ryan was left with a choice to make.
“I eventually said, ‘Alright, let’s do this,’” he notes with a touch of excitement to his voice, “‘Let’s take that risk.’” After a few months of living in Texas, Ryan and Andrea moved back to California and into the suburban neighborhood of Mission Hills.
MISSION HILLS CHRISTIAN CHURCH
Mission Hills offered immense opportunity, and the possibility that it would one day become a space filled with questions and conversations thrilled him. “I saw Mission Hills functioning as a hub for people who were disenfranchised from church, a safe place for people who have, historically, been marginalized from church to be able to belong with no strings attached,” Ryan excitedly recalls in nearly one breath, “I wanted it to be a hub of activity, art, environmentalism, and social activism, a place where community organizations could use the space to work. I wanted to host events and parties. I wanted it to be a regional and national hub for progressive Christianity.”
But that initial concern still lingered – how was he supposed to operate an organization? To tackle everything he had wanted to achieve? Essentially a staff of one, the church needed more repair than he could individually take on. Help would eventually trickle in, but, in the first year alone, Ryan handled everything from insurance matters to renovations, simultaneously making time to connect with the church’s new denomination, pursue ordination, and prepare Sunday sermons.
It took years of trial-and-error and throwing things at the wall to see what stuck. Even now, Ryan admits that he’s still learning and figuring it out. But, little by little, his core mission came to fruition. Book clubs and hiking groups were kick-started, and a Mission Hills Christian Church podcast began to be regularly recorded and released. Tackling political and social justice issues, Ryan moved the pews and opened the floor for talks on life in the post-Trump era, Black Lives Matter, and, recently the Israel-Palestine conflict – all conversations that would likely have been shied away from had he gone down a more structured, institutionalized path. And with community still at the forefront of his mind, Ryan made sure to plant Mission Hills at the heart of it all. Joining pride marches, the Mission Hills Neighborhood Council, and even the local chapter of Atheists United, the church began to resemble a public forum, a place where anyone could talk, listen, and learn.
The community garden, a particularly crowning achievement for Ryan, became the paradigm of what he wanted Mission Hills to represent. Increasingly concerned with climate change and environmental justice, Ryan threw himself into the literature of eco-spirituality – a movement impassioned by the interconnectedness of humanity and nature. “We share mutuality, not only with each other as human beings, but we share a certain kind of kinship with everything in creation,” he says. In creating space for the community, church, and environment to intimately interact with one another, Ryan shares that the experience opened his eyes to the countless possibilities that Mission Hills could offer.
WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS
In the years since that initial leap of faith, Mission Hills has become a coalition of communities, from progressives and evangelicals to Sunday regulars and one-timers. Ryan mentions that this somewhat unconventional approach shows that Mission Hills is functioning exactly as intended: to be a revolving door, a place where people come and go as they need. “I often say that we graduate a lot of people from Mission Hills and that I’ll send their certificates to them. That’s part of the no strings attached,” he chuckles.
Ryan notes that this is a layout that seems to ring true to the gospel. In a world where systems and structures are designed to keep people down, “the gospel is about turning that completely upside down and saying that everybody is going to be put on an even playing field.” The message, for Ryan, isn’t that church is an exclusive space where people subscribe to every Sunday, but, rather, that church is an inclusive space where people can co-exist and uplift one another. And, importantly, a space where (as he references from the works of Richard Rohr) the small things can become everything.
Mission Hills Christian Church, in its 8 years with Ryan as lead pastor, has had more than its healthy share of “small things” and hopes to create more opportunities to connect with more local organizations. “I would love for it to continue to evolve, grow, and become more of a space for love, inclusion, and alternative expression of Christian spirituality,” he adds.
But for now, as he carries on with yet another Sunday under the soft, golden lights that shine above, it’s hard to miss that sparkle of contented peace that glows just as warmly. “As we approach this week,” Ryan closes, as he does with every liturgy, “May we love God, embrace beauty, and live life to the fullest. Amen.”
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