I've got issues

As I approach graduation from my M.A. program in Clinical Psychology, I've been thinking a lot about intentional community and examining our issues. And I wonder why it took coming to graduate school and two years of an intentionally designed program to get me to the point that I can look honestly at my "baggage." I have been a Christian most of my life. I don't come from a "broken" home. But, there are still issues and problems and losses that I need to mourn. It has taken me 24 years to even admit that.

You see, in my family, and from what my classmates have shared, in a lot of Christian families, we sweep our struggles under the rug. Our pains and hurts are signs of our falleness, and we just aren't comfortable with that. I have realized that parents get really defensive when you start looking at how they disappointed you or maybe didn't fulfill some valid need that you had. It happens out of their brokenness, their sin, their being human. And you would think in true Christian community things would be different, but they aren't. In fact, I think they may be worse because we're all so damn busy trying to look good for the other Christians and for the rest of the world.

I am thinking more about this because of a class that I have. The class basically entails every member of the class telling their story. Picking one painful, at the core of your pain, issue and sharing that narrative with the class. Two people do this every class period. We have been intentional enough over the past two years at building community that this feels safe but terrifying. That people will know me for who I truly am and know the essence of my brokenness is a hard pill to swallow. We're reading some great books, too, that give us a vocabulary to talk about the pain. After each person tells their story, we give feedback. "Wow, I never knew..." or "You're just like my mom, I guess that's why I've not really liked you the past two years..."

We cry a lot. We laugh a lot. It isn't your typical class at all. It's community, really. But I can't think of a single other place ever in my life where Christians were so intentional and open. No one out there at my church gives a crap about my story. No one wants to hear it. And I'm not so sure I"m open to hearing theirs. But that's the way it should be. That's how the church provides healing and redemption. That's how we, as a community, can be Christ to others. I really think that's what Christ meant when he talked about us being hands and feet. I seriously doubt he meant evangelizing, although every Southern Baptist just gasped at that remark.

What I find all the more interesting is how varied the stories my classmates have shared truly are. Some are like confessions...a sin hidden from the world for so long. Others are stories of victimization...a rape, a broken heart. Some seem innocuous until you see the pain in the eyes of someone that you love...tales of parents who just never quite got it or didn't care to try. Dads who left. Friends who betrayed. Defeating thoughts of worthlessness.

And what I've realized is that knowing these things make me love the people more. I am more forgiving of their failures and even of how they hurt me. I'm more likely to communicate openly about my pain and to be authentic in even confrontation.

These aren't stories of victory. They are stories of incompleteness and pain. Struggle. We are all Israelites. God has moved us from the comfortable, the safe. We're wandering (and wondering) in the wilderness. The Egyptians are on one side, the Red Sea is on the other. We are trapped and we are not faithful. What is God's creative third way of providing a refuge and escape? Where is his provision?

And it's about to be over. That makes me sad. It's not just the ending, but the true grief wells up from an acknowledgement that I may never experience this kind of Christian community ever again. And that most people never experience it at all. THAT is a loss. I think it makes Jesus cry.