When I came back from China I was really hurting.
I miss my life there, I would tell people with great drama, but it was how I felt, as though something had been ripped from me, because I’d had friends who knew my heart even though we spoke another language together. I’d seen strength of character like no other in the foster mothers I’d met, and I wasn’t all that hopeful that I’d find it again in this land of affluence and privilege.
But I was drawing these lines around communities the way God never does.
It was easier for me to compartmentalize and think in binaries: China was a place where great struggle and sacrifice produced something real and holy, whereas in the United States, life was hollow and stuffy, less shot through with God’s work, because there was less need, less contrast.
It wasn’t true, of course, but it seemed to make the ups and downs of culture shock more justifiable. But I was insulating myself from life here by thinking and dreaming about China and logging many hours in Mandarin on skype. Although I gradually reentered the world of academia and my husband I began to reconnect with friends and find a church community, deep down I still doubted whether these communities would ever compare to what I had in China.
This past weekend, my husband and I took a great leap and joined a church community that has gently, yet firmly demonstrated God’s faithfulness over the months of culture shock in this land. What’s so powerful to me is that over those months, I haven’t particularly mentioned my doubts and fears to many people there. We’ve told people that we spent time in China, but I haven’t asked for their prayers. I didn’t really know how when sometimes the very prospect of being in community here seemed the last thing I wanted.
But as I’ve listened to the prayers of this community over the last few months, I’ve noticed something. Before I went to China, I used to lead prayers of the people in my previous congregation, separating the joys from the concerns, but the people at our new church let them bravely comingle. They don’t seem to worry that the praise of one might smart in the wounds of the suffering, or that great needs might rain on the parade of another’s blessing. And that’s what life is like, what hope is like, not some naive optimism, but a conviction that suffering exists, and yet, God is very much present.
I realized, I’d been doing it all wrong.
Not just the prayers of the people, but this theology of parsing the real from the ordinary, the needy from the privileged, and of course, the praise from the pain. It makes sense to me now that as much as I’d seen and experienced God in China, China itself had become a hollow idol threatening to separate me from the real people in front of me.
This Sunday there was a family in front of us who’d lost a mother and a grandmother and there were painful tears shed as they asked for prayers of comfort and support from the church. But there were also their arms draped around one another’s shoulders, and deep, heartfelt prayers of praise to a God who they know to be real, powerful, and present because they have each other, their friends, and their church community.
As Evan and I joined the church, nearly every member of this tight-knit family came and congratulated us, personally welcoming us to their community. How people show that kind of hospitality and peace and love in the midst of loss is the best testimony I have to a God who is real, and who embodies hope and holism and life over death! It’s that honesty in which people lay their hearts before community, but also the practice of hope and resurrection that’s healed me and freed me even though the people in the pews didn’t particularly understand my struggle or my pain.
Thank God they didn’t draw lines around their community. Thank God there is room at the table. And thank God for great, audacious hope in the midst of suffering.