You Don’t Have to Carry the Backpack Alone

A Reflection on the Story We Inhabit and the Community Given in Christ

One of the quiet assumptions of our age is that faith is something you build for yourself.

The thinking goes something like this: you assemble faith the way someone packs a hiking backpack.  A little philosophy here, a bit of spirituality there, perhaps a few practices that help you feel centered or calm.  You take what you like, leave what you don’t, and carry it with you on your own private journey through life.

That is the predominant story of our culture. In that story, your worth is something you earn.  It comes from what you achieve, what you accumulate, or how successful you become.  If you fail, you simply try harder next time. Grace and forgiveness play very little role. Community is something temporary—something you piece together when you need it.

It is, at its heart, a story of independence and self-determination.  But it is also a story of profound and epidemic loneliness.  The Gospel tells a very different story.

In the Gospel, your worth does not come from what you accomplish.  It comes from God.  Before you have earned anything, before you have proven anything, before you have succeeded or failed—God already loves you and has fashioned you in his own image.  Your life, your dignity, and your belonging are gifts from God: indelible and enduring.

This is part of what Jesus means when he says, “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25).  Faith is not primarily about constructing meaning for ourselves.  It is about entering into a story that God has already begun—a story that was never meant to be lived alone.

One of the challenges the Church faces today is that the world around us has changed dramatically.  The pace of change in technology, economics, and social life has accelerated so quickly that many institutions—including churches—struggle to keep up.

But the deeper change is both spiritual and cultural.

For much of American history, people found meaning by joining groups together: civic organizations, churches, volunteer groups, and neighborhood associations. Belonging was simply assumed.

Today the cultural instinct is almost the opposite.  Meaning is supposed to come from within.  Authenticity means discovering your own truth, your own path, your own identity.  In this framework, other people can become little more than resources—teachers, mentors, customers, or clients—who help us achieve our personal goals.  Long-term belonging, the kind that requires patience and commitment, can begin to feel old-fashioned.

To be fair, there are beautiful aspects of this cultural shift.  People rightly desire authenticity in their spiritual lives.  They want to understand their faith, wrestle with it, and make it their own and apply it to their daily lives. Laudable in every way!

But the downside is that many people no longer know how to belong to something larger than themselves.  And that is where the Church has work to do. We must return to belonging—reimagined for the culture of modernity—but holding fast to the abiding benefits of connection and community.

In the early 2000s, many churches tried to respond to cultural change by becoming more entertaining or more attractive than the thousands of other options competing for people’s time.  In many ways, that experiment gave rise to the megachurch phenomenon.  And the last 25 years of data have shown us that movement is dying as fast as it grew— brunch and a ball game are always going to be more fun.  The Church will never win based on entertainment or production value.

The real work of the Church is deeper and thankfully simpler.

Our task is to help people encounter Christ and grow into a life with God.

In other words, the Church exists to form disciples. And that formation does not happen through busyness—more programs, more meetings, more commitments, or slicker production.  In fact, the opposite is more often true.  Many churches (and many clergy) are already exhausted from trying to do too much. This is where Scripture is helpful.

Jesus offers a very different image of the Christian life. “I am the vine,” he says, “you are the branches” (John 15:5).

Branches do not produce fruit by trying harder.  They bear fruit because they remain connected to the vine.  Their life flows from something beyond themselves.  The same is true for us.

When we are rooted in Christ, our lives begin to change.  That change naturally draws us outward toward our neighbors—toward one another.  Like branches growing from the same vine, our lives begin to intertwine—strengthening and supporting one another.  Over time, those connections become something strong and resilient, almost like strands woven together into a rope.  If we want to find our strength, we have to find others to intertwine and invest in growing with and among.

How?

When you look closely at the ministry of Jesus, you notice something striking.

Most of the time, Jesus simply spent time with people.  He ate with them. Walked with them.  Sat in their homes.  Listened to their stories.  He practiced what we might call “the ministry of presence”.

And that may be one of the most countercultural and consequential gifts the Church can offer today.  Recognizing we are not the vine that gives life.  Christ is.  Yet we are the branches he is drawing together, weaving us into relationship with one another and giving us strength, one person—one branch—at a time.

In a society where people are constantly rushing, constantly performing, and constantly curating their lives online, the simple act of being present with another human being can become a profound act of grace.  Listening to the voices of God and one another—abiding with one another—can change our whole approach.

When we abide with and listen, we often discover something surprising.

God is already at work.

Long before we arrive with a plan or a program, the Holy Spirit is already moving quietly in the lives of our neighbors, our communities, and even ourselves.

Our task is not to control that work. Our task is simply to notice it, join it, and bear witness to the love of Christ in the places where we already live.

That is the Church at its best.  Not a museum.  Not a club.  Not a high-production entertainment venue.  But a community of people who have discovered that their lives are part of a much bigger story—the story of God’s grace, reconciliation, and love for the world.

And once you begin to live inside that story, you realize something beautiful:

You were never meant to carry the backpack alone.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben +