In an ordinary North Portland neighborhood, not far from the river valley slope, there is 1920s craftsman nicknamed the Ritz.

Inside, there is an invisible church.

On this Easter morning, as infrequent church-goers squeeze next to strangers in packed pews, this old home shelters the same 18 worshippers that flock to its living room every week.

This church doesn't have a website, a sign, a women's ministry or even a pastor. Membership is a full-life commitment--to the neighborhood, to each other, forever, if that is God's will.

Here, the themes of Easter play out in a radical way as the members of Church of the Servant King seek reconciliation with one another daily and sacrifice self interest for the sake of their relationships and their faith.

An intentional life

This 25-year-old congregation is more like a commune than a typical church. It's what experts call an "intentional community": A group that lives together to practice shared ideals.

"We're not trying to be utopia," said Sharon Robbins, a founding member of the congregation. At 74, she's the oldest in a group that includes several retirees, a Spanish teacher, a radon inspector, a speech therapist and a handy man.

Members commit to live within a five-minute walk of one another. Their commitment is lasting--a promise to stay unless God calls elsewhere--so members don't pursue jobs that would entail a move or shop for larger homes outside the neighborhood.

To be clear: the congregation is not a cult. Their vows are a covenant with one another that fosters deep friendships, not rules for enforcement.

Some members live together in the Ritz, an ironic nickname because the sprawling blue house is large but far from luxurious. Others in the group, including Robbins, own or rent homes within a few blocks. As a congregation, they strive for unity and consider each other spiritual extended family.

Though they're often hidden in plain sight, congregations like this exist across the country. There are a handful of others in the Portland area, including Springwater in the Lents neighborhood.

"This kind of dedicated life has been around as long as religion has," said Tim Miller, a professor of religion at the University of Kansas who has studied these communities since the '80s.

About 15 years ago, Miller and others adopted the phrase "New Monasticism" to describe the movement. There are clear monkish connections: lifelong vows to place and community, self-sacrifice for the sake of a deeper spirituality.

A tiny fraction of the population participates in this kind of community, he estimated. "It's too much for people in our culture to go for. We want to live comfortably."

"But for every person doing it, there are probably 100 people admiring it."

Humble communion, strong community

Church of the Servant King began in 1991, when roughly 20 people from struggling intentional churches in California moved north to support Portlanders who wanted to launch a community here.

None of those Portlanders lasted beyond a few years, but several transplants stuck around. They raised their children in North Portland, long before the area gentrified. They bought a fixer-upper.

These days Sundays are bustling at the Ritz, holiday or no. Members on cooking duty bring food for two dozen and everyone clusters around tables in the dining room. Services are typically in the evening, though on Easter they meet early.

It's customary for members young and old to announce their appreciation for one another throughout the service. At the end of a recent Sunday meal, 3-year-old Eli Blakeman stumbled through an announcement about how thankful he was for having dinner with an older member, Carol Gast, earlier that week.

"Your bedtime hugs are getting better and better," Gast responded.

After clearing the tables, the group settled into a circle in the living room. There was no pulpit. Instead of hymnals, they held black binders with printouts of song lyrics. Cups and a basket of bread for communion sat on the coffee table, a makeshift altar.

It was Gary Reed's turn to run the service, moving from songs to teaching to communion, when members stood at random to serve bread and grape juice to each other.

Each week, members also meet in smaller groups to study theology, take care of congregational business and talk about personal struggles. They go to the gym together, volunteer together. Retired members babysit the little children. Young members help older ones with house work and medical appointments.

It might be easy to hide in a crowd at traditional churches, but it's impossible to hide here. The church has no doctrinal guidelines. When members disagree theologically--for instance, about whether children can take communion--it's up to them to work it out. And like any roommates or family members, they bump up against each other in small ways: leaving their messes for someone else to clean up, neglecting to replace a toilet paper roll, acting dismissive toward someone else.

Members take reconciliation seriously. Truly loving one another, as they believe the Bible calls them to do, means gently confronting a friend. It means receiving those rebukes graciously.

"It's hard," said 34-year-old Meginn Nordstrom, the Spanish teacher. "You don't have the anonymity to do whatever you want."

Longing for dedication

Most members joined Church of the Servant King because of a desire for something richer than they found in traditional churches.

"There was a kind of listlessness," said Halden Doerge, 34, who joined straight out of college. "A lot of young people coming out of the evangelical church feel that. It's like, you know enough to know you want more, but you can't figure out where the more would be."

It's rare for a community to survive as long as Church of the Servant King, Miller said. The congregation doesn't advertise or seek new members. Growth happens slowly through established friendships.

A wave of youth hit the community in 2003, after members Mike and Hilda Munk opened a Christian bookstore on the Multnomah University campus. Doerge, one of their first employees, befriended the couple and became enamored with the community during his senior year.

As a 21-year-old, Doerge set aside dreams of becoming a professor to join the church, knowing an academic career would require him to move out of Portland for jobs. Teachers, friends and members of the church pushed back on his decision, asking if he'd thought it through.

"There's potential for your life that you give up when you become part of a community," he said. Career advancement would be harder. Dating would be harder.

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in Oregon.

"I was like, 'I just know this is where I need to be. I know this is right. I expect those things to be hard, but I expect we'll deal with them together.' And that's what happened."

Over the next several years, seven other young adults joined, nearly doubling the congregation. All but one of them came through connections to Doerge or the bookstore.

Seeking restoration

Church of the Servant King's name is indicative of one of their highest values: servanthood. The congregation believes the ultimate purpose of Jesus' resurrection, celebrated on Easter, was to make peace between God and his people.

As a reflection of Jesus' sacrifice, they work hard to have peaceful relationships and serve one another, even in menial tasks, before serving themselves.

"Reconciliation is what we do everyday. Restoration is the theme--Christ's ultimate goal is restoration of the earth, and we're trying to represent that," Nordstrom said.

Jesus' resurrection is the ultimate victory for believers, Doerge explained. It frees them to lose in this life. So what if you give up a promotion? So what if another member gets their way? They believe an eternal kingdom awaits.

That sentiment sparks Doerge's critique of traditional churches.

"So much of churches' lives are about survival," he said. "It's like, 'We've got to put programs in place, we've got to have good sermons, we've got to do all these things to get people here so that the church survives.'

"We don't have to ensure our own survival. That's the gift of the resurrection. That enables risk-taking. You don't have to be right; you don't have to survive as an institution. We are not put here to ensure our survival or the continuance of us. We're here to follow Jesus."

And so they do, to the best of their ability, without steeple or staff or stranger.

-- Melissa Binder

mbinder@oregonian.com

503-294-7656

@binderpdx