When I joined a workout class, I didn’t expect to find belonging– but that’s just what happened. Let me explain:

A few months ago, I decided that I wanted to make exercise a regular part of my routine. I had a lot of reasons– it was getting toward winter and outdoor walks lost their appeal, it seemed like a good way to take care of myself, and I knew that the accountability of paying a monthly membership would keep me motivated.

But I knew a few other things, too. I knew that I wasn’t really sure how to use a plain gym– what sorts of balance between cardio and weights, or what equipment to use, or even how to use it without accidentally hurting myself. I knew that a lot of workout classes I’d seen people join virtually relied heavily on having two hands, and that wasn’t going to work for me with just one. I knew that I would be in over my head no matter what I tried.

So I contacted a place that offered a free, half-hour intro class for their regular 50-minute barre classes. I explained that I wanted to get into exercising, and that I have a congenital amputation and I wanted to be sure that I could actually do the workout before I committed. The owner spoke with me for twenty minutes, asking about what I could and couldn’t do, as well as describing what the classes included. I went to the intro class. The instructor showed me how to modify certain exercises to be better balanced or safer for one hand. She talked me through what to expect and what to watch out for, and as I muddled through the class, she corrected any (many) issues. Honestly, I was touched by the thoughtfulness and curiosity she brought to accommodating me, a new challenge for this exercise studio.

I signed up for a one-month trial. To my astonishment, with each new class I took, the owner had spoken in advance to the instructors, walking them through the modifications we'd figured out. They knew my name. When something that I couldn't do came up in the workout, they'd direct me how to adjust. Other women in the class introduced themselves, offering encouragement and camaraderie right from the get-go. Many of them also modified various movements to accommodate an injury or pregnancy or other need. When I came back from two weeks out of town, the Monday night instructor and participants said they'd missed me and asked what I'd been up to. 

It's been three months since I started, and what I realize is that churches have a lot to learn about belonging from places like my workout class. 

  • They knew my name. It matters for churches to find ways for people to be known by name, and not just by a single staff member. Maybe that’s name tags; maybe it’s creating a culture of getting to know one another; whatever it is, the act of calling one another by name creates belonging as it echoes God who calls us by name.

  • They paid attention to my needs. I was new and not particularly adept at the workout; in other words, not necessarily someone they’d have any reason to woo; however, at every class I’ve experienced thoughtful support. Churches need to notice, listen, and find ways to adapt to meet the spiritual needs of everyone in their community, even (or especially!) those who are unfamiliar with the practices of the congregation.

  • It wasn’t just the studio staff. It’s one thing to feel noticed by the instructors; it’s another to have the other participants know, engage, and support one another. Pastors and church workers can’t be the only ones who create a congregational culture of belonging. It’s the responsibility of the whole congregation to build those meaningful relationships for the sake of belonging.

Belonging matters. In church, we say that all are God’s children. If we really mean it, we need to pay attention and work to make sure that every person is known, cared for, and listened to. Last Sunday, we sang a hymn called “All Are Welcome.” Today, and every day, let’s make sure that’s true.