// thoughts from an average Christian (community)

Okay, so this is the fourth extract of what is provisionally entitled “Thoughts from an Average Christian”, which is (also provisionally) entitled “community”.

It’s not yet been properly proof-read for typos and after staring at a computer screen for a while, i’m no longer able to tell if it makes coherent or compelling narrative sense, which is where you come in. Please, if you can, post feedback, on the usual issues – tone, pacing, anything that stands out, any obvious heresies etc.

Thanks for everyone who’s been reading. When I’m finished this year I’m likely to take up writing smaller pieces again as well as these larger, epic chapters, so business as usual may be resumed for a bit, but we’ll see. At the moment life is busy, and so i’m sticking with a chapter every time I can post one…

* * *

// 4. community

If you look at the Christian faith sometimes, it can look a little bit like a self-help manual. There are all those books that talk about the transformed self, about the visualisation of your dreams, written by men and women with perfect smiles and tailored suits. And many of these men and women have seen God work in amazing ways in their own lives, providing for them and blessing them in totally unexpected ways – but then their experience has become an industry, with a sense that if you follow God then you too will have a perfect smile, a tailored suit and a dream house or job or family.

I have never really bought into what they are selling, and maybe I am missing out as a result. But I struggle with a view of life, and of God, that is that self-centred. In my experience, when I get the things that I want, more often than not I am disappointed – not because they are not good, but because they are not enough. Usually, getting those things makes me feel lonely, more than anything else, desperate to share them with somebody.

Around the church I attend, people like to tell stories about David Ruis, the speaker and musician. He wrote that song “He is the Lord” back in the nineties, along with a bunch of others, which made him a lot of money, all of which he gave away. Then people gave him a lot more money, and he gave that away too. One of the stories I most like hearing about David is about the new building project that his church raised about a million dollars for. The morning that they were supposed to open it, God spoke to him. He got up in front of the platform in front of the building and addressed the congregation. “You know this building that we’ve been raising money to build?” he shouted. “Yeah!” they replied. “Well, we’re going to give it away!” His congregation cheered. A few months later, somebody gave him a shopping mall to host his church in. He gave that away too.

God gave to them to give to others, and when I hear stories of people like David they strike me as people who I would like to meet, and not just because they might give me free stuff. They are people whose faith is building a better world, reversing some of the loneliness and self-centredness that started when Adam and Eve blew it in that garden, and that seems to me to be a very beautiful thing, the kind of thing that God looks on and smiles.

Often I struggle to hear the voice of God when it comes to direction for the future, or at least to work out if it is Him who is speaking. I sit in my room trying to listen and thoughts swirl around my head, some of them relevant, some of them distracting, and it is easy to get drawn off on wild tangents. It could just be that I am not listening hard enough, or effectively enough, because God has spoken in dramatic and specific ways in these times, showing me what do to next and where I should go in great detail, although perhaps not as often as I would like. Perhaps that is what it means to be in His will, contributing to that work of reconciliation and redemption that God is doing and seeing things with His eyes – maybe when it is in that place He will speak to us.

For a long time, many of my prayers have been selfish. I will make no secret of that. All the same, though, I am still confused about how God speaks much of the time, which could well be the best place for me to be. That will keep me chasing after Him, anyway. I remember talking to Ash about this a few weeks after I left South Africa. It was a couple of weeks after I’d been baptised, so I was still on kind of a high with the whole “glorious and inexpressible” joy thing, but that didn’t stop me puzzling over why God didn’t seem to speak more. And then one Friday night we were hanging out as a fellowship – it didn’t seem like an especially significant evening, and I guess we’d probably been watching a film, and sitting around hanging out pretty aimlessly. But as the evening had dragged on and it got late, Ash had joined me at the kitchen table.

“So… you’re not okay, are you?” she said, looking at me intensely. I haven’t been good at meeting people’s eyes for much of my life, so I got kind of shy and looked down at the table.

“I’m fine. Long week, that’s all.” Standard excuse.

“You sure?” Cocking an eyebrow. “Because you don’t really look fine.”

I scratched a groove in the table with my fingernail. “I’m fine. You know. God’s been a little quiet lately. But it’ll pass.”

