Sharing a Meal at a Common Table: Brokenness and Real Community
This year, I am finding myself making choices based more on relationship and community than on anything else. Part of that comes with having a better-rooted identity in God and part of that comes from understanding what I actually value in life rather than what others or the world or whatever tells me I should value in life. Living from a perspective of eternity should change our priorities of time and attention. I'd like to say that all of my motivations are deeply spiritual, but some of them are also rooted within beginning to give myself permission to have needs. Having needs is one of the basic aspects of our humanity. Without needs, we would have no drive for affection from or connection with others or with God. Living as a robotic loner really goes against the reasoning behind our being created. Denying that we have feelings, though a convenient defense mechanism, goes against our very nature. God made us in His image, and He demonstrates throughout the Bible that He has feelings. And not only does He have feelings, but He also names them and expresses them. He is the Creator of the universe, but He doesn't deny those elements of who He is. He doesn't treat emotions as a weakness.
As an introvert, for a long time, I've felt like the church is lacking in real community. Five minutes of meet-and-greet time, where you shake a couple of hands, say a couple of God bless yous, and exchange smiles, is no substitute for real connection. I can't count how many times I've entered a church service feeling lonely and have left feeling even lonelier for that reason. There is something mystical, peaceful, and healing about how the early church operated. That doing life together, sitting together in close quarters, sharing a common table as they ate a meal, traveling together, weeping together, and sharing of what they had is something I sometimes feel like I miss although I've never fully had that with anyone but my biological family and maybe some very close friends. Then again, I feel very blessed that I have had that with my family and close friends. While those people are few and far between, they've touched my places of neediness with compassionate hearts. And, I know that not everyone has had that luxury.
This past week, two people on the fringes of our lives here in Honduras committed suicide. One was a young mother who had gone to the same church we were in for a period of time. I don't think we'd ever had a full conversation, but we were in meetings together to plan a church event. She committed suicide, as the story goes, because of complications related to the loss of people close to her. The other person was a teenage boy I'd watched grow up since I moved here. He and his brothers used to run with me in the mornings the first year I lived here. He and the next brother in line lived with their mother and stepfather. They also had three more, younger, half siblings. The two older brothers seemed to suffer a lot. As a neighbor, you can suspect many things without being able to do too much here. But, the young man was a hard worker, and at 17, he was on his way to building his own life and family. About two years ago, I told Raúl, "Honey, let's try to find a way to help him. Let's see if we can support him in his education and maybe that'll give us an entrance to have him closer to us, to keep track of him and give him some emotional support." We approached him and explained our desire to help and have him close to us because we cared about his whole person and not just his education. He accepted our help initially, but once he was enrolled in school, he worked at Raúl's long enough to pay us back for his schooling and left out of the blue. It made me wonder how much damage he'd received from others that he'd so adamantly not want to receive help from someone else. Did he think that he'd owe us then? Did he think that we'd rub his face in his need? Did he think that the price of our help would lead to some kind of abuse? We'll never know. And, after that, we had little contact with him unless he was waving at us as we drove down the street. He also committed suicide related to a loss of connection with someone he loved.
And, in the aftermath of these events, inevitably, I have to ask myself what else I could have done, and I have no easy answers there. I can't change anything now, so there is no fruit in any feelings of guilt. But, I also have to ponder the deep relational needs we all have. Where was the disconnect for these two people? What would have happened if that young woman would've had someone to confide in, to call, before she made that decision? But then again, maybe she did? What would have happened if that young man would have had someone in his life regularly extending him unconditional love, giving him advice, and listening to his problems? Would he have felt so alone? When it comes to life and death decisions, and eternity also hangs in the balance, so much of the deciding factor relates to that feeling of belonging and feeling connected and loved. Why, then, are deep connection and relationship and vulnerable community so scarce within the church? This isn't an easy question, and I don't actually have an answer.
I recently watched a TED Talk about what factors most affect the longevity of a person in terms of lifespan. And, although many health aspects were taken into account, diseases, and whatnot, the greatest determining factor was relationships with other people--both deep fulfilling relationships but also just a general sense of being connected to others even if they're acquaintances. To me, that means that the very essence of life is loving and being loved. And, I want that concept to carry weight within my life and decisions.
As a missionary, I've experienced how difficult it can be to develop real community and genuine relationships across cultures and socioeconomic conditions. Unfortunately, it's common to witness a settling for easy roles within relationships--often, missionaries are the givers, and those native to the country of service are the receivers. I can understand that this often economically is unavoidable. We can never demand that someone give something that he or she doesn't have. And, that goes across the board in every area--not just economically. But, too often, I think as missionaries or even in home culture ministry, we create and maintain an "us and them" mentality simply by coming off as people who can do it all, who have no limits, and who have no needs. To be real people to those we're ministering to, I think we have to be willing to present our own brokenness, neediness, and limits in appropriate ways. And, I don't think that that means simply sharing a testimony of who we were and what we were doing before we started following Jesus. Our brokenness doesn't end just because Jesus enters our lives; having Jesus means that we have Someone to walk us through our brokenness...Someone who was also broken.
