There are some photographs that tell the truth while leaving out an awful lot of the story. This sunrise over Lake of the Ozarks is one of them. Looking at it, you might imagine a peaceful morning beside the water, with the first light of day spilling across the lake and the world slowly waking up. The colors were spectacular, the reflections were beautiful, and the whole scene looks like the sort of morning that makes you grateful to be alive. And to be fair, it really was beautiful. But what the photograph doesn't show is that I was standing outside in January, freezing my fingers off, trying to capture that gorgeous sunrise before the bitter cold moving in convinced me that photography was a terrible hobby.
The water levels were down for winter, and the shoreline was not exactly putting its best foot forward. There were chunks of ice around the docks and clumps of mud exposed where I would normally stand to photograph the sunrise. I knew the view well because it was right outside our home, but that morning I had to work a little harder to find the beauty I wanted to capture. I ended up using the neighbor's dock instead of ours because it gave me a better angle across the water. I adjusted my camera settings, paid attention to the shadows, and carefully framed the photograph to keep the less attractive parts of the scene out of view. Later, I made a few editing adjustments to soften those little imperfections even further.
The photograph isn't a lie. The sunrise really was that beautiful, and I was fortunate enough to witness it. But the scene was not nearly as warm, comfortable, or inviting as it looks. Nobody looking at the finished photograph would know how cold I was, how much of the lake was covered in ice, or how strategically I had positioned myself to avoid photographing the muddy mess that is the shallow end of LOTO in the winter. They would see the beauty I chose to show them, without knowing much about what was happening outside the frame.
I've been thinking about that photograph lately because I had an experience at church that reminded me how easily we do the same thing with people. We see one moment, hear one conversation, notice one awkward interaction, or encounter someone who doesn't quite fit our expectations, and before we know it, we've formed an opinion about a person whose whole story we haven't even begun to understand.
We've recently started attending a new church, and I'm still getting comfortable with the people and the routines. At our previous church, everyone had eventually learned a very important detail about me: please, for the love of all things good, do not unexpectedly call on me to pray in front of everyone. I have always struggled with public prayer, especially when I don't have a moment to gather my thoughts. Give me a few minutes to prepare, and I can usually manage. Put me on the spot in front of a room full of people, and there is a very real possibility that every coherent thought in my head will pack its bags and leave without warning.
Our old church understood that, and I had gotten comfortable enough with the arrangement that I completely forgot to mention it to the pastor at our new church. That little oversight caught up with me when he called on me to pray over the offering and open the service. I froze. Then, because apparently silence wasn't awkward enough, I opened my mouth and managed to produce what I can only describe as a wildly disorganized collection of prayer-related words. I said amen, and what followed felt like the longest thirty seconds of my life. Eventually, the pastor simply moved along with the service, while I sat there wishing I could disappear into the furniture.
I can laugh about it now, at least a little. In the moment, though, I was mortified, and the feeling followed me around for the rest of the day. I kept replaying the whole thing in my mind, wondering what everyone must have thought. Did they think I didn't know how to pray? Did they question my faith or my spiritual maturity? Had I just managed to make myself look even more awkward than I already felt? Worse, would someone think less of my husband because his wife apparently couldn't string together a decent public prayer?
The longer I thought about it, the more I realized how much of my discomfort came from being afraid of what I looked like as a Christian. I wasn't upset because I had failed to talk to God. I was upset because I had failed to do it in a way that sounded like I thought a good Christian should sound in front of other people. I worried that I hadn't appeared knowledgeable enough, polished enough, confident enough, or spiritually mature enough to belong in that room.
And here's the part I had to admit to myself: I don't actually know that anyone thought those things. The pastor didn't scold me or make a spectacle of it. He simply continued with the service. I was the one filling that awkward silence with imagined judgments, making assumptions about what everyone else must have been thinking. Having spent plenty of my life feeling like I don't quite fit the expected mold, I can be especially quick to assume that other people notice every uncomfortable thing about me as much as I do.
That brought me back to something Scripture has been telling us all along.
In 1 Samuel 16:7, when Samuel was considering which of Jesse's sons God had chosen to be king, the Lord reminded him that appearances were not the measure Samuel needed to use:
"For the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart."
Samuel was looking at the sort of qualities that would make someone appear suitable for the position. God knew the heart of the person He had chosen. Samuel could only judge what was standing in front of him, but God knew what wasn't immediately visible.
