Our theme for the month of June is “confessions.”
Ah, here it comes—that twinge of unease. That twinge of yes, look on me; is this how Ozymandias felt? Carefully listening to the exact words, wondering if anyone else ever listens this carefully. Half-smile and gentle inclinations of the head as people file around me, or the supper plate passes me by. The choice to withdraw from holy feeding feels like an ironic quirk of the lips in my humanness in the face of sacrament.
I don’t think anyone who knows me could accuse me of any serious unbelief, but it’s with an odd mixture of defiance and curiosity when I grudgingly, eventually share that I’m largely barred from communions in most places. Not for any particular action but, rather, inaction. No one has ever asked me why I haven’t joined a church, so I guess it’s up to me to probe and eke out its meaning.
People who know me—know me—know I’m single-minded in my intensity of personal relationships. The people I haven’t talked to in over a decade but who meant the world to me in high school? I’m still ready to answer a call in the middle of the night. I built those relationships and I threw myself into them and I hold them so, so close to my heart. But the problem with church is how I’m meant to hold strangers at large in the same way. I don’t like it. I know that’s a me problem, but let me have my craven little moments.
Loving another is, I believe, the natural posture of our hearts. Blah blah blah, sin and stuff, blah blah blah, selfishness and weakness… But, to love another is to see the face of God, and we all want to see God, don’t we? (Well, maybe not ICE or old white men on Twitter, but that’s neither here nor there.) So it feels a little bit like entrapment when we’re told to commit ourselves to an entire community without thoroughly vetting everyone.
I’ve never really had a “church home” since being an adult. Too much drifting and dissatisfaction, too many random and weird church visits. It’s not that I’ve got a particularly good reason to not have one—no traumatic experiences of abuse or judgement as far as I can tell—but even the church I attended regularly for most of my college years left me feeling a stranger.
That’s not to say I haven’t gone without spiritual community these past few years. Andrew and I have found a delightful little safe harbour among other graduate students here at MSU, and our weekly Bible study with people in the same life stages has been an anchor in an otherwise tepid sea. I’ve let this little community supplant my desire for a church because it’s small enough that I’ve been able to vet everyone and I find them largely satisfying.
I want community, truly, but maybe just not the typical American church community that makes me wary.
Finding a church home feels like a minefield these days. Yes, I know I’ll not find a perfect “one,” but finding one that I can choose every Sunday feels like such a challenge. Maybe moving to a bigger city will help because I’ll have more options. Maybe I am putting too much stock in the post-stress renewal I am hoping to find after I move. Maybe someday I’ll be able to freely join in holy communion.
