Safe Sanctuary

Making Room for Anxiety

Here is the Church.

Here is the Steeple.

Open the Doors and See all the People.

I had an interesting encounter today. I attended the start of a new satellite church in my own tradition. I’d been waiting for some time to attend, but it did not go as planned. What follows is merely a reflection on how I experienced the morning.

After a year away from the US without access to a United Methodist Church, and after some time in California where Methodism appeared quite different, I had been looking forward to the reopening of a United Methodist Church just next to my home. I had been anticipating today for several months and was excited to make my way over about 15 minutes before the initial service.

As I turned into the parking lot, I realized that I should have come earlier. There was a line of cars waiting to enter the lot, and I had to go to the very last section to find a spot. The church had done a great job of providing attendants in the lot to help control the chaos. I found a space and parked—then I walked up the back steps to find the entrance to the church.

When I entered the foyer, I was greeted by everyone I passed. It was a very welcoming and non-threatening experience. I made my way to the sanctuary entrance and was greeted with another line. It was immediately apparent that there were more people than the church could hold. Just my estimation—but there were roughly 200 more people than the sanctuary could accommodate.

Volunteers were scrambling to gather more seats, including deck chairs from outdoors. I found a place along the back wall and stood. The sanctuary continued to pack in more people.

In very short order, the crowd began to overwhelm me—and it became more than I could stomach. Years of military trauma have left me hypervigilant in unfamiliar crowds, and I could feel my fight-or-flight instincts taking over.

I could feel my heart rate increasing and my breathing becoming more rapid and shallow. My anxiety was skyrocketing, and still the people kept coming. Like many other Afghanistan combat veterans, I am not a fan of crowds, especially crowds of people I do not know. And I am even less a fan of crowds that aren’t being properly managed. There was no room to put all these people.

My mind went immediately to what might happen in the room if there was an emergency or someone up to no good. It was simply more than I could handle. I quietly made my exit, and immediately the anxiety began to resolve—yet several hours later I am still agitated by the experience.

The church is sanctuary. It should be a safe place for all who inhabit it. On this Sunday, that is not what I found when I attempted to enter a place of safety and worship. Again—I do not question the church’s intentions, but I do want to raise questions that clearly were not asked as this day was planned.

Having watched as an outside observer in their Facebook group for the new start, I knew that the home congregation was seeding the initial service to ensure that the room felt full. I believe they did just that—but perhaps there should have been some clear guidance on numbers and a limit to the seeding.

Creating a satellite location is indeed a sacred project. Drawing the circle wider created a place of worship and belonging for those seeking a spiritual home. But overfilling the space on the first day with those who will normally worship elsewhere failed to account for those unable to find peace in the midst of an unfamiliar crowd.

I may be the only person who left—I do not know. I will try again on another date and another date after that if I need to do so.

My experience today raises a set of questions that may have been overlooked but that are essential to embracing the spiritual lives of those who have served in the military over these last 25 years, or who have experienced trauma through other circumstances.

What does ministry to the Afghanistan/Iraq/Syria/Iran generation look like? What questions should be asked? What does sanctuary mean in the lives of those who have trouble settling into peace? What is the church’s role and responsibility—if any—to resolve this anxiety?

Existentially, I knew the spirit of the room. No one had any ill will or intention to raise my anxiety—in fact I believe they were attempting to do just the opposite—yet unless church leaders plan intentionally, the needs and feelings of veterans and others similarly affected risk being overlooked. And in a period of our history when more than 17 veterans die by suicide each day, the church simply must expand its planning considerations to account for those who experience the world through a different lens.

Creating sanctuary—not a room, but a spirit—requires intentional thought and planning. It requires answers to questions about the meaning of trauma in the lives of those who may come to the church’s doors, and it requires purposeful accommodation to the problem of anxiety. In his work, The Body Keeps the Score, Bessel van der Kolk notes that trauma is remembered by the body beyond the normal concept of psyche—that it can reshape the brain and body and leave the survival system reactive long after the threat has passed. This is not offered as an excuse, but as the means to fully understand the impact of trauma in the lives of those who have experienced it. The church must embrace the hope that sanctuary offers something more than sacred space.

While not wholly analogous to combat trauma, the disciples carry a similar imprint of trauma in their bodies after the crucifixion. John records their gathering behind locked doors as they hide from the powers that threaten them in the same way Jesus was threatened. They create their own safe sanctuary in a private place, hoping against hope that they will not be found out. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them, bringing peace into the anxiety of their gathering. He does not shame them; instead, he comforts them in their trauma.

What if sanctuary is then the acknowledgement of the gathering’s anxiety—complete with its safeguards—and not merely the preservation of a dedicated space?

I have no way of knowing how many other combat veterans were gathered in that place this morning. With over 500 people present, I’m certain that there were others. But trauma isn’t the exclusive domain of veterans. Churches are filled with the victims of trauma, and thanks be to God for the sanctuary they provide. Invisible wounds enter the doors of every single church, every single Sunday. The myriad details of that catalogue of trauma are endless, yet the church is charged with welcoming the stranger with whatever bags they happen to be carrying. This requires careful and considerate contemplation of how the church makes space for the anxiety people carry and provides true sanctuary for the woes of the world.

The same questions must be asked about people with disabilities or other access needs whose experience of sacred space may differ from that of those who planned it.

What then should sanctuary look like?

Capacity should be observed. The church is not in the business of turning away people, but it must be prepared to feed the masses when the gathering is larger than expected. In today’s case—those seeding the congregation could have been invited to make room for new people. The leadership could have added an additional service time to allow for the excess crowd to return later in the morning.

Clear aisles and visible exits should be the expectation rather than a convenience. Accommodation should be made for those who need additional space or an awareness of their surroundings—including overflow spaces that account for anxiety in crowded spaces.

Ushers and greeters should be taught to recognize the signs of those triggered by the experience. Guests should be free to walk away without comment or being pursued. Space should be maintained, and clear exits marked to ensure that no one feels trapped or threatened by the moment.

Sanctuary never fully resolves anxiety, but it does create space for anxiety to be resolved of its own accord. Anxious people should not be expected to explain or justify their needs. They should likewise not be expected to overcome their anxiety or conceal their anxiety in order to be welcomed with sanctuary. They should be welcomed and cared for just like the man in the ditch on the road to Jericho.

Trauma enters the lives of individuals in a myriad of ways, but regardless of its source, it clouds the lens through which the recipient sees the world. For me it is blood-stained glass. I don’t say that to amplify the image, but to explain that I will always see the world through a lens clouded by the loss of those who are no longer here to experience the same sanctuary. As a church, we must begin to account for the perspective and experience of those who encounter the world through the persistently clouded lens of trauma.

Today was not good for me. There is no guarantee that even if all of my questions had been asked and answered as plans for the first service were made that my experience could have been avoided. But that’s the thing—I don’t have the luxury of choosing when anxiety will appear. I just do what I can to live through it.

I will go back.