I'll bring the cupcakes

Introversion in a communal faith

One of the things that held me back from finding a new church was the thought of socializing.

My last church was massive; hundreds at a service (over a thousand at some services). I could walk in, sit down, and never speak to a single person if I didn’t want to.

As an introvert, some days I just didn’t have the energy.

That was a big benefit. When a good friend invited me to the church for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was under a microscope. I was just one nameless face in a sea of theater seating.

I could figure life out without feeling like I was being judged.

Over time, I began to meet people and developed a nice circle of friends, including those I met through small-group Bible study. When I first started attending, the church heavily promoted connection, mostly through those small groups. It was the only way to really form relationships in such a large congregation.

A lot of good came from that small group, and a little bit of drama, too.

But ultimately, I was seen as much or as little as I wanted to be in that church. I could walk through the coffee area, full of people, and not have to speak to a single person. They were all too busy in their own little spheres of connection in a bustling church.

The focus on connection seemed to diminish over the years, especially once the draconian pandemic rules hit.

But for introverted me, that level of purposeful anonymity was right up my alley. My fun fact about myself that I share during work icebreakers: “I hate forced social interaction.”

I can be social, but on my own terms and in my own time.

I knew going into a more modest-sized church would push me out of that comfort zone. A smaller congregation means a group that mostly knows one another, or at least knows of each other. All eyes are on the new guy who shows up, wondering who’s invaded their little community.

And even if they aren’t, my social anxiety convinces me it’s happening. It’s the story I build up in my head.

It’s one of the joys of introversion, let me tell you.

While I had to fight those inner voices telling me I was embarrassing myself by having no idea what was going on during the services of the Eastern Orthodox church I had been attending, that was all on me: the parish itself struck the right balance of restrained curiosity, a welcoming attitude, and patience.

That welcoming spirit wasn’t just the personality of a kind parish—it turns out it reflects something deeper about Orthodoxy itself: Orthodoxy is a communal faith; salvation is a shared mystery.

It’s actually a beautiful paradox of Orthodoxy: your salvation is deeply personal, but never private. While the Church honors the uniqueness of every soul, it places that soul within the life of the ekklesia—the gathered body of Christ.

In Homily 11 on Ephesians, St. John Chrysostom, one of the three great Orthodox patriarchs, said, “The love Paul requires of us is no common love, but that which cements us together, and makes us cleave inseparably to one another, and effects as great and as perfect a union as though it were between limb and limb."

We are quite literally connected through Christ.

So, when I walked into the Orthodox Church the first time, people had a legitimate curiosity: Who am I? What is my background? Was I even Orthodox? What made me come to the church? How did I find them?

I was surprised—pleasantly—by their level of interest. It wasn’t nosy, just a sincere effort to understand me. And it makes sense when you understand the bigger picture.

It was always clear at fellowship hour after Divine Liturgy. I would sit with a cup of coffee, just trying to be my usual introverted self, and people would come sit by me, introduce themselves and talk warmly. Hear my story, share theirs, answer my questions—just offer friendship from nothing more than a connection through Christ.

And yet, in another Orthodox paradox, while focused on community, the individual journey seems to be very much respected.

My fears of doing something “wrong” during worship were quickly put at ease.

In Orthodox worship, you're not being evaluated. People stand, cross themselves, bow, or prostrate at different times. Some come late. Some stay in the back. Some sit when needed.

And that’s okay—because your only concern is you.

You're not there to “perform.” Worship is directed toward God, not toward others or a stage.

This allows room for people —like me— to grow into participation at their own pace. Orthodox culture encourages you to focus on your own repentance, rather than what others are or are not doing.

As I talked to folks during fellowship hour, they were never pushy or judgmental of my journey. They respected it, offering gentle nudges of what I might read or listen to if I was interested, often with a nod and smile.

One of my first questions the day I first stepped into the Orthodox Church was, “Does everyone come to all of these services?” There are three minimum each week at the parish: Wednesday Vespers, Saturday Great Vespers and the Divine Liturgy on Sunday.

To someone used to an hour once a week, that sounded like… a lot of church. (The Divine Liturgy alone is two hours, not taking into account readings beforehand or fellowship after).

Their response said a lot about the Orthodox attitude before I had any idea what it was: “Everyone is on their own journey. They come to what works for them on their path.”

That attitude seems to permeate the church.

The ultimate goal in Orthodoxy is theosis—union with God.

As St. Irenaeus of Lyons (who lived within the first century after the resurrection) said: “…the Word of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, who did, through His transcendent love, become what we are, that He might bring us to be even what He is Himself.”

But the path to theosis is personal. Saints are revered for their unique lives, not because they fit into a mold. Monks, mothers, scholars, martyrs—all became holy through wildly different journeys.

Just like the saints, my journey will look different, too.

And so, Orthodoxy holds this beautiful tension: a communal path walked through deeply personal steps.

That tension is something you have to lean into—otherwise, Orthodoxy probably won’t work for you in the long run.

But I want it to work for me—or at least give it the best opportunity to do so. I had to put aside my desire to sit alone in a corner and instead push myself to connect with others. It actually wasn’t that tough because the parish made it less intimidating to do so.

I now have a core group of friends whom it feels like I’ve known for much longer than a few months.

Hugs abound.

Smiles and invitations are common to pull up a chair at fellowship hour and catch up.

Texts throughout the week are the norm.

Somehow, holding babies is now a thing—which still makes some of my non-Orthodox friends crack up at the thought.

Like any family, there’s a current of acceptance. It’s not perfect, but yes, it feels like a family. The Orthodox are onto something with their beautiful paradox.

A few months ago, I wouldn't have imagined doing something like this. The thought of potlucks and fellowship hour made me roll my eyes—visions of casserole dishes and quiet social hierarchies dancing in my head.

But now I hate to miss fellowship. It seems like a natural extension of the morning’s liturgy.

Now, I volunteered to help serve at fellowship hour. Not because I have to. Not to be seen doing so.

But because it feels like a small offering of love to the people who welcomed me before I even knew how to cross myself properly.

I still need my quiet. I still retreat when I need to recharge.

But I’ll bring the cupcakes.

Because I know now: they’re not just cupcakes. They’re connection. They’re presence. They’re a sign that I’ve found not just a place to worship—but a parish family to grow with.

I used to treasure being unnoticed and anonymous. Now, I treasure being known.

If you’ve found a church or community that respects your journey, I’d love to hear how you got there.

These reflections are part of my personal journey—how I’m seeing and interpreting things in the moment. Like any journey, my understanding may be limited or incomplete and will likely deepen over time. I share these thoughts not as conclusions, but as honest glimpses along the way.