Somewhere in the lower circles of introvert hell, about halfway between Office Birthday Party Boulevard and (shudder) the Professional Networking District, you’ll find a former church of mine.
Don’t mistake me: I loved this church, though I only spent a few months there. It revitalized my understanding of the Bible’s blueprint for local congregations. Yet a palpable dread enveloped me each Sunday as the benediction crept closer.
In most churches, as the sanctuary thins out after a service, introverts have options. Rather than lingering to socialize, we can merge with outbound traffic as it flows toward restrooms and refreshment tables. Here, though, you sat back down and fell into conversation with your nearest pew-mate, often for ten minutes or more.
No one commanded this from the pulpit. No ushers enforced it. It happened because everyone wanted it to happen. Presumably, they’d been discipled to believe that when brothers and sisters gather for worship, they shouldn’t interact like strangers on the street.
Intellectually, I understood the impulse. Yet it felt like an elaborate conspiracy to make introverts self-conscious. I’d stumble through some perfunctory small talk, counting the moments until I could browse the church’s bookstall in blissful solitude.
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Adam S. McHugh probably had similar experiences in mind when, just over 15 years ago, he wrote Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture. (A revised and expanded edition appeared in 2017.) As McHugh sees it, evangelical churches often foster forms of fellowship and spirituality that favor chatterboxes over quiet types. Think, for instance, of post-service coffee hours, which McHugh amusingly likens to nonalcoholic cocktail parties. Or small-group environments that encourage immediate, plentiful “vulnerability.” Or evangelistic models that elevate quick wits and slick salesmanship above patient listening.
A former pastor and chaplain, McHugh delivers keen insights on extroverted archetypes within Christ-ian ministry. As he notes, many congregations expect charisma from the pulpit and backslapping bonhomie in the greeting line. I nodded sympathetically as he described preferring study and sermon prep to the more social and collaborative dimensions of church leadership. (McHugh later left the pastorate to become a sommelier in one of California’s winemaking regions, an experience he details in Blood from a Stone.)
Much of the book revolves around two “journeys” McHugh prescribes for Christian introverts. First comes an inward journey, by which we come to embrace our personalities as divine gifts rather than social and emotional handicaps. But this doesn’t mean luxuriating on an island of seclusion, because McHugh also outlines an outward journey, by which we learn to pursue Christian fellowship as our authentic selves. Rather than “masquerading” as social butterflies, he writes, we should “stretch our personality preferences without distorting them.”
From here on, it might sound like I’m finding fault with McHugh’s counsel. That’s not quite right. Yes, I jotted down several questions and counterarguments in the margins. But McHugh, to his credit, eventually addressed each one. Where we differ—if we differ—boils down to questions of emphasis.
Take, for instance, McHugh’s account of the inward journey, which leans heavily on therapeutic notions of healing and self-acceptance. Introverts, he says, bear scars from being rejected and misunderstood by peers, colleagues, and loved ones. At one point, he writes of “distinguishing between the healthy components of our personalities, those that are natural and to be celebrated, and the coping mechanisms that are the symptoms of our wounds.”
Having nursed those wounds myself, I wouldn’t minimize their severity or begrudge anyone the consolation they deserve. But McHugh’s framing obscures a third possibility: that introversion, in certain circumstances, reveals hearts that need cleansing more than healing.
This uncomfortable thought occurs whenever I catch myself plotting Sunday morning escape routes. Aren’t church gatherings supposed to offer a foretaste of heaven? McHugh might reply with reasonable alternatives to self-reproach: Perhaps, after worship, most introverts prefer holy silence, quiet prayer, or deeper dialogue to shooting the breeze in a noisy foyer.
Yet my own inward journeys of reflection suggest a less flattering answer: I don’t always love God’s people as I should. I treat them as roadblocks to reading books or watching Sunday afternoon football.
McHugh rightly objects to blaming God-given dispositions for unrelated spiritual shortcomings. He’s clear that being reserved doesn’t justify withdrawal from Christian community or neglecting to love our neighbors. The book acknowledges habitual temptations introverts should resist—yet it seems reluctant to regard introversion itself as subject to sin’s corruption.
If McHugh’s model of journeying inward flirts with underselling human fallenness, his model of journeying outward flirts with overselling personality types as gifts that nourish the church. I agree that introverts and extroverts bless Christ’s body in complementary ways. Yet I remain uneasy about introverts purposefully engaging church cultures as introverts.
Granted, McHugh admits the limits of personality labels. They don’t define us, he says, and they shouldn’t outweigh how Scripture defines us. Still, I suspect I’m warier of our cultural mania for identity badges, from the alphabetical readouts of Myers-Briggs to the numerical permutations of the Enneagram.
These exercises can help illuminate who we are and what makes us tick. At extremes, however, they can seduce us into navel-gazing. McHugh casts an appealing vision of introverts and extroverts edifying each other about the contours and intricacies of their personalities. But I worry about these conversations diverting attention from the biblical drama of redemption, the riches of church history, and other weightier topics.
The 2017 version of Introverts in the Church opens in a cheerful mood, noting the favorable reputation our tribe increasingly enjoys. McHugh’s new preface pays homage to Susan Cain’s 2012 bestseller Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. “Somewhere along the line,” he quips, “introverts got sexy.” He promises more celebration of “what we are” than apologies for “what we lack.”
That’s an improvement over stigmatizing introverts as antisocial weirdos. But I’ll pass on attending any victory parades. I’ve never let stereotypes get me down, and I don’t want to let cultural acclaim puff me up. If introverts know anything, it’s the value of standing apart.
Matt Reynolds is senior books editor for Christianity Today.
