Community

“It is easily forgotten that the community of Christians is a gift of grace from the kingdom of God, a gift that can be taken from us any day—that the time still separating us from the most profound loneliness may be brief indeed. Therefore, let those who until now have had the privilege of living a Christian life together with other Christians praise God’s grace from the bottom of their hearts. Let them thank God on their knees and realize: it is grace, nothing but grace, that we are still permitted to live in the community of Christians today.”
― Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together

I think I know what heaven sounds like. I’m almost certain I know how it feels.

And it only cost me $15 to find out.

My introduction to Christian community happened at the little Cumberland Presbyterian church my family attended during my childhood. I knew almost nothing of the world when I left for college, but church was important enough for me to visit several local churches and campus ministries at Arkansas Tech in search of a good ol’ Bible believing congregation.

That’s not what I found at the Wesley Foundation, or at least not in any form I recognized. I may not have had the maturity to understand their politics, but I could tell the people there didn’t use the same religious vocabulary I was used to. Nevertheless I signed up for a weekend retreat billed as The Great FROG (FReshmen Outreach Group, I would later learn) Getaway, in no small part because one of my new friends had a crush on one of the student leaders.

The day of the retreat, though, I decided to stay home. A month of college had worn me out, and I never quite learned how to sleep through the constant noise in Paine Hall. I just wanted to settle in among the familiar—to go home, curl up in my own bed, eat some of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies, remember what life as I had always known it was like. I only vaguely knew what a wingman was, and I had no desire to serve as such, even for my new friend.

Another new friend, however, hit on an argument that no farm boy who’d been taught the value of the dollar could refute.

“You paid your $15, didn’t you? Might as well get your money’s worth.”

And so I packed my bags.

To relate what happened that night of the retreat would be to miss the point entirely. I didn’t learn any new Bible verses or complicated theology. The programming, I would later realize, was pretty standard fare. All these years later, I could still narrate what we did, but you would just shake your head and wrinkle your nose, wondering why on earth such a night would matter so much to me.

Here’s why.

Because we sang. And because I belonged.

For the first time that night, I was among peers who really sang together—loudly, unselfconsciously. The clearest way to say it is that they were open, vulnerable with God and one another, and not afraid. I had not sang a single note in my home church since I graduated Vacation Bible School for the last time.

That night at the Getaway, I nearly blew out my lungs.

I don’t know how long we sang or how long we prayed in silence afterward. I do remember staying up almost all night, talking to other young adults. By morning, I thought I had made the best friends I could ever have.

I was right about that, although friendship would turn out to be more complicated and less exclusive than I expected. But nuance would come later. On that night, I just knew that I belonged among them in a way that I had never belonged anywhere before in my life. I could not imagine a better feeling.

Those college years would prove to be a master class in Christian friendships. We made plenty of mistakes, as college students do, but we made our confession and pledged to try again, usually with a song we sang. We had to learn to fight fair, to forgive insults, to bear with one another’s faults, to make room for others as they presented themselves. With the help of David and Lisa, our campus pastors, we did all of those things.

Honest to God, we did them.

And because we did the hard work of daily living together, we had deep connections that sustained us through struggles and formed our souls. I took for granted that Christian community would be like that wherever I happened to go.

Not so much.

In the three decades—my God, it’s really been three decades!—since my first real taste of Christian community, I have grown into a mostly functional adult. I have made other friends who have challenged me in new ways. I have learned to look back on my college experience with more maturity, to understand better where we got things wrong.

But that sense of abandon and trust and belonging is something I have rarely felt since, and even then only for fleeting moments. Most people are wary and self-protective. Somewhere along the way, they get forgotten or betrayed or manipulated, which naturally makes them suspicious. It’s impossible to make friends when you are constantly trying to figure out another person’s angle against you.

Those posing as fully functional adults, it turns out, have a lot to hide, and therefore not much to offer. Safer by far to stay apart and closed off, wrapped up in yourself or your family unit. Besides, who has the time? If I’m honest, I make those excuses sometimes myself. I am lonelier than I once was, and more easily discouraged.

We weren’t like that as college students. The young adults I work with aren’t like that either.

Over my years in campus ministry, I’ve been privileged to see dozens (maybe even hundreds) of students awaken to the presence of God and the power of community. The songs have changed, the technology has changed. The culture around them has lost its ever-loving mind. But when students gather to sing, they sing! And when it comes to the heavy lifting that is part of living with other humans in close quarters, they do it gladly. The community they inhabit isn’t perfect, but it holds them and shapes them.

Community among young adults is no easier now than it was in my time at the Wesley Foundation. But the results are similar. They love each other, which is how they learn to see God’s love. They come to know the character of Jesus, which then teaches them how to love better. I’ve given my professional life to help spin this virtuous cycle.

Last year, I was talking to one of our graduates about the struggles of finding authentic community after college.

“Then why do it?” she asked, tears streaming down her face. “Why show us what community can be if it’s so hard to find? Why set us up to want something we may never have again?”

My answer surprised her. It surprised me, too, when I felt the words forming in my mouth.

“Because I know what heaven sounds like,” I told her, fighting my own tears. “And I think you deserve to know too.”

What I didn’t tell her was that such knowledge cost me $15.

$15. And the rest of my life.

All of my life.

Everything.

But I know what heaven sounds like. That seems like a fair trade to me.