I think I expected her to give me some advice. Lots of people had done that to me before. Maybe I had expected her to pray for me, that things might get better. Or to give me a prophetic word. That would have been cool. But she didn’t. She just punched my arm gently and told me, “that sucks. I know the feeling.”

(There is something comforting in the words “me too”.)

I looked up from the table into Ash’s eyes. “You reckon that’s okay? To live a life where it feel like God has gone… quiet, I mean?”

She sighed softly and kind of half-smiled. “Do you really want to hear what God has to say?”

Sweet, I thought. She was going to prophesy after all.

“Why?” I asked her. “Do you know what it is?”

She gave me a sidelong look. “Tom, I’m not going to give you a prophetic word. That’s not what I’m talking about.” (She knew me well, did Ash. So did her mum. One night I asked her if she could prophesy who I was going to marry. She said no. Apparently you’re not supposed to do that.) “I mean it. Do you really want to hear what God is going to say?”

Was this a trick question? I knew the answer was supposed to be ‘yes’. “Yeah,” I said. “I do. Really.”

She nodded. “Me too. But it’s not easy, is it? And sometimes you get it wrong. Sometimes you mishear things, or you’re not sure if it’s God at all. So you just have to keep listening. Keep asking. You’ll learn.” She paused. “It’s not like He’s gone quiet, you know,” she said, slightly sadly. “It’s just that… other stuff gets in the way.”

I stared off into space. I wasn’t used to this kind of uncertainty. Wasn’t this heretical? And weren’t we supposed to have rock-solid faith? Maybe I should ask.

“Ash, are you a heretic?”


“Forget it.”

“No, I am not a heretic.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Why do you ask?”

I looked down at the table. “You believe in the Bible, right?”

Even without looking at her I could tell that she was torn between anger and bemusement. “Yes, I believe in the Bible.”

“So, I thought it was simple. Like, we got it wrong, Jesus came, forgave us, and if we believe in him, we get to go to heaven when we die. And anything else is overcomplicating it.”

She stared at me, thinking hard. “Well, it is,” she said eventually. “But it’s also a record of how people heard from God throughout history. And that isn’t simple. And God isn’t simple, either. And He – if He is real, and I believe He is – He is not going to become simply any time soon, so it’s best to stop expecting that.” She paused. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really.”

“If you really want to hear what God is saying then you need to listen to what He is saying. In His word, and through His people, and through His world, and in your times with Him. You listen to God, right?”

Shifty eyes. “Uh, yeah. Sure I listen to God.”

There was a long pause.

She looked quizzically at me. “So, did that help at all?”

I wasn’t sure yet, but the moment was kind of awkward, and I knew I had to say something. So I got up from the table and hugged her where she sat. “Yeah,” I told her, “thanks.” I made to leave.

She turned around. “Tom?”


“Another thing.”


“Please don’t call me a heretic. It’s not very polite.”

“Will do. Sorry.”


Ash was a wise woman, and I knew she was right. And I tried, believe me. I really did. But the summer I got back from South Africa I nearly punched a 40-year old man in the face, and that tends to raise some questions about what direction your faith is taking you in. I didn’t remember Jesus doing it, anyway, although maybe some of the prophets had.

Before I had gone away to South Africa, I had led a few times on some Christian holidays, where we would go away to these old English boarding schools for a week and talk about God-stuff. Growing up, they were amazing experiences, really, where I first heard about God and saw people following Him for real – and so leading there seemed like a great chance to get stuck into a different community once again. The morning I had left South Africa I had sat in the airport with the fellowship, all of drinking milkshakes and staring out of the window in silence pretending to watch the planes take off. Nobody had known what to say, really, and it had been emotional, leaving that group behind not knowing where we would meet again. I had been pretty lonely without them, so I jumped at the chance to hang out with some old friends again.

It took me about an hour to realise that I was in trouble, though. We arrived in a minibus and a couple of my friends ripped it out of me around the dinner tables about the same old stuff that they always used to, and I decided I’d had enough. I had been on mission, I knew who I was and what I was capable of, and if they didn’t like that, I wasn’t going to stand for it. I think I even told them something similar to their faces. That didn’t help much, either. Then I withdrew and kind of hid for the next week, confident that I knew best, even if nobody was listening to me when I spoke, and only slightly bitter about that fact.