The basis of true community is being fully known. We will never be fully known (or really trustworthy) unless we allow our neediness to be on display--not in a manipulative way but in a human way. The heart of the matter sometimes relates to the danger of allowing our identity to be rooted in how much we minister and serve. If we unconsciously see our value as being based on what we do, we will never want to admit our limits because it'll make us feel worthless. I was often the person who was so scared of stopping in giving because I knew I'd have to face the fact that most of my relationships were one-sided. And that realization is painful. If we seemingly have no needs and never stop giving, we don't have to face the reality that others don't always care about our needs. And, when we are like that, we aren't doing the receivers any favors as they are often quite comfortable in their roles because no one is forcing them to grow. In the religious fog of our own egos, we can become a stumbling block to others because we reinforce and enable a dependency on us, the humans, instead of on God, the Father, from whom all provision and blessings flow--even the ones we receive and pass on.
Recently, I have been reading about an ethnic group of mostly unreached people who have had missionaries in their midst for quite some time. And, while those missionaries did much to improve the society of that community by opening schools and hospitals and fighting for human rights, the overall people group has largely rejected the Gospel. And, I feel like at least some of that has to be rooted in that "us and them," "givers and receivers" mentality. There is no closeness when someone isn't fully trustworthy or when one can't fully be known, and one can't fully be known without exposing their deficiencies and flaws and still being accepted (even if they are disciplined). I've had the conversation with several missionaries over the past couple of weeks about how wonderfully Hondurans can behave when there are short-term teams visiting (and they want to receive something) and how humorous and frustrating it can be for us, the long-termers, to know that they're acting like someone they are not. And, yet, how many of us long-termers have also acted--like we have it all together, like we can handle yet another need and burden when we're teetering on burn out, like we have no needs ourselves? Both practices are deceitful even if they are unconscious. Do the people receiving from us still stick around when our hands are empty? Do the people we minister to know our needs as well as they know their own (even if they aren't in a place to meet them)? Would they even want to know?
I am still muddling through what community can and should look like between myself and Hondurans. I think I have an advantage in that I am married to Raúl. It makes me more approachable that my husband is Honduran. But even so, I am realizing that having real, healthy community is hard work. But the hard work isn't in fundraising or in campaigns or in evangelizing or in planning programs. The hard work isn't in construction projects or writing newsletters or in just how many people we're helping. The hard work is letting the real me meet the real Jesus and letting the real Jesus help me to let the real me be known by those around me. The real work is in accepting who I am--limitations, flaws, and all--and still knowing that Christ in me is ministry. The real work is letting myself be exposed so that He receives the glory in my brokenness and so that others can know that if God can love the real me who they have witnessed is deeply flawed, He is also capable of loving them. Color of skin, socioeconomic status, country of origin, or religious titles are of no importance when we can all see just how broken and in need we ALL are.
Sarah
As an introvert, for a long time, I've felt like the church is lacking in real community. Five minutes of meet-and-greet time, where you shake a couple of hands, say a couple of God bless yous, and exchange smiles, is no substitute for real connection. I can't count how many times I've entered a church service feeling lonely and have left feeling even lonelier for that reason. There is something mystical, peaceful, and healing about how the early church operated. That doing life together, sitting together in close quarters, sharing a common table as they ate a meal, traveling together, weeping together, and sharing of what they had is something I sometimes feel like I miss although I've never fully had that with anyone but my biological family and maybe some very close friends. Then again, I feel very blessed that I have had that with my family and close friends. While those people are few and far between, they've touched my places of neediness with compassionate hearts. And, I know that not everyone has had that luxury.
This past week, two people on the fringes of our lives here in Honduras committed suicide. One was a young mother who had gone to the same church we were in for a period of time. I don't think we'd ever had a full conversation, but we were in meetings together to plan a church event. She committed suicide, as the story goes, because of complications related to the loss of people close to her. The other person was a teenage boy I'd watched grow up since I moved here. He and his brothers used to run with me in the mornings the first year I lived here. He and the next brother in line lived with their mother and stepfather. They also had three more, younger, half siblings. The two older brothers seemed to suffer a lot. As a neighbor, you can suspect many things without being able to do too much here. But, the young man was a hard worker, and at 17, he was on his way to building his own life and family. About two years ago, I told Raúl, "Honey, let's try to find a way to help him. Let's see if we can support him in his education and maybe that'll give us an entrance to have him closer to us, to keep track of him and give him some emotional support." We approached him and explained our desire to help and have him close to us because we cared about his whole person and not just his education. He accepted our help initially, but once he was enrolled in school, he worked at Raúl's long enough to pay us back for his schooling and left out of the blue. It made me wonder how much damage he'd received from others that he'd so adamantly not want to receive help from someone else. Did he think that he'd owe us then? Did he think that we'd rub his face in his need? Did he think that the price of our help would lead to some kind of abuse? We'll never know. And, after that, we had little contact with him unless he was waving at us as we drove down the street. He also committed suicide related to a loss of connection with someone he loved.
