Brokenhearted

It's raining in Georgia today, and the weather could not better suit my mood. I got an email a little while ago from a very sweet friend in my church. She was writing, originally, to talk to me about something else, and then continued on to tell me something really, really sad.

She told me that she's considering leaving our church because she feels like it is a club that she hasn't been given the admission rules for, and she does not in any way feel the sense of community that we profess to be about.

I don't think I need to tell you that this broke my heart. It did so for several reasons, first among them being that she is an incredibly sweet person and I, for one, have thoroughly enjoyed having her there. To me, she is just the kind of person we need: personable, genuine, honest, and incredibly open-minded, all while having a devotion to the Lord and an openness to His will that inspires me every time I interact with her. I do not want to see her go. We need her as much as she needs from us what she is not finding here.

I was also saddened by this because I, too, have felt this. For several months after Scott and I got married, I felt like an outsider looking in on an exclusive club meeting. Everyone would be laughing and smiling and welcoming each other with such warmth, but I never got even a touch of that warmth. I was overlooked and ignored; encountering this kind of lack of community in my church was more harmful to my sense of self than it would have in any other setting. Week after week I would sit and listen to sermons and testimonies on the power of love and community that they had found at Quest, and once the worship gathering was over I would again cry out of sheer loneliness. Scott felt it, too, and we talked about leaving because we didn't want to be a part of (or be excluded from, as the case may be) a community like that. It was more than upsetting; it hurt. It was painful, and while I don't blame this experience for my struggles with social anxiety, I definitely do not think it helped. My heart breaks for her as I recall the pain of feeling utterly alone in a crowded room.

Why is it so hard to create a true sense of community for every member of a group of like-minded believers? Truly, Quest is probably the most community-oriented church I've ever heard of, which makes it simultaneously shocking, ironic, and frustrating that we would struggle with this problem. If we - a church that works to incorporate everyone into a small group - cannot create a sense of belonging, who can? If we - a church that has "experience relationships" as a part of its mission statement - cannot make every member and visitor alike feel special and loved, who will?

That day about three thousand took him at his word, were baptized and were signed up. They committed themselves to the teaching of the apostles, the life together, the common meal, and the prayers. Everyone around was in awe—all those wonders and signs done through the apostles! And all the believers lived in a wonderful harmony, holding everything in common. They sold whatever they owned and pooled their resources so that each person's need was met. They followed a daily discipline of worship in the Temple followed by meals at home, every meal a celebration, exuberant and joyful, as they praised God. People in general liked what they saw. Every day their number grew as God added those who were saved. (Acts 2:42-47 MSG)

How many times have I read this passage, and how many times have I assumed that the only needs that were met were physical needs? It does not say that the believers' needs for food, shelter, and clothing were met. We understand that to be the case as it mentions that they sold what they owned, but it does not say that the only resources that were pooled were personal possessions. Who is to say that the "resources" that were pooled were not those of spiritual gifts such as hospitality and discipleship? We have to assume that if the believers were living so closely, there was a degree of "community" in the sense that every believer felt welcome, loved, and accepted.

What if this wasn't the case, though? What if they didn't experience this sense of belonging? We know that Luke, a leader in the early church, wrote this account of the acts of the apostles. What if he, because of his position and involvement, perceived this sense of community to be there, but other believers did not? What if others among them thought the way my friend and I have felt - that the early church was little more than a social club, while the leaders of the church - from their different vantage point - saw a warm and loving community? What if they were inadvertantly neglecting the most basic emotional needs of those to whom they were ministering?

If that is the case, my heart breaks yet again. We, two thousand years later, are up against a nearly insurmountable obstacle if believers with personal memories of the person of Jesus could not even create a real community. Jesus's vision of the church was not just a grouping of cliques. He did not intend for some among his followers to feel excluded or ignored; rather, He searched out those who had experienced this treatment in society as a whole and welcomed them into the family of believers wholeheartedly. The community with Jesus as its head reached out to everyone where they were, touched them in their most hurting and vulnerable places, and offered a love that was near impossible to imagine. We have turned something that was meant to be encouraging into something disheartening, something that was supposed to be uplifting into something depressing. We have messed it up so badly that I wonder if we have any resemblance to the community defined in the American Heritage Dictionary: sharing, participation, and fellowship. The terrible thing about it is that the hurting people around us come to the church to find relief from those hurts in the fellowship they find there, only to find that we within the church are no different than those who have inflicted their wounds on them in the first place.

I don't exclude myself from the problem. I have been on the receiving end of the neglect, but I have also been part of the problem. I have seen people sitting alone and have not gone to speak to them. I have been more focused on the worship service than on the ministry that should have been taking place. I have worried more about what to say when I'm onstage than whether I'll say anything at all to someone who needs me. I have made excuses as to why I've done these things, and I've felt the guilt when I realize that there is no good reason for it.

What have we done, and how can we fix it? Will our selfish human nature even allow it? How do we react to the realization that this is happening? Something has to be done. We're going to keep losing precious people if we don't do something, but what will we do?

O Lord, I am calling to You. Please hurry! Listen when I cry to You for help! Accept my prayer as incense offered to You, and my upraised hands as an evening offering. (Psalm 141: 1-2)