So many people treat faith like it is an individual, isolated thing, anyway, and so I figured that I could just let them be wrong and get on with living faith my way (that was, the right way) and everything would be okay. Only my faith was kind of skewed, as it turned out. It didn’t listen to others, and it certainly wasn’t exactly forgiving, or humble, or especially loving. It alienated people, even though it consciously tried to do the direct opposite. I was confused. Clearly if people just saw things my way, everything would be alright. Wouldn’t it?

Worst of it was this one guy, who had been leading 10-14s work for longer than I had been alive and who just kept telling me what to do. Nothing was too big or too small; whether it was how to set up the plates for dinner, what was the best way to run a game, how one could most effectively make a vat of hot chocolate, he was always on hand to point out how I could do it better. He was only being helpful, but I hated him for it. Every time he would give me advice it would feel like he was telling me that I was not good enough, that I was failing some unspoken test again, and that I needed to be better still. Eventually, I lost it. We were assembling a gazebo and he insisted on singling me out to give me his view on how it should be done, like I was some kind of terminal idiot, and I found myself biting my lip and shaking, I mean literally shaking, with rage. I didn’t say anything – he was a big guy, and older than me – but I walked out of the room without looking back and ran twice round the sports field in the pouring rain instead. By the end of it, my hands were still shaking. I couldn’t even bear to look at the guy. I knew I was supposed to love him, but I couldn’t.

My friends didn’t say anything, but I could tell that they were looking at me and thinking that I was the same old guy inside. In retrospect, I wish they had said something. If I’d had the sense to see my time in that community as evidence that I needed help, that I was incapable of loving on my own and I was simply driving people away, then I might have done something about it. But they didn’t, probably unsurprisingly, and so instead I held onto my position of superiority, asserting that I knew best, trying to convert the world to the kingdom of me.

A totally internal, isolated faith is a weird and disorientating thing. You start to lose all context, especially when you don’t have anybody to bounce your ideas off or to call you up when you are being an idiot. After a while you wonder if you’re a crazy person, listening to the voices in your head, or if everyone else is crazy instead. It is a little like trying to navigate without a compass. Maybe you can work out some of the contours and try to get the lay of the land, but without direction you end up wandering pretty blindly, just pretending that you know where you’re going.

Some people can do it, but not many. It is not what we were made for, and the people who do end up walking alone, it is rarely a choice that they make voluntarily. Of course, though, it is very easy to say that in retrospect.


There are not that many Christian communities that look cool from the outside, and when I arrived at Oxford, the Christian Union was certainly not one of them. The first few meetings felt like hard work, and considering that the first few weeks of an Oxford degree are also pretty hard work, it wasn’t long before it was jettisoned from my schedule. I felt like I knew it all already (I had been on mission, don’t you know), and like nobody was listening to me, really, and that they were just waiting to ask me to do stuff for them, and I already had enough to do. Every time I walked into the dimly-lit room on a Wednesday night, I felt a pang of disappointment, like I knew better and it was tragic that they just couldn’t see things my way.

I was cynical and stupid back then, I know that now, but I do understand how people feel when they get invited to come to CU meetings by their friends, and I also understand why they don’t often come back. There are all these in-jokes in place already, and people stand in the corners looking at you suspiciously, and if people walk in everyone stares in expectation, or maybe shock, because they don’t believe anyone would want to be here, which is very disorientating when you’re the guest. Of course it’s awkward, like most social situations are awkward the first time you’re in them.

Pretty quickly I decided I was too cool for the Christian Union, and left.

I was definitely not too cool, though, as it turned out, evidenced by the fact that I spend much of the next two terms either failing to get into the friendship groups I wanted to or rejecting the people who did want to spend time with me. And, ironically, the Christians around college did teach me a lot over the next few years, about grace, even in the face of my arrogance, patience in the midst of my intellectual belligerence, and faith, albeit of the quieter, undemonstrative kind. Gradually it came to dawn on me that something might be wrong with the way I was doing things. After all, if your faith has left you, for example, sitting alone in a college room surrounded by a stack of Middle English texts, then you have to ask some questions about whether this is the way that things are supposed to be.

