The invitation is one that you don’t necessarily want to say yes to, but you find yourself there anyway. You figure you should wear nice clothes and remain proper.

You walk into the house. Framed paintings on every wall, clean carpets, a shelf or two or three devoted to photos of family, knick-knacks with swirly Bible verses: “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD,” “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord,” “Faith, hope, and love."

You find a place to sit, not a person to talk to. You wait to be sought out because you wouldn’t know what to say to anyone. A feeling creeps in that you’d better not say the wrong thing or someone might get offended or question you or demand repentance or just damn you to hell in judgement. Or condescendingly express concern and tell you about the Jesus who already dwells inside you.

The man of the house proclaims that we will say a blessing. Everyone burrows in, chin to chest, little bubbles of religiosity. Your ear is attuned to the certain terms and phrases of prayer you’ve come to expect while the words in between escape into the void. “Dear Heavenly Father” “we thank you” “together” “family” “blessing” “nourish” “health” “glory” “Amen.”

When you are engaged in a conversation, or sit near a conversation-in-progress, you pick up notes of conservatism and family-centeredness. You think that shouldn’t be bad; meanwhile, you become more aware of feeling like an outsider. You are not a part of this family; you are not a part of this group.

These people cannot be bad – they are just people, after all. But you become more and more aware of not being a part of these people. You do not fit in, somehow. You don’t belong.

At the end of the party, you exit the door, your body relaxes, a weight lifts. You feel comfortable in your own skin again. You remember your identity, and remember that it is in Christ.

Tension and worry was dropped on the front porch, and your shoes were dropped on the mat inside. You’ll put your shoes back on when you leave – the stuff on the porch is optional.

You walk in, you don’t have to think. You act, you speak, you hug, you get hugged. You jump in, you’re drawn out, you draw others.

You smell spices, good food, a wood-fire. You look at the other faces in the light; you wonder if there is light coming from the faces themselves? You feel warm inside and out.

When you finally take a moment to stop smiling, a straight face feels foreign. Before you have too long to notice the feeling, someone has made you smile again. Laughter reverberates against the wooden walls and up through the rafters.

“It’s ready!” So everyone piles into the kitchen, clutches the hand of the person next to them, and closes their eyes until the prayer is over. Then you squeeze both hands with an emphatic “Amen.”

You eat and feel full. Someone reads a chapter of Scripture or someone leads a song.

You learn more about the people around you, and you feel a little bit more known by them. At the very least, you are known by name; your presence there is valued; your input is wanted. You've never been more aware of knowing the same God as the people around you. You belong.

Neither image is not restrained to a simple dinner party. They can happen anywhere: churches, homes, with friends, with strangers. The former describes the connotation I still have with "Christian things" despite the latter, my experiences with real Christian fellowship.