Belonging

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with the ability of humans to survive all types of drama and tragedy. Elie Wiesel’s Night caught my heart at a young age. Imagine, as a young man, being deported from your home, neighborhood and regular routine to “hell on earth”—life in several Nazi concentration camps.

I've been arrested by Anne Frank’s writing and in subsequent dramatic productions. This young girl, able to see God’s presence and paradox through the worst of circumstances, and in the end, teach us about the necessity of hope—the Nazi tactics could touch her family and physical comfort, but they could not touch the spiritual flame that blazed inside.

Jewish people, Israel for that matter, have survived displacement, slavery, bondage, brutal working conditions, food scarcity, the Red Sea—not to mention Persian, Assyrian and Babylonian captivity. Though there communities and individual lives have endured chaos, they survive taking on the strength of that which they’ve overcome.

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As profound as men and women’s ability to survive, there’s any even greater stirring in the human soul. Even greater than the human ability to survive is the human need to belong.

Gangs, Starbucks small groups (if you don’t believe me, there are many colonies of people who meet at Starbucks three to four times a week) all point to one thing—the women and men who share our neighborhoods and offices are desperate to belong. Desperate to be apart of something other than their individual aspirations and failures.

In belonging, people have identity. When we are named as son, daughter, wife, husband, teacher, coach, elder—we are given reason to live and to live well.

In belonging, people have purpose, a sense of mission. Our world is full of folks who have no other mission in life than to “shop 'til they drop” and to “die with the most toys.” Only until we have a mission worth dying for, can we really begin to live


“In his marvelous book Letters to My Children, Daniel Taylor describes an experience he had in the sixth grade. Periodically the students were taught how to dance. Thank God this kind of thing isn’t done anymore, but the teacher would line up the boy at the door of the classroom to choose their partners. Imagine what it would have been like to be one of the girls waiting to be chosen, wondering if they would be chosen by someone they didn’t like.

One girl, Mary was always chosen last. Because of a childhood illness, on of her arms was drawn up and she had a bad leg. She wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t smart, and she was…well…fat. The assistant teacher of Dan’s class happened to attend his church. One day, she pulled Dan aside and said, “Dan, next time we have dancing, I want you to choose Mary.” Dan couldn’t believe it. Why would anyone pick Mary when there was Linda, Shelley, or even Doreen? Dan’s teacher told him it was what Jesus would have done, and deep down inside, he knew she was right, which didn’t make it any easier. All Dan could hope for was that he would be last in line. That way, he could choose Mary, do the right thing, and no one would be the wiser. Instead, Dan was first in line,” (Messy Spirituality, 84-5)

Dan describes this moment, a fascinating commentary on our dominating desire to belong.

The faces of the girls were turned toward me, some smiling. I looked at Mary and saw that she was only half-turned to the back of the room. (She knew no one would pick her first.)…Mr. Jenkins said, “Okay, Dan-choose your partner!”

I remember feeling very far away. I heard my voice say, “I choose Mary.”

Never has a reluctant virtue been so rewarded. I still see her face undimmed in my memory. She lifted her head, and on her face, reddened with pleasure and surprise and embarrassment all at once, was the most genuine look of delight and even pride that I have ever seen, before or since. It was so pure that I had to look away because I knew I didn’t deserve it.

Mary came back and took my arm, as we had been instructed, and she walked beside me, bad leg and all, just like a princess… (Letters to My Children, 13-17).