Faith wasn’t designed to be done alone, and don’t misunderstand me when I say that. Christianity is absolutely a personal faith, and the decision to follow Christ is one that you must make alone – nobody can make that decision for you. But the men and women who made up the early church believed in what Christ had done and then they joined others who had also seen, believed, and then acted. People who would support them, encourage them, retell the old stories around a fire when they were weary or wondered what they’d gotten themselves into.

Simon Peter was an idiot on his own, after all, but when he was around Jesus and the disciples he became bold, even if sometimes he was kind of impetuous. And sure, he may have denied Jesus, but that was when he was separated from the others, lost in the instinct for self-preservation, and he found his calling when he led the early church, seeing God work in the most astonishing ways through him and his friends.

The men and women who made up the early church found their calling when they stepped into the move of what God was doing during Jesus’ time on earth and in the aftermath of his resurrection. In doing so they found a community that echoed the desires deep within them, desires to know God deeply, truly, rather than just in some abstract theological system. They found people living in the light of what they had seen and heard in their time with Jesus, and transforming their world as they went out with that knowledge. That is the story that God has been telling throughout history, and that is the community that we have joined in following Christ.

These men are our brothers.

This is the faith we have committed ourselves to.

That is the Saviour we follow.

People need community to stop them from hiding, because otherwise we will instinctively retreat into something. That’s what we do. You need people who will challenge you and dialogue with you, even if that dialogue only serves to reassure you of why you believe what you believe in the first place. In short, you need to be engaging with the world rather than withdrawing from it, or something has gone wrong.

In South Africa it had felt like community was easy. It had seemed like all you had to do was learn to be yourself, who God made you to be, and then you could transform any community. After all, surely community is any group of people. You can choose to love, choose to persevere, and it will be beautiful, and it will reflect God. As a fellowship we had eaten together, prayed together, shared our experiences and tried, somehow, to understand what goes on inside someone else’s head.

These do not look like hard things to do, at least on the surface. But make no mistake, if you do take that risk, it may cost you everything.

We are either going one of two ways – towards greater authenticity and connection with one another, true friendship, or towards greater withdrawal from each other, more layers of masks, more posturing and competition with each other. When we dare to risk ourselves and show something of who we truly are to one another, we make a dangerous choice.

I understand now why Jesus told his disciples to count the cost of following him. Because, even if it seemed simple at the start, they would quickly come to realise that the apparently simple things always end up being the most costly in the end.


In the end, I wound up living in community by accident. A bunch of people who I kind of vaguely knew asked me to live with them, and I told them I would, even though it meant living next to the one guy who I had met in University who I wanted to be the furthest away from. I thought I was taking a chance on them, but they were taking a much bigger chance on me – and, disconcertingly, they were stronger than I was.

Vince told me once, in the voice of Tony Soprano, that God puts us in particular communities for particular times. He has a purpose, and He knows what He’s doing when He puts us in certain places, even if it doesn’t necessarily always look like it at the time. He said that sometimes you go to a particular community because they need you, need your insight or the way they challenge you, and sometimes you need them, need their encouragement or support or perspective, and most of the time it is both. God works out all things for good, he said, quoting Paul, but He also cares enough to make stuff happen specifically for His glory.

At the start of the year, I hid. I worked long hours in the library and I came home in the evenings and watched TV on my laptop on my own. It wasn’t a great routine, but it got me through. I got up at a regular time and my essays came back with good marks and most of the time I didn’t even need to think about the fact that my life looked nothing like I had expected it to. One day I woke up and realised that I no longer had any possibility for spontaneity in my life, and it briefly terrified me, before I went back to the library and buried myself beneath a stack of books.

But there was a problem. My housemates. The problem with them was that they just wouldn’t go away. Pete, in particular, a lanky Philosophy, Politics and Economics scholar with an obsession with a submarine simulator (which he played for hours every day) and a deep love of classic Westerns, simply refused to leave me alone. He would show up in my room while I was in the middle of an essay, eat my biscuits and then hassle me incessantly until I went downstairs and watched, say, Terminator 2. I got pretty anxious about it after a while, because he was messing up my routine, and I was kind of rude to him for a while. It didn’t stop him, though. He just kept showing up and waiting until I caved in.

