Yesterday I read a story that really touched my heart. You should read it.

There was mud everywhere. The torrential rain that threatened to wash us all off the riverbank we were camping on only pushed our huddled mass of bodies closer together. We were drawn together out of necessity, and the food we huddled around provided physical nourishment while the jokes, warm smiles and erratic multi-lingual conversations strengthened our spirits. It had been raining for probably 24 hours straight, but at this point it only added to the experience. Even the growing darkness of the coming night wasn’t able to dampen the moods of the soaked group. There was something about mealtimes. They always seemed to have an air of camaraderie and cheeriness that meals in that States only come close to approaching at times like Christmas and Thanksgiving. Our meals seemed like little pieces of heaven. Everyone made sure that others had enough. There was no worrying about messes, and no one was scared to ask for someone to pass the gravy. There was a tremendous sense of community even though those around me were very different from me. Until a few weeks earlier, 5,000 miles had separated us. I'm not sure why there was such a unique feeling at meals there, but I know for a fact that they took place in a manner drastically different from what I was used to. The differences started off with how the meal was prepared. Everybody pitched in to help; whether it was cooking, cleaning, tending the fire or just sitting around offering entertainment to those working. Once the dishes had been prepared, the serving bowls would be set in the middle of a mat on the floor and everybody would crowd around. Normally wed would cram about 15 or 20 people around a six- by eight-foot mat. However, no one complained of fretted about the invasion of personal space. It was a bonus. Once preparations were finished and each person was seated within reach of the food, the feast began. The process went something like this: Grab a little bit of sticky rice, roll it into a firm ball, reach out to the middle of the table, grab whatever tasty delicacy is lying in one of the serving bowls and stick it in your mouth. Repeat until you are full. Plates were optional, and silverware was almost completely unnecessary. It was in no way clean or neat. Many might even find the thought of using bare hands to dip food out of a communal pot revolting. However, as I sat there on that abysmal night, the scene playing out in front of me painted a beautiful picture of what the church should be. There was nothing sterile, clean or orderly about any part of the weekend that I spent out in the wilderness with my new friends. In fact, between mud, the river and the constant swarms of insects, I must have acquired more germs in an hour than most people in the States would get in a month. However, if you are looking for something that is sterile, clean and orderly, you are not going to find that in a church either, at least not in the churches I’ve come to love. To me, church is somewhere you mix and get dirty with the people around you. At a meal, if you are constantly worried about getting a bit of food on your clothes, you may not get enough to eat. Likewise in the church, if you are unwilling to mix with people and really get to know them for who they are, you will never be truly spiritually nourished. I challenge you to take the risk. Yes, getting to know someone is always a risk because maybe you will find out more about them than you want to know, or maybe you will actually feel responsibility to help them when their time of need comes. However, being willing to allow yourself to get dirty in the lives of people around you may be just the step you need to take to make a friend for life. The mud that covered all of us from head to toe during the weekend of camping may have been an annoyance to some. But to me, the only thing it did was to cover the differences between us. The dirt I shared with those huddled together wirh me on the mat did more for me than any sterile environment ever has. So as I sat there eating, I couldn’t help but smile: there was mud everywhere.
An article by Ezra Amittai, a student missi