Driving back to Atlanta late Sunday night, I rounded the bend on the south side of the city and saw its amber lights in the distance. The inside of my car was the picture of most all my road trips – various candy wrappers littered the passenger seat and floorboard; half-empty bottles of colas and energy drinks sat in the cup holders of the middle console. After a five-hour drive, I was almost home and grateful to make it just in time for the last evening service at Trinity.

I made my way into the café to grab a cup of coffee. But being an early morning attendee for the past two years, I quickly realized I didn't know anyone. I scanned the crowd once more to be sure, and crept down one of the side aisles in the sanctuary to the first empty seat I could find. Sitting there sipping my coffee, I felt awkward and uncomfortable. It reminded me of when I first came to our church.

Looking around that initial Sunday, I was able to see that I was no longer in the church of suburbia I knew so well growing up. People had tattoos. Their hair and clothes were different than mine. Some of their faces were pierced in unusual spots. Was everyone here in a band but me?

My guitar playing extends to about the first four letters of the alphabet, and that's if you count a pretty suspect B-chord. I don't own a graphic design studio, nor does my computer have any kind of glowing fruit on it. Between my wife and me we have a grand total of zero tattoos. On top of all that, I work a pretty stuffy 9-to-5 for “the man.”

It was easy to feel out of place and outdated. As a result, I developed a Sunday morning routine: run in the café, grab some coffee; run in the sanctuary, grab a seat; run out before someone could grab me and realize I was hopelessly out of place. It worked—for a while. I don't recall exactly when I decided that I needed to make a change. But I do remember seeing the enrollment sheet for a summer evening course called "A Life Worth Living." In spite of my apprehensions, I signed up. And that's when it all began to change for me. I met my first friends in the discussion group we had those evenings—friends that I still have and am close to today.

I realized that I hadn't made any meaningful relationships until I went out of my way to do something about it. It wasn’t until I gave of myself to serve in practical ways to try and become "the hands and feet of Jesus" that the community I longed for sprouted around me.

The way I see it now, my life at Trinity had not really begun until I: joined a small group; attended that summer evening class; went downtown with Lazarus to befriend the homeless; served Christ's Body and Blood to the church; found myself in New Orleans with others from Trinity in the wake of Katrina. Sincere, life-long, God-inspired friendships have been forged in these ways for me—friends that might as well be my family and make Atlanta feel like home. So, if you haven't yet, go join a small group. Fill out a "Serve" or "Follow Up" card in the café. Go downtown with the Lazarus ministry. Play kickball with the kids in Vine City. And while you're at it, make a few friends along the way. Sure, giving your time and making yourself available and vulnerable to people will mean you'll have to go out of your way. You'll have to make some sacrifices.

Our church is about to undergo a big change—a change for the better as we move into a much-needed bigger building—and with it will come opportunities for us to meet new people. Some will have been at Trinity forever; some will have just started coming. Either way, it's time for you and me to be as inviting as possible to those we don't yet know. As we transition from old to new, I can't think of a better time for us to get beyond our self-imposed borders and actively seek to weave our lives into the fabric of godly community.

So, whether or not we've met before or been in a class together, be sure to stop me and say hi. I'll be around. Usually still in the café after church grabbing some coffee, but I’m not in much of a hurry anymore. I’m finished with running out the door.