Eventually I did, and rediscovering spontaneity learning to breathe again. I had forgotten I was a human being, started living like a machine (like I say, Terminator 2 has a lot to teach you about the Christian faith) and doing the bare minimum that I needed to do in order to survive. It is a sinful life, arguably. A life without room for faith, living for the empire of yourself. God risked Himself on us so that we might risk ourselves on others. He sent His son to die, to be rejected, to bring some of us to know Him, in the knowledge that so many would choose not to. And God risked entrusting us with playing a part in reconciling this world to Him, even though He could have done it more efficiently and simply on His own.

We were designed for community, but pretty early in the story of humanity we messed that one up too. And although God is in the process of making us new, the truth is that the way we relate to our community reflects on us. Jesus said that all men would know that his disciples belonged to him if they loved one another, and that’s because the kind of love he was talking about gives us a glimpse of how God loves us, what life with Jesus looked like in the times when he wasn’t nailed to a cross, naked and bleeding and straining for life. That kind of love is so empowering because it both shows you what love looks like – challenging and tenacious and transformative – and teaches you that you too are capable of loving in that same way, even if you never believed it before.

Humanity was created for that kind of relationship in the beginning, and, fallen though we may be, we are called to it even now.


The first time I met up with my good friend Luke in a coffee shop to talk about God, I hated it. It was one of the most awkward days of my whole life. I vaguely knew Luke from church and through some mutual friends, and one day he suggested that we meet up to be accountable and I said yes instinctively, because I knew it would be a good thing to do. But Luke is an introvert, like me, and he studied theology, and both of these things made an already awkward situation agonising. I would make comments about God and he would offer his opinion or sometimes correct me and we would stare awkwardly at our coffee, talking round in circles in an attempt to talk about the stuff that we really needed to talk about. There were long gaps between our meetings, because they were pretty painful experiences, and also because both of us were busy, or made ourselves busy so we wouldn’t have to meet up. I wanted out of it fairly early on.

After a few months, in which we met up maybe four times, Luke asked me if I would mind if another guy joined us, a guy called Jeremy who I also vaguely knew. When he showed up, he irritated me no end too. He was endlessly enthusiastic, passionate and rambling in his stories, full of faith and desperate to know more of God in a tangible, emotional way. He was prone to falling on his face and weeping (I am not, generally). I was pretty rude to both of them, and spent the first few weeks that we met up avoiding their advice. One night I even sat Jeremy down and told him that I didn’t understand his theology and I didn’t think we were going to get along and maybe we should just give up. He refused, though, and I couldn’t leave the group because I thought I’d look bad, like my issues had got too bad or I didn’t want to deal with them, so I realised that maybe I was stuck with the two of them. Even rudeness wouldn’t make them go away. Maybe honesty wouldn’t, either.

So for the first time in years, I dared to talk honestly about the chaos inside my head with people who would not turn away. And as I did, suddenly it became apparent that I hadn’t talked honestly with another person, about anything, in a long, long time. There was almost nobody on earth who knew me truly, not even my parents, and that made me very sad indeed.

I realised that my entire life was just the story of me, and even in the times when I acted like I was drawing near to people I had just been taking calculated steps and always maintaining control. And it was a really, really boring story. I knew how I wanted people to see me, and so I tried to shape their attitudes in that way by the way I acted. But none of it meant anything. I had convinced myself that it was living for the glory of God, presenting Christianity well, but it wasn’t, it was just making myself look good.

It turns out that you can’t tell a good story – much less live a good one – unless you’re willing to risk yourself on people. When I was around Luke and Jeremy, I realised that you have to risk that people will not see things your way, risk rejection or conflict, in order to live a life of any meaning at all. You have to show people that you do not have it all together, that you are not as polished as you would like the world to think.

Otherwise you are still hiding, albeit in a very good disguise, and – well, you know where that started.

Community feels very easy when you know people will love you back, but most of us feel the need to test love, to see if it stands up, and if you do that then you are always just looking for a fault line, a point at which is breaks. You will always find one, too, because love, at least between human beings, is not perfect. I was scared I would get hurt, and so I looked all over for one in my times with Luke and Jeremy, and I found one too, of course I did. Those guys weren’t always loving or supportive when it came to my needs, and sometimes they were sharp or blunt in their comments, and maybe I could have walked away from the whole thing, if they hadn’t refused to give up on what we had.

