Community is inconvenient. But worth it

For nearly 17 years, my husband and I were a one-car (or no-car) family. At first, we lived in cities with decent public transit. A few years ago, we moved farther out, so my husband began taking an unreliable commuter train to his job 2 hours each way — not including the 30-minute walk to the station.

We made it work, though, juggling work-from-home and in-office days in order to have access to the car when needed. On more than one occasion, we swallowed our pride and asked a neighbor for a ride to the dentist or the mechanic. We built carpools and carefully coordinated schedules. We dropped one another off and picked one another up.

It was very inconvenient, although we know we are lucky to own even one vehicle. 

Just over a month ago, facing a schedule clash that would last at least a season, we broke down and bought a second car. We still care deeply about the environment, about not adding to America’s vehicle-loving culture that is so deadly to pedestrians, about not spending more money in this ridiculous economy. So when the opportunity to purchase a good used car came up, well, it seemed like a way to smooth a lot of friction.

And it has been. What I’ve noticed in the past few weeks is just how convenientit is to have another car. I can run out to the store or make a doctor’s appointment without thinking about anyone else’s schedule. I can listen to a podcast without the pressure of holding up a conversation. I don’t have to feel uncomfortable because I must ask someone for a ride.

But something has surprised me. This added convenience has made me feel less connected.

My husband and I don’t have to communicate as much now that we don’t have to check in about our plans or what tasks need to be accomplished by picking up or dropping off this or that. We don’t need to know the intimate details of one another’s daily life, so we’ve become just a little less connected to one another.

The same is true of the neighbors and friends whose conversation I’ve traded for podcasts. I’ve traded real relationships — reciprocal relationships that can provide actual care and community after a hard workday or on my anxious way to the dentist — for parasocial ones. As delicious as it can be, the removal of discomfort, of inconvenience, from my life feels like a net loss.

What I crave is belonging to other people in a way that is so real it is inconvenient. When we belong to one another, we go out of our way, interrupt our lives and do things we wouldn’t otherwise choose: we stay home from work with a sick kid, drive out of our way to pick up an elder, interrupt an afternoon of work to help a neighbor shovel snow.

When we belong to one another in true community, we think about what other people need (or might simply enjoy). We open ourselves to the opportunity to meet others’ needs — and have our own needs (and joys) met as well.

I know that even before we purchased a second car, I occupied a pretty privileged position of convenience in my life. No one questions the gender marker on my passport or asks me what country I was born in. I’ve never been profiled or told to go back to where I came from. But lately, I’ve been thinking about inconvenience of a new kind — the kind of inconvenience it takes to show up in community for those who are at risk.

I don’t personally have to worry about a lot of the changes announced in the weeks since the inauguration. But I love a lot of people who do. And what I see more and more is just how often inconvenience can keep us from being in solidarity with one another. Just how often those of us who occupy positions of privilege can be easily dissuaded from standing up with the vulnerable members of our community because, well, it’s kinda inconvenient.

I’m not even talking about taking a big risk — the kind of stand that might cause us to lose a job for speaking out, to risk arrest or provoke internet trolls — though I greatly admire people who do.

I’m talking about the little things — the energy it would take to reach out to a person who is really anxious, the extra money it would take to bring someone a meal, the time it would take to seek out education on an issue, the discomfort of cold weather on the day of a public action, the choice to stop spending money at Amazon or Target. There are many little things that we may never do because they require extra effort.

But we didn’t always live this way, and I believe we can relearn to become inconvenienced for one another. I’m a pastor and a licensed mental health counselor aware of a whole field in psychology dedicated to helping people learn to tolerate discomfort. As a therapist, I’ve worked with many clients on “distress tolerance” skills, which can help us learn to tolerate inconvenience.

And church is the perfect place to practice these skills.

Just think of how often you have been inconvenienced at church! Someone sat in your pew. You had to talk to someone you find annoying. You had to change a potluck recipe to accommodate someone’s dietary restriction.

We are always being presented with the opportunity to inconvenience ourselves for one another in church. Living into these opportunities builds our sense of connection and belonging, our confidence in asking for help when we need it, and our hope as we experience the truth that we are part of the body of Christ.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus tells his followers, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13 NRSVue). What if laying down our lives for one another, at this particular moment, looks like inconveniencing ourselves in behalf of those who are more vulnerable than us? Can we expand our tolerance for inconvenience so we may become eager to belong to one another?

Think about what is inconvenient in your life now. Where might God be inviting you into deeper community? Have you avoided that invitation because it’s not convenient? How can you help the people in your community practice and tolerate discomfort in order to protect one another?

We have been taught to prioritize our own needs, comfort and convenience. But that only serves to protect the powerful, putting our friends and neighbors more at risk. Learning to tolerate the inconvenience of true community undermines that system and makes us all more free.