And, in the aftermath of these events, inevitably, I have to ask myself what else I could have done, and I have no easy answers there. I can't change anything now, so there is no fruit in any feelings of guilt. But, I also have to ponder the deep relational needs we all have. Where was the disconnect for these two people? What would have happened if that young woman would've had someone to confide in, to call, before she made that decision? But then again, maybe she did? What would have happened if that young man would have had someone in his life regularly extending him unconditional love, giving him advice, and listening to his problems? Would he have felt so alone? When it comes to life and death decisions, and eternity also hangs in the balance, so much of the deciding factor relates to that feeling of belonging and feeling connected and loved. Why, then, are deep connection and relationship and vulnerable community so scarce within the church? This isn't an easy question, and I don't actually have an answer.
I recently watched a TED Talk about what factors most affect the longevity of a person in terms of lifespan. And, although many health aspects were taken into account, diseases, and whatnot, the greatest determining factor was relationships with other people--both deep fulfilling relationships but also just a general sense of being connected to others even if they're acquaintances. To me, that means that the very essence of life is loving and being loved. And, I want that concept to carry weight within my life and decisions.
As a missionary, I've experienced how difficult it can be to develop real community and genuine relationships across cultures and socioeconomic conditions. Unfortunately, it's common to witness a settling for easy roles within relationships--often, missionaries are the givers, and those native to the country of service are the receivers. I can understand that this often economically is unavoidable. We can never demand that someone give something that he or she doesn't have. And, that goes across the board in every area--not just economically. But, too often, I think as missionaries or even in home culture ministry, we create and maintain an "us and them" mentality simply by coming off as people who can do it all, who have no limits, and who have no needs. To be real people to those we're ministering to, I think we have to be willing to present our own brokenness, neediness, and limits in appropriate ways. And, I don't think that that means simply sharing a testimony of who we were and what we were doing before we started following Jesus. Our brokenness doesn't end just because Jesus enters our lives; having Jesus means that we have Someone to walk us through our brokenness...Someone who was also broken.
The basis of true community is being fully known. We will never be fully known (or really trustworthy) unless we allow our neediness to be on display--not in a manipulative way but in a human way. The heart of the matter sometimes relates to the danger of allowing our identity to be rooted in how much we minister and serve. If we unconsciously see our value as being based on what we do, we will never want to admit our limits because it'll make us feel worthless. I was often the person who was so scared of stopping in giving because I knew I'd have to face the fact that most of my relationships were one-sided. And that realization is painful. If we seemingly have no needs and never stop giving, we don't have to face the reality that others don't always care about our needs. And, when we are like that, we aren't doing the receivers any favors as they are often quite comfortable in their roles because no one is forcing them to grow. In the religious fog of our own egos, we can become a stumbling block to others because we reinforce and enable a dependency on us, the humans, instead of on God, the Father, from whom all provision and blessings flow--even the ones we receive and pass on.
Recently, I have been reading about an ethnic group of mostly unreached people who have had missionaries in their midst for quite some time. And, while those missionaries did much to improve the society of that community by opening schools and hospitals and fighting for human rights, the overall people group has largely rejected the Gospel. And, I feel like at least some of that has to be rooted in that "us and them," "givers and receivers" mentality. There is no closeness when someone isn't fully trustworthy or when one can't fully be known, and one can't fully be known without exposing their deficiencies and flaws and still being accepted (even if they are disciplined). I've had the conversation with several missionaries over the past couple of weeks about how wonderfully Hondurans can behave when there are short-term teams visiting (and they want to receive something) and how humorous and frustrating it can be for us, the long-termers, to know that they're acting like someone they are not. And, yet, how many of us long-termers have also acted--like we have it all together, like we can handle yet another need and burden when we're teetering on burn out, like we have no needs ourselves? Both practices are deceitful even if they are unconscious. Do the people receiving from us still stick around when our hands are empty? Do the people we minister to know our needs as well as they know their own (even if they aren't in a place to meet them)? Would they even want to know?
I am still muddling through what community can and should look like between myself and Hondurans. I think I have an advantage in that I am married to Raúl. It makes me more approachable that my husband is Honduran. But even so, I am realizing that having real, healthy community is hard work. But the hard work isn't in fundraising or in campaigns or in evangelizing or in planning programs. The hard work isn't in construction projects or writing newsletters or in just how many people we're helping. The hard work is letting the real me meet the real Jesus and letting the real Jesus help me to let the real me be known by those around me. The real work is in accepting who I am--limitations, flaws, and all--and still knowing that Christ in me is ministry. The real work is letting myself be exposed so that He receives the glory in my brokenness and so that others can know that if God can love the real me who they have witnessed is deeply flawed, He is also capable of loving them. Color of skin, socioeconomic status, country of origin, or religious titles are of no importance when we can all see just how broken and in need we ALL are.
Sarah
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