I wonder how often we make the same mistake in our churches. We notice the people who speak confidently, pray beautifully, quote Scripture without hesitation, know every hymn, and seem completely at ease in a sanctuary. Those are wonderful abilities, and I am grateful for the people who have them. But sometimes we begin to confuse being comfortable in church with being spiritually mature, as though a person's ease with the public parts of Christianity tells us everything we need to know about their relationship with Christ.
Meanwhile, there may be someone sitting quietly in the back who has been through more than most of us could imagine. Someone who struggles to make eye contact but would be the first to help if they knew you needed something. Someone with a complicated past who understands grace more deeply than their appearance or social skills might suggest. Someone who can't find the right words when called on publicly but spends more time talking to God than anyone realizes.
This is why I love what Paul says in 1 Corinthians 12:22:
"Nay, much more those members of the body, which seem to be more feeble, are necessary:"
Necessary. That's the word that stands out to me.
Paul is explaining how the body of Christ is made up of different members with different purposes, and how the members cannot dismiss one another simply because they don't serve the same function. The eye can't decide the hand is unnecessary, and the head can't tell the feet they aren't needed. God has arranged the body with intention, including those members who might appear less impressive or important to the people looking on.
I think that's something our churches need to remember, and something those of us who feel like misfits need to remember, too. The people whose gifts are less visible aren't extra pieces God forgot to find a use for. We're not simply being allowed to sit in the room until we learn to act more like everyone else. Different people bring different gifts, experiences, strengths, and perspectives into the body of Christ, and some of those gifts are far quieter than others.
I may not be the person you want to call on without warning to open the service in prayer. But that doesn't mean I haven't been praying.
When a pastor is preaching and seems to be struggling to find the right words, I am often silently asking God to help him gather his thoughts and communicate what needs to be said. When someone says something that sounds less than loving, I pray for their heart, and sometimes for my own response to what I've heard. When a prayer request starts drifting a little too close to gossip, I take that person and the situation to God rather than joining the conversation or sitting there deciding how terrible everyone involved must be. Sometimes I continue praying until the moment has passed or the situation improves. Sometimes those prayers happen in the middle of Bible study, during a sermon, or while everyone else is focused on something entirely different.
Nobody hears those prayers. There is no microphone involved, no carefully arranged wording, and certainly no indication to the people around me that anything is happening. I'm simply taking what I notice and what troubles my heart to the One who can actually do something about it. I can't always fix a situation, find the right words to help someone, or even understand everything that's going on. But I can pray. I can ask God to give someone strength, soften a heart, offer comfort, or bring wisdom where it is needed.
And that matters just as much as the prayer someone speaks beautifully over the offering.
Matthew 6:6 says:
"But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly."
Jesus was warning against making prayer a performance for the admiration of others. He wasn't condemning public prayer itself, and I don't want to suggest there is anything wrong with people who are comfortable praying aloud. We need people who can lead congregations in worship and prayer, and I appreciate them tremendously. But Jesus made it clear that being seen and heard by other people is not what gives prayer its value. The Father hears what happens in secret, and a prayer does not become less meaningful because nobody else knows it was offered.
That realization helped me see my embarrassing little church moment differently. I had spent most of the day wondering whether people thought I was a good enough Christian, when the truth is that none of us have ever been good enough to earn what Christ has given us. That's the whole reason we need a Savior. We are saved by grace through faith, not by our ability to present ourselves as respectable, polished, spiritually impressive people. Being able to deliver a beautiful prayer in front of a congregation doesn't make someone more worthy of salvation, and stumbling through one certainly doesn't make someone less worthy of God's love.
That doesn't excuse us from growing, learning, serving, or taking our faith seriously. Grace isn't a free pass to remain careless or unloving. But it does mean we can stop confusing our outward presentation with the foundation of our salvation. Christ didn't die for a room full of people who had already mastered appearing righteous. He came because we needed Him, and we still do.
I think there is also something worth considering about the assumptions we make in the opposite direction. Sometimes those of us who have spent our lives feeling awkward, overlooked, or misunderstood can become a little too quick to judge the people who seem to fit comfortably into church culture. We may assume the polished person is superficial, the confident person is arrogant, or the person who prays eloquently must be putting on a show. But that isn't fair, either. The person who can stand before a congregation and pray without hesitation may have a deep and beautiful relationship with God. They may have overcome their own struggles to get there. Their confidence could be a genuine gift that God is using to serve others.
The problem isn't that some Christians look or sound different from the rest of us. The problem comes when we decide those differences tell us everything about the condition of someone's heart.
