Every Sunday, a beautiful sanctuary sits three miles from someone who will never walk through its doors.
Not because they hate God. Not because they're angry at the church. Somewhere along the way, the church stopped asking, "How do we get to them?" and started asking, "How do we get them to come to us?" For the woman on the motel step, the man two weeks out of jail, or the addict who won't sit on the front pew, that question often goes unanswered.
In the late 1800s, hungry believers didn't wait for a building. They cut poles, laid brush across the top, and built church wherever people could gather - in fields, at crossroads, under torchlight. They called it a brush arbor, and it became the root of entire denominations.
Modern-Day Brush Arbor asks a simple question: What would it look like if the church started moving again?
Joseph Wayne Dunn tells the story through a trailer, a canopy, and ordinary believers willing to show up in a parking lot every Thursday night - not to replace the local church, but to close the distance between it and people who may never find it on their own.
Woven with real history and unforgettable composite portraits of people waiting to be found, this is a plainspoken, urgent call to believers of every denomination who have wondered where the harvest field really is.
It was never three miles away. It was just waiting for someone to go.
