It started in class when we were assigned to read a book dedicated to convincing Christians to get out there and spread the Word instead of hiding behind their Father's skirts. The Christian influence has all but fallen out of existence in our current culture, the author said. We need to get out there and get involved; become artists and writers and filmmakers and teachers and everything under the sun so we can finally have a voice again, one the world takes seriously. I agreed with more than half of what he said and had a few good opinions of my own about what the church needed, but coursing through those pages, I had the familiar uncomfortable feeling I'd come to know and avoid: The Ra-Ra-Rally Christians Cry. I've become aware of the spiritual belief among the Christian faith that other Christ-believers are considered (almost quite literally) your brothers and sisters, and despite what Christ says, I couldn't feel more differently.

Raising my hand in class when the professor was looking for opinions on the reading material, I told him that while I don't go to church, I had my own church. I had people, Christians, who'd I'd come to know and trust with my spirituality, something I hold closer to my chest than any other truth. It is quite small and very fragile, and I must be careful who I give it to lest they damage it. The Church, on the other hand, was a phrase typically applied to some large, faceless, vague collection of Christians. Who exactly was the Church, that authoritative word people liked to sling around? In my book, not all family is family; not all friends are friends and not all Christians are my brothers or sisters. Automatic admission didn't exist, not for blood-relation or faith-relation. The only people allowed in my circle are the ones who've proven to care for me and stand up for me and that didn't apply to a bunch of strangers dispersed around the world. Unfortunately, my teacher informed me otherwise. He said that like any family, there are always those few we have to tolerate, but they were indeed my family. I was unconvinced. After class, I wondered if I was taking the prospect too hard, making too big a deal out of it; we'd discussed in class how aggressive people can get when they feel their personal beliefs have been offended. But I wouldn't budge. I couldn't. God couldn't possibly expect me to just welcome anyone who was Christain into my life like we'd been friends forever or to assume we'd be on the same side about things just because of our faith. He couldn't; that would be absurd, that would be just....just....

I couldn't find the words. I felt cornered and violated. I wanted to be alone.

The feeling stayed with me for over a week as I wracked my brain trying to convince myself that my values of privacy and caution hadn't been ripped out from under me. I hadn't had much luck until a classmate invited me to bible study on a warm Wednesday night. I'd already gone to a bible study earlier that day but something inside of me said, Why not?

We went to the home of one my professors where his lovely wife led the bible study. We drank tea and hot chocolate as we read a passage from 1 Corinthians where Timothy's friend send him a letter of encouragement asking him about his mission. At the end of the letter, the group prayed that the Lord would fill their friend's heart with love of the Lord and others. The last part put me on edge, I told them. It reminded me of what we talked about in class. Was this the kind of love I was supposed to have for everyone? I poured out to them what had been I'd been tossing around all week, about the vagueness of the church, how I liked my small 'church,' how not everyone should be let in that way. To throw caution to the wind was the quickest way to hurt, I felt. It was no different than letting a stranger into your home or hitchhiker in your car on a dark road. It was dangerous. How could God ask me to do something so dangerous?

I expected to hear that I wasn't expressing the appropriate Christain love, but as I spoke and saw understanding eyes and nodding heads, the words came easier. My story was ended a gentle hand touching my arm. Rachel smiled at me. That's okay, she said. The men in this story aren't strangers. They're really close friends of Timothy, like your friends are to you. And in the Bible, especially with the Jewish temple, they said that every stone whether you can see it or not is part of the same whole. You being with your friends is being a part of the Church. Never underestimate the small things.

To say I felt better would be an understatement. I'd never thought about it that way. The church was still huge and ambiguous (I doubt that will change anytime soon), but now it made more sense. My going to my friends, telling them my doubts and fears and loves and joys in finding my spirituality was as much participating in the Church as any other Christian. There will always be an encouragement to stay open, to meet new people and the possibility that over time a few select people could come to be known as a brother or sister in Christ, I was never against that; I was scared of what would mean for the brothers and sisters I had now. I didn't need to fling myself open wide in order to be part of the Church. I didn't need to lose the smallness and closeness and intimacy I valued so much. I just had to do my part: love my friends and never cease to share God with them in the good times or the bad. Our stone would never be seen by the whole world but it mattered and it made a difference.