I know my own struggles have made me more attentive to certain things. I notice people who look uncomfortable in a crowd. I notice when someone seems unsure of where they belong, when a conversation grows tense, or when somebody appears to be struggling to find their place. I don't always know what to do about it, and I certainly don't always handle those moments perfectly. But I understand what it feels like to want to participate while also wanting very badly not to become the center of attention. Sometimes that understanding gives me an opportunity to offer a little kindness or make someone feel more included. Other times, the only thing I can do is quietly pray for them.
Maybe that's part of why God allows such a wide variety of personalities, histories, and abilities to come together in His church. We don't all notice the same needs. We don't all know how to reach the same people. Some are wonderful at welcoming strangers and making a room feel warm. Some can stand up and teach with ease. Some are gifted at organizing, encouraging, singing, visiting, giving, or serving behind the scenes. Some have lived through circumstances that make them especially sensitive to another person's pain. Some know exactly what to say, while others are better at sitting quietly beside someone who has run out of words.
It takes all kinds of people to do all kinds of things, and God is not limited to using the ones who look the part.
I keep coming back to that January sunrise. If I handed you the photograph without any explanation, you would never know about the ice and mud, the low winter water, or my nearly frozen fingers. You would see a lovely morning on the lake. You might even wish you had been standing there with me, although I can assure you that by the time I finished taking pictures, I was more than ready to get somewhere warm.
I knew how to use the angle of my camera and the shadows to keep the less appealing details out of the frame. That's part of photography, after all. A photograph is a small, deliberate piece of a much larger scene. I wasn't trying to invent beauty that wasn't there. I was trying to show the beauty that existed despite everything else happening around it.
People are a little like that, except we rarely get to choose which moment someone else sees. Sometimes they catch us at our best, when we're confident, comfortable, generous, and saying exactly the right things. Other times, they catch us in the middle of an awkward silence, a difficult day, a poor decision, or a moment when our words refuse to cooperate. Neither moment tells the whole story. The beautifully framed version of a person may have struggles hidden in the shadows, and the person caught in an unflattering moment may have a great deal of goodness, faith, and love that hasn't made it into view.
I don't want to become someone who mistakes a single moment for an entire person. I've spent too much of my life feeling misunderstood to want to do that to someone else. And I don't want to keep doing it to myself, either. One clumsy prayer doesn't erase the ones God has heard from me in private. One uncomfortable Sunday doesn't determine my spiritual maturity, any more than one beautiful photograph tells you what it actually felt like to stand beside that frozen lake.
I will probably always prefer quiet prayer to being unexpectedly called on in front of a congregation. I can learn to be better prepared, and I can certainly remember to tell a new pastor about that little quirk before it becomes a memorable Sunday morning experience. There is room for growth, and sometimes growth includes being willing to laugh at ourselves when things go sideways. But I am also learning that I don't have to become someone entirely different to have a meaningful place in the body of Christ.
And neither do you.
If you are the awkward one, the quiet one, the one whose appearance doesn't match what people expect a Christian to look like, or the one whose past makes you worry you'll never quite fit in, I hope you remember that God knows what is in your heart. Your gifts may not resemble someone else's, and you may never be comfortable doing the things that seem effortless to the person sitting beside you. That doesn't mean you have nothing to offer. The body of Christ needs people who notice, people who listen, people who quietly pray, and people whose experiences help them understand the hurting and overlooked.
And if you're someone who finds church comfortable and public prayer easy, I hope you'll remember that the person sitting quietly beside you may be offering more than you can see. A little patience, encouragement, and willingness to understand someone whose gifts look different can make an enormous difference. We don't have to be alike to belong together, and we certainly don't have to understand everything about another person before deciding they deserve our kindness.
Jesus gave us a much better way to recognize His followers than how polished they appear on Sunday morning. In John 13:34–35, He said:
"A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another."
He didn't say people would recognize His disciples by how confidently they spoke, how beautifully they prayed, how much they knew, or how well they fit the expectations of the people around them. He said they would be known by their love for one another.
That love ought to leave room for the polished and the awkward, the outgoing and the introverted, the confident and the uncertain, the familiar faces and the people still trying to figure out where they belong. It ought to make us slower to judge and quicker to listen. It ought to remind us that God sees far more than we do, and that every member of His body has a purpose that may not be immediately obvious to the rest of us.
The next time you see a beautiful photograph, remember that there may be ice, mud, and bitter cold just outside the frame. And the next time you meet someone who doesn't quite look, act, speak, or pray the way you expect, remember that you're only seeing a small piece of their story.
God sees the rest.
And sometimes the very people who seem least impressive to us are the ones He has placed exactly where they are needed.
