Recently, I went with my parents and my fiancé to see Sound of Hope: The Story of Possum Trot. Since opening on July 4, it’s grossed more than $11 million in theatres, making back its $8.5 million production budget and then some. I was impressed: the acting, the story, and the takeaway message were all well-done.

The film, as you likely know by now, is about a small church community banding together to support each other as they take on the heavy load of adopting the most wounded, hard-to-place kids in the local foster-care system. I’ve never adopted any children — but the theme of doing life in a church community is one that resonates with me deeply.  

My Journey of Seeking to Be Known in Church

About seven years ago, I really longed to be known. I would stand in the congregation of the megachurch I was attending at that time, looking up at the worship leaders who seemed to have their lives so much more together than I did. I served as a greeter there every other week — and yet still, I was lonely. I wanted to belong. I wanted to feel fruitful in ministry, to be connected to others. I was in a room full of people singing songs to the same God, but I still was longing for community.

And apparently, I was not alone in feeling lonely. According to a 2020 Barna report, 51% of both churched and unchurched people reported feeling lonely in the past week, while 40% of practicing Christians felt the same way. That’s two out of every five Christians who say their faith is very important to them also saying that loneliness affects them.

My unmet relational need led me on a journey to find a church where I could feel I belonged.

I knew what belonging felt like; I’d had that feeling in college. My friends and I had a student-led discipleship group; we met on Wednesday nights to worship, to pray for one another, to share our lives and a lesson. We prayed for God to move powerfully on our campus. We walked around town together, asking people if we could pray for them or share an encouragement from God with them. We often ate meals together in the cafeteria and sometimes hosted dinner in our on-campus housing, saw each other in class and chapel, and studied together in the library. We planned birthday celebrations for each other and cried on each other’s shoulders.

But I left that sweet community behind at graduation, and returned home to the church I had attended with my family since middle school. There, I didn’t feel that same level of unity or belonging. I wondered how I could find such a sweet community again.

Finding Community

My search eventually led me to a small church of about 30 adults that meets in homes and parks and a community center, and is led by three elders who are committed to knowing and personally discipling the flock. As in college, the teaching and worship are great, but the relationships, the being known, the accountability — that’s where a lot of the life change happens.

I’ve been a part of this church for two and a half years now. The elders take personal responsibility for the wellbeing of the community: couples with whom I can actually talk about what’s going on in my life, who are willing to offer guidance. 

We eat meals together. We go out in town and ask people if we can pray for them or share the Gospel with them. We celebrate each other’s birthdays and we cry on each other’s shoulders.

I’m able to minister here through friendship. If someone has a health crisis, I may receive a message asking for help meeting practical needs. As we see each other’s lives, we can recognize patterns and needs and truly come alongside each other as friends who care for each other and help carry each other’s burdens. I have found a place where I can be a blessing to others. I know I can grow here and be supported in living a godly life.

Connectedness Helped This Church Bear Significant Burdens

I was impressed with the true story of the tiny church community I saw portrayed in Sound of Hope: Bennett Chapel Missionary Baptist Church, where 22 families took in 77 of the hardest-to-place foster children. The film portrays Bishop W.C. Martin and his wife, Donna Martin, leading a relatively poor congregation. When Donna’s sister needs her plumbing replaced, the bishop doesn’t have the money to help — he’s struggling to keep utilities turned on at the church and his own house.

So he approaches the pastor of a large, wealthy church to ask for financial support. He walks in to a service rehearsal that includes announcements of a building campaign and a marriage cruise. The pastor there says they can’t fit the needs of Martin’s congregation into the church budget — which sounds hollow after those announcements. But Martin won’t take no for an answer because he knows caring for vulnerable kids is God’s desire. Finally, the pastor writes him a personal check.

The tiny church may be financially strapped — but they are relationally rich. Their connections with each other are strong and deep.

As the task of caring for children affected by trauma takes its toll on the congregation, one church service helps turn things around. Martin addresses the parishioners’ weariness in doing good, and asks those who are overwhelmed to come to the front of the room. The others surround them in prayer, and then begin to surround them in practical ways as well, like bringing them meals and helping with chores.

A Wrap-Around Support Group

“We had one of the best wraparound support groups that you could ever have inside the church,” Martin told The Global Orphan Project, an organization for which he serves as a national ambassador. The group has created an app, called Care Portal, that allows social workers to make individuals, churches, and organizations aware of needs in their communities to help provide for children.

“The community itself rallied around everybody,” Martin said during an appearance on The Ben Shapiro Show in June. With the child protective services offices 60 miles away, “we had to develop our own wrap-around support group.” When a problem came up, “we got together in the church and we worked it out and we supported one another. We helped one another. We shared one another’s burdens.”

Martin told Shapiro that if a family was particularly struggling with a child, he would take the child to his own home to give the parents a break — even though Martin had six children, one of whom was disabled and four of whom were adopted.

If wealth is measured by how great a burden you’re able to lift from the vulnerable and crushed and take upon yourself, Martin’s congregation may have been richer than the larger one in the bigger building across town. Their ability to do good in their community despite financial hardship came from strong relational ties: knowing each other deeply, doing life together, coming into one another’s homes, and bearing one another’s burdens.

Money can definitely ease tough situations, but care from people who know us and are committed to us is irreplaceable. That’s exactly what I found myself seeking — and then finding — years ago. 

What Could We Do Together?

What kind of healing environment for struggling families, foster kids, adopted kids, exhausted single parents, and lonely singles could we provide if we did life together like that? If we pooled our relational resources, and love and skills and time, what kind of fruitfulness could God generate in us? Far more than if we lived lonely and disconnected rat-race lives, I’m sure.

What would it take for us to know and be known by the people in our churches on that level? For many of us, it would require a culture shift, but I believe it would be the kind that God desires. The New Testament admonishes us to care for our brothers and sisters in Christ, to bear one another’s burdens, and break bread together.

If you long for this kind of community and unity, I encourage you to seek it out. Seek to create it. Get to know your neighbors. Go to the homes of the people in your church and invite them into yours. I wonder what the Body of Christ could do if we lived on mission together and supported one another. The people of Possum Trot have shown us only one facet of what that might look like.

Maybe we could solve the foster care crisis in every region of the country. Maybe we could bring people into the Kingdom of God through Bible studies in our homes, baptisms in our swimming pools, and connections over coffee. Maybe we could support abortion-minded women in changing their minds and then caring for their babies. Maybe we could prevent divorces. If we stay committed to the priorities of God and to each other, there’s no telling what burdens we could carry and what fruitfulness our lives might yield.

 

Aliya Kuykendall is a staff writer and proofreader for The Stream. You can follow her on X @AliyaKuykendall and follow The Stream @Streamdotorg.