The first time I tasted wine, I gagged a little. We were young and newly married with only part-time jobs to pay the rent. So of course, I grabbed the smallest, cheapest bottle off the WalMart shelf. My expectation was that I would experience what I saw on TV: sipping and swishing, everything becoming a little more sophisticated.

I was wrong. Even my inexperienced tastebuds knew that nothing about that wine was fancy, and I was happy not to finish the glass. It was not The Good Stuff I had imagined, and I wondered what compelled people to buy anything within reach of the bottom shelf.

Fast forward to my thirties. I sit shoulder to shoulder with ten other adults in a near-stranger’s living room. The small group leader holds a printed copy of questions from last Sunday’s sermon, and upon clearing his throat, an uncomfortable hush settles over the group. He prays and then asks the first question, but no one is quick to answer.

Part of me feels compelled to speak, to be the one who goes first, but insecurities keep words from getting past my lips. A few people speak up. A few thoughts are shared. By the end of the night, we cross off all the questions and say our goodbyes, and the entire experience leaves me wanting. I step into the night reminding myself that relationships have to start somewhere, but discontent grinds within me as I wonder, Is this it? Is this once-a-week gathering the church Jesus imagined?

I had a hard time believing it was The Good Stuff when it all seemed a bit watered down.

Was I the only one who wanted more? Or did others come hoping to have top-shelf experience, only to dump out what was left of their bottom-shelf bottles on the way out?

I began to pay attention to the ache, and what my soul craved was not neatly packaged community but communion—The Good Stuff. Not manufactured relationships often fueled by obligation or guilt but rich, full-bodied connection flavored by the deep and abiding presence of God and others. Not perfect answers to Sunday’s questions but a place to wrestle, to bring my full self into the room and still be wanted. Not a place to fit in, but to belong.

And two hours once a week was not cutting it.

On the night Jesus gathered with the disciples for the last time, he prayed for the unity of his people, that they “may all be one, as you, Father are in me and I am in you” (John 17:20-26). His circular language painted a picture not of a small group or clean-cut discipleship track but of a dance, of people who weave into God and God into them and them back into each other. No talk of horizontal and vertical relationships that barely intersect, but parts of a living body that feel every joy, ache, sigh, and sadness as one.

When we close our eyes and envision what it looks like to live as if “I am in them and you are in me,” occasional coffee hangs or waving at each other from across the sanctuary on Sunday mornings begin to pale in the image of something more. What we begin to see is a place and a people where we are safe, seen, respected, and enjoyed as we are, where our relationships show us a bigger, wider, more welcoming God, and God leads us continually back to each other. Love is always moving between us.

Small groups, book clubs, Sunday morning services, and softball leagues may be part of the equation, a crucial step in the dance, but they are an avenue, not an end. They are but a drop in the cup of communion, and God is inviting us to drink deep.

Not for a moment do I want to romanticize the messy realities of relationships, but I also do not want us to become content with a watered-down version of what God offers.

My hope is that we would be people who pursue The Good Stuff. That we begin to imagine how Jesus’ prayer might manifest in the middle of our everyday lives. That even when showing up is clunky and uncomfortable or we don’t agree on everything (which we won’t), we find ways to weave deeper and further together, for our good and God’s glory.

May community lead us to communion.

A QUICK NOTE

This essay was originally sent to subscribers of my weekly newsletter, The Shelf. I send a short list of good things to pick up every Monday as well as an essay to end the month. I’d love to have you join us.

feature image by Debby Hudson via unsplash