Where Two or Three Gather (at Chipotle)

I wouldn't say I have a ton of guy friends these days. A handful of really close ones, but past that I've gotten a little pickier about who gets my time. It took me a while to figure out why. I think it's because I finally know the difference between having people around and actually being known by them.

Don't get me wrong, I've had plenty of people around. Guys I served with, guys I'd grab lunch with, guys I'd stand next to in the church lobby and talk about nothing in particular. On paper it looked like friendship. But if you'd asked any of them what I was actually afraid of, or what I was wrestling with that season, they wouldn't have known. And honestly, I would've preferred it that way.

I think a lot of men live there. We're good at being around each other and terrible at being known by each other.

That started to change about a year ago, when I joined a group with three other guys.

There's nothing impressive about it. We meet at Chipotle. We get our bowls, we sit in the same corner, and we talk for an hour and a half about how we're actually doing. That's it. No curriculum or workbook, just four guys trying to be honest with each other over slightly burned chicken.

The thing that took me the longest to get used to is that nobody tries to fix anybody. If you'd put me at that table a few years ago, I would've been the first to jump in with advice and a 1, 2, 3 plan. But these guys don't do that. They listen, ask questions, let you sit in the hard thing without rushing you out of it.

It turns out that's a lot harder to receive than it is to give.

We end the same way every time, with two questions.

The first is, "What do you need from us?" The second is, "What do you need from God?"

I hated both of them at first.

The first one was uncomfortable because I've spent most of my life being the guy who doesn't need anything. Asking three other men to actually do something for me felt like admitting I couldn't handle it on my own. Which, of course, was the whole point.

But the second question was even worse. "What do you need from God?" My honest reaction the first time was, who the hell am I to tell God what I need? It felt presumptuous, almost rude. Like I'd be marching up to the Maker of the universe with a list of demands.

It took me a while to see what was really going on. I wasn't protecting God's dignity by refusing to answer. I was protecting my own. I'd rather not need anything, from anybody, including Him. Naming what I needed from God meant admitting I was dependent, and dependence has always been the thing I'm quickest to outgrow and slowest to accept.

I'm starting to think the church is weirdly bad at making space for this. We're good at programming community with small groups, men's breakfasts, and service projects. But a lot of it stays at the surface, because the surface is comfortable and being known is not. We'd rather be useful than be honest. I know I would.

But on Tuesdays at Chipotle, I'm seeing that you can't follow Jesus very far alone. At some point the performing has to stop. At some point somebody has to know the real version of you, the one that's scared and unsure and still wrestling with things he thought he'd have figured out by now.

For me, that's been three guys, a corner booth, and two questions I still don't love answering.

I can kinda sorta answer them now. Most weeks, anyway.

Every time I do, I find out I needed the asking more than I needed the answer.