GRUNTHAL — On a crisp, sunny Sunday morning, David Balzer parked his vintage 1978 Triple E Surfside camper trailer on a local church lot and prepared to listen. Resembling an itinerant priest with a mobile confessional, Balzer stepped inside the compact space, which was outfitted with a pair of yellow mugs matching the trailer’s egg yolk trim and two microphones resting on a central table. Outside, a sandwich board bore a simple, welcoming invitation: “Step in.”
Balzer does not hear traditional religious confessions, but he does perform what many would consider a deeply pastoral duty: helping people articulate and share their personal stories. “I help people find the thing inside of them which they wouldn’t naturally find,” he says.
At 60 years old, Balzer teaches communications and media at Canadian Mennonite University in Winnipeg. A seasoned radio and podcast producer, he spent 12 years hosting a call-in radio show titled GodTalk. A few years ago, he conceived an innovative project. He wanted to purchase a camper trailer, equip it with professional-grade recording gear, travel to festivals and community events, and invite people inside to recount a story about someone who had profoundly changed their life. Afterward, he would edit the audio recordings and gift the finished pieces back to the subjects of the stories.
After finding a suitable trailer for sale, Balzer drove out to Saskatchewan to tow it home. With the help of his wife, Kathryn Balzer, they painted the interior and reupholstered the cushions, successfully preserving its nostalgic 1970s aesthetic. Balzer then installed a pair of microphones and a soundboard, christening the mobile studio "The Chatterbox."
Balzer’s project stems from a broader philosophical concern regarding modern technology. He frequently thinks about social media, artificial intelligence, and the ways these digital forces contribute to social atomization—the loneliness and isolation caused by the breakdown of interpersonal bonds. He designed the Chatterbox to explore how technology might instead be harnessed to foster genuine human connection.
“Does the use of this technology enhance embodied relationships?” he likes to ask, referring to connections between individuals that are deeply rooted in the physical and emotional presence of each person.
Lizzie Wipf, pastor of Grunthal’s Elim Mennonite Church, had been grappling with similar questions within her own community. Her parishioners frequently spoke to her about cellphone addiction and the subtle, pervasive ways artificial intelligence was infiltrating their daily lives. Seeking insight, Wipf called Balzer and invited him to speak to her congregation about navigating the digital age.
Balzer was happy to discuss how technology could be utilized to enhance human relationships, but he offered a more hands-on approach. “But we could just do it,” he told Wipf, before telling her about the Chatterbox.
Collaborating on the initiative, Balzer and Wipf settled on a central prompt to guide participants: “Who made you feel like you belonged?”
Neither knew quite what to expect when Balzer parked the Chatterbox on the church lot. Balzer admits that before every deployment, he worries no one will step forward with a story to share. However, upon seeing the steady lineup forming outside his trailer door, he quickly realized he might face the exact opposite problem.
Belonging, it turned out, was a pressing topic that the people at Elim Mennonite Church desperately wanted to discuss, largely because not everyone in Grunthal believes the congregation itself belongs.
The Grunthal district has a population ranging between 1,000 and 2,000 people and boasts at least seven different churches. Recently, an association of local pastors decided that Elim Mennonite Church was no longer welcome in their ministerial group.
“We had different theological interpretations,” explains Colleen Edmonds, who formerly chaired Elim’s church council. “We allow women in leadership, for example. We take the Bible as a guide, and not literally. If Jonah really got swallowed by a whale, I don’t know, but it doesn’t bother me that I don’t know.”
Wipf is aware of only two other female pastors in southern Manitoba east of the Red River. Shut out from the local male-dominated ministerial circles, she meets for lunch once a month with her two female colleagues.
While the ostracism was initially painful for the congregation, Edmonds says the church ultimately decided to lean into their new identity as outcasts. “We call ourselves the church of second chances. We want to be here for people who need us.”
One person who desperately needed a second chance was Maria Reimer. She grew up in a conservative Mennonite community in Bolivia and immigrated to Canada in 2018 alongside her husband, who subjected her to domestic abuse.
Reimer shared her story while standing in the sunny parking lot, her three children taking turns climbing up her hip and loading their hotdogs with slices of local New Bothwell cheddar.
Initially, Reimer and her family attended a conservative Mennonite church in the area. When Reimer attempted to speak to local church leaders about the abuse she was enduring at home, they advised her that she needed to submit to her husband.
“When you’ve been raised in a Mennonite household where you’ve been told marriage is for life, you’re actually betting your soul on stepping out,” she reflects.
In 2020, Reimer’s husband assaulted her so severely that she was hospitalized. The attending physician told her that hospital protocol required him to contact the police. Two officers arrived at her hospital bedside. In her distress, Reimer quoted a Bible verse, insisting it was her duty as a Christian wife to submit to her husband. The police officers, who happened to be familiar with scripture, countered with words from the Apostle Paul, noting that husbands should not abuse their wives and that anyone claiming to be a believer while acting otherwise should be shunned.
“We had this beautiful debate back and forth,” Reimer recalls.
Ultimately, she agreed to give a formal statement. Her husband was subsequently arrested, convicted, and served prison time before fleeing the country.
Left to rebuild her life and reclaim her self-worth while raising her children alone, Reimer found herself constrained by her former religious community. Her church refused to let her volunteer because she was divorced.
Then, an unexpected encounter changed her perspective. One day, after slipping on a patch of ice and injuring her back, Reimer visited a massage therapist. While she lay on the treatment table, the therapist offered a warning about a local church in the area.
“He told me there was a very unholy church that was trying to pretend they were godly people, but they’d been kicked out [of the ministerial group] because they let divorced people come into their church. And gay people were allowed to come!” Reimer remembers. “And I thought: ‘Oh, that’s my kind of church!’”
When she returned to her car, Reimer began to laugh out loud. “I said to God: ‘You really have the most warped sense of humor!’”
The first time she attended a service at Elim Mennonite Church, a parishioner immediately invited Reimer and her children over for pizza.
“And now, here I am,” Reimer says, her face breaking into a bright smile. “When you find out that you are loved and strong… it builds something up in you, and you don’t feel as vulnerable and helpless anymore, and you don’t see the world as quite as threatening.”
Among the eager participants waiting to share their experiences in the Chatterbox was Reimer’s 11-year-old son, Christoph. He stepped into the trailer to talk about his closest friend, Aaron.
“Aaron, he’s my very best friend,” Christoph said into the microphone. “He’s the one that made me feel at home. He’s a really good listener and he’s a really good talker. When I’m feeling sad, he comes into my room and we talk. And when he’s feeling sad, I come into his room and talk. Knowing he’s there makes me feel like I’m at home. He has two cats. He’s overall a perfect guy.”