And so instead gradually, over a year or so, what developed was something authentic, that wasn’t moving the world in the same direction it had been moving for all those years since we left Eden but was actually going against that tide, in the strength and tenacity of a love that could only come from God alone. I mean, on the surface we were just three guys trying to live faith out the way it was supposed to be done, but I reckon He looked down on what was happening there and smiled, too.

Predictably, things with my housemates took a long time to overcome their initial awkwardness, too. That bothered me at the start of living with them, but recently I’m coming to expect awkwardness the more I go on, or at least to fear it less than I used to. I have just finished living in community with thirteen other people, and it has been agonisingly hard. Most of the time I have wanted to run away because these people did not seem to understand me, or care about me, or listen to me. Once again, I nearly punched a well-meaning friend of mine in the face. On a number of occasions. But listen, running away is not the answer. You have to embrace the awkward. I figure that honesty is awkward because we are not used to it, and so, somehow, we have to learn how – how to draw close to other people, and how to deal with them when all they want to do is hide. Relationships of a real kind take work, after all, and the friendships that end up mattering most to you tend to be the ones where people have persevered over time, stuck it out through all situations. We were not created to be alone, and that is not life as God intended it. And community is worth fighting for, even if it is a hard fight.

There are these personality tests that you can take that tell you what sort of person you are, how you relate to people and so on, and according to these tests, I am apparently an “idealist”, which means that I have big ideas and am disappointed when they don’t work out. You might think that knowing this could make relating to people easier, but it doesn’t solve that much, in fact. I still find the initial stages of friendships pretty hard, and kind of confusing. Small talk has never been my strong point. There are some elements of my personality that make it instinctively harder for me to relate to others, but saying that sounds like an excuse, a reason why I am allowed to run away.

I – we – are not, should not and must not. And this is a hard thing to hear, because we are fallen, stubborn and confused people, and everything around us tells us that we must be in control of our lives and the way we present ourselves to the world. This will seem like the right thing to do, to hide ourselves, to protect ourselves, and something in us might scream, ‘what if it goes wrong?’ This is the way things are now. Risking ourselves will, most probably, always seem as though it is more than we are capable of.

But God is making all things new, starting, if we will let Him, with our hearts and our view of what He is capable of.

And if we will let Him, then I am convinced of this: the end result will be beautiful.

  1. really really really like this. It reminds me of my favourite blog at the moment: Jamie the Very Worst Missionary. It’s real, it’s honest, and it’s just like Jesus for that. Thanks for lifting the lid a bit so I get a glimpse of the true Tom I’d suspected lived under there somewhere.

    The only thing I’d disagree with is the phrase “I was stupid and cynical”… if there’s one thing I’ve learned about getting older it’s that it makes you realise that the plonker you thought you were is actually only different from the plonker you now are. So, I’d say that no matter how wise and understanding I am now, the years will teach me that it was folly to think I was any such thing at the time.

    • Claire Lucas
    • July 23rd, 2010

    Best chapter yet I think

    couple of bits (my opinions, take them or absolutely leave them):

    do you mean thoughts swirl around your head? I don’t like that as a metaphor(?) when you’re trying to actively listen to God – more like it’s difficult to anchor one that God has given you.

    He is not going to become simply any time soon – should be simple?

    all of drinking milkshakes – all of us?

    It is a little like trying to navigate without a compass. Maybe you can work out some of the contours and try to get the lay of the land, but without direction you end up wandering pretty blindly, just pretending that you know where you’re going. – love it!!!, much better than swirly thoughts

    And, ironically, the Christians around college…things are supposed to be. – this is a fundamental paragraph – is there a way you can emphasise it more? like the whole thing is a build up to this paragraph – can you do a JJ Abrams thing of putting it first? and then wondering how you got there? maybe it’s because i’ve known you but I spent the whole previous bit wondering where you were going with it, if this came first it would give light to the previous section.

    Community feels very easy…give up on what we had. – I like all this bit too, but perhaps you need to show how this is any different from the rudeness you felt towards other people that you described – as in, what made their comments on you more valid than your comments on other people?

    is that ok?


      • Jenny Ward
      • September 2nd, 2010

      I quite liked the thoughts swirling image…

  2. Hey, this series has been challenging me and fascinating me every time, but this one is really, really… well, I don’t actually have a word. Good/heart/significant. Something in that triangle.

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