The Grip of Sore Knuckles

My wife and I had a big fight today. She suggested we go to counseling to heal our love after a day of tearing it down in the process of trying to be respectively right. I agreed—even telling her she could pick the counselor—because I was confidant he (or she) would understand my side of the story. To this ridiculous comment my wife said something to the effect of, “Then you aren’t going for counseling; you’re going to have your ideas validated.”
Wham! Truth hit me . . . somewhere between the heart and head.
We’ve been reading in our Imprints journal about the biblical example of small group church communities within the larger assembly. I have agreed with all the applications made and implied from the lesson book about adapting the Acts system in the modern church. Few churches, especially the kind in which I was reared, incorporate this system. With all my angst over 20-some years misguided by Baptist fundamentalist legalism, I was glad to once again find something in the Bible that missed the supposedly erudite that sustain that movement.
But the last guidebook question asked, “Do I really want to pursue authentic Christian Community?” It was the same question as my wife’s, just framed in different words. Am I willing to change? Am I willing to get close enough to someone to allow them to care enough to point out my faults? If the current state of my marriage is any indication of my answer, then probably not.
It scares me. Even as insecure as I am and willing to change to feel secure, I cower for full surrender to another person. There have been many times during my six years of matrimony where I was willing to be vulnerable with my wife, and I’ve even made some small steps of change. I’m open to be vulnerable with a small group of believers and maybe even to make small changes in front of them. It’s almost like I want the points for expressing myself without the commitment to do anything about what I find in the dredging.
I struggle to be vulnerable with God, as I think he’s always trying to take something away from me, something of value or something that holds my trust. I’m very superstitious with God, hoping he doesn’t pull a Job on me. I worry about the slippery slope: if I give God my Cooper, will I end up on a bicycle in India? If I give up 5 for Fighting, will I end up with an acquired taste for organ music?
Generally, I trust people who know better than I do in cars, computers, business, finances, relationships—even Spiritual matters. They don’t have to know who I am for me to realize their expertise lends credence to their advice. In fact, probably, the less they know me the better. Their clinical and/or generic approach wins my acceptance. Ironically, I often don’t trust the people closest to me, though, somehow discounting their vantage—maybe because I’m close enough to see their flaws, things against which I can discount my shortcomings. And I don’t trust the God who lovingly designed my DNA, maybe because he gave me no athletic ability and a crooked head.
So, as I type with the arthritic hands He gave me, uneasiness grips my anticipation of the hard core small group setup at Blue Ridge. I’m lonely enough here, 5 hours from family and 7 hours from friends, to give up that part of my week. I’m close enough to desperation in my marriage and soul to take the risk. And I’m a New Zealand bungee jump away from letting go of the rest of my life. Maybe the right group will make the landing softer.