The Cost of Community

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about community lately. Not the kind of structured, chosen, Christian community that flows from joining a life group, having an accountability partner, and “doing life together.”

But the kind of community that we don’t necessarily consent to. The kind of community that includes my grumpy neighbor who blocked my friend in when she parked in front of his house. The kind of community that includes the overworked, underpaid administrators at our local public school. The kind of community that includes my friends and acquaintances with divergent religious or political beliefs. The kind of community that organically occurs through the actual act of daily living.

Lived community, not the sterile, churchified version that I can opt into (and therefore, out of) is complicated, confusing, and costly. But it’s also holy, healing, and hope-filled. So much so, that I believe Satan is actively fighting against it at all times.

In Hebrew, the phrase from which we get the name Satan is ha-satan, “The Accuser.” And is a spirit of accusation not diametrically opposed to a spirit of generosity that pursues community? 

When we first see sin enter the world, it takes the form of accusation and division. The snake accuses God of withholding good things from Adam and Eve. Then Adam accuses Eve of tempting him and causing his shortcoming. Sin eats at Cain until he is so jealous and hard of heart that he kills his brother and resents the very idea that they could ever belong to one another. Sin is envy and bitterness driving Sarah to send Hagar and her young son out into the desert. 

Over and over, both in the Biblical text and in our lived experience, we can see that sin is always that which divides, breaks, or fractures–our relationship with God, our relationships with each other, and our relationship with ourselves. Both St. Augustine and Martin Luther essentially described sin as humanity turned in on itself. And if sin is humanity turned inward, and we are to flee from sin and seek righteousness, then shouldn’t our desire be to instead turn outward?

I’ll be the first to admit, turning outward instead of inward is hard. Especially now. Especially when there is such evil and chaos surrounding us—so much hatred and hurt. When everything feels fragile and on the verge of collapse. When scarcity mindset looms large as economic hardship feels like it may come knocking any day now, if it hasn’t already. When our very government is encouraging us to be suspicious of the stranger among us. But I remain convinced that the antidote to fear and accusation is always connection.

Jesus reminds us in John 15 that we are first to find a deep rootedness and connection to him. “I am the vine, you are the branches. He who remains in me bears much fruit.” He goes on to say, “If you keep my commandments and obey my teaching, you will remain in my love.” It’s easy to stop here and think that keeping Christ’s commandments and obeying his teaching means checking off the boxes—following the rules, having a quiet time, going to church, avoiding all the myriad things we label sin. But Jesus doesn’t stop there. In verse twelve he tells us exactly what he means. “This is my commandment, that you love and unselfishly seek the best for one another, just as I have loved you.”

How exactly did Jesus love his disciples and his community–and us by extension? By inviting the tax collector to dinner. By feeding thousands–not because they deserved it but simply because they were hungry. By stooping down to meet the little children at their level and answer their questions. By refusing to condemn the woman caught in adultery. By touching the leper. By slowing down so he could see, really see, the bleeding woman. By not only deigning to speak to, but entering into a deep theological conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well. By excoriating the money changers for exploiting the poor and obstructing their earnest desire to meet God. 

At every opportunity Jesus opened his arms wider and made the table longer. 

We follow in the narrow way of Jesus when we choose to smile at the grumpy neighbor and embrace generosity of spirit, even when it’s not reciprocated. When we say yes to offering childcare to the struggling single mom. When we extend unequivocal acceptance to and see the image of God in the LGBT teenager at school. We imitate Christ when we speak encouraging words that build up instead of critical ones that tear down. When we refuse to engage in any action or thought that demonizes or divides. When we stop seeing it as “us vs them” but insist on seeing the full humanity of each and every person we meet. When we remember that they are not merely background characters in the story of our lives but beloved children of God. Each and every one. When we truly live like we belong to one another. 

Pursuing this kind of community is costly. It will cost our time, our money, our comfort, and our pride. But it is the way of Christ. And it is the work of our lives as Christians–little Christs—as we pursue “your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.”