Metro Stories: Elijah Wesley

I came to Metro because I needed friends. It was as simple as that. I had recently dropped out of college, and I hadn’t made any connections there, or even in high school. My old church had more or less dissolved during the pandemic, leaving me on rocky ground with my faith and lingering in a severe inability to trust the people around me. At that time, the friends I did have were either in vastly different stages of life, and I felt I didn’t have much in common with them, or they were simply distanced from me—whether geographically or emotionally—largely due to my refusal to be vulnerable, stemming from a persistent fear of rejection. As a result, I found myself feeling unsupported, unable to rely on others, and deeply alone.

Coming back to church was very easy at first, largely because of how inviting the people I met were. It was easy to show up at any event and gathering whenever someone invited me because it felt like I was finally making steps towards finding a community. But my faith was still on the back of my mind as I started getting connected within the church, and it became all about my desire for friendship.

As I continued getting to know people, that desire descended into an obsession. I felt like everything depended on how able I was to secure my place among the people there and make the church somewhere that I belonged. Every interaction felt like it bore all of that weight at once. I would rehearse and practice and mentally try to predict any situation I might find myself in. I would ruminate and analyze and pick apart every social gathering and conversation for hours after. I would beat myself up and frantically spiral into despair at anything that felt like a wrong word, an out-of-place comment, or any reason at all that might give someone license to reject me.

More importantly, I still lacked trust in people. Even though people around me were welcoming, friendly, and kind, I rationalized it all as fake, surface-level professionalism. I told myself that every example of acceptance I received was nothing more than a warm facade or guilt-driven obligation towards a newcomer. Nobody really wanted me around—they only tolerated me because it was polite, or because it was the right thing to do. I still believed that, fundamentally, I wasn’t deserving of anybody’s genuine friendship, approval, or love.

However, as time went on, I inevitably let more and more of my real, unpolished self slip through. I began to grow confused seeing that I wasn’t rejected; rather, people treated me the same even when I felt like I wasn’t living up to their standards. I saw people lending me their trust and confidence when I felt I hadn’t earned it at all. I saw people pour their time and effort into really getting to know me when I needed it most. I felt accepted in a way I wasn’t used to.

What I realized past a certain point was that it actually had nothing to do with my “performance”. It didn’t really matter if I said or did the right things, or acted according to what I perceived was most acceptable; people just accepted me anyway. I had to conclude that they weren’t judging my ability or gauging my likeability. They were just acting in genuine kindness.

This realization made it much easier from that point forward to start making real connections—to allow myself to be vulnerable, to feel comfortable showing people the sides of myself I would usually filter out. It also began to change my perception of the character of Christ—a concept I hadn’t revisited in a long time—in understanding how His love for humanity was something I saw reflected in these people’s love for me.

At that point, those friendships became a lot more real to me. I had friends who knew me and loved me, people to relate to and rely on. I had what felt like a solid, protected spot within a community. It hit me, and continued to dawn on me time and time again, that I finally had what I felt like I had been longing for all these years: a place where I belonged.

But even in light of how much my life had changed, something was still off. That confused me. I looked around and I saw everything I had wanted, everything I told God that I needed. I was among the best circumstances of my life, happier than I had been in years. And yet, at the end of the day, I would come home and still feel a poignant emptiness.

It took forever to put together, despite it being a concept that was preached every Sunday and described in every community group reading. I had been relying on my relationships with my friends to ultimately fulfill me. As much as they were a blessing—and I want to be clear, I’m indescribably thankful for the people I’m lucky enough to call my friends—they were never meant to be my ultimate source of happiness.

It hit me that nothing in the world was ever going to do that for me. Evidently, I could have everything I asked for and still be unhappy. That led me back to the truth of the gospel, which I had for so long neglected and overlooked: only God could ever fill that space.

I think I’m still figuring out what it looks like, practically, to actually have God be what is filling that space. I don’t think it’s a concept I will ever fully—or even mostly—understand, and it’s easily what I wrestle with the most as I navigate the rest of my life.

But what I do know is that I came to this church telling God what I needed, making demands in exchange for my time, service, and piety. Graciously, He gave me exactly what I was asking for. But even more graciously, He did so in a way that opened my eyes to what I actually needed—a real relationship with Him.