For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

As a child, I enjoyed going to church. Something in the air, the stained glass windows, collective prayers, participating in the rituals. I went to Sunday School hopeful, curious, wanting to know more. I went to services and did what I was told. Stand here, sit there. Say these words, hold your hands like this, and so on. 

But I kept missing this “love” thing. I just didn’t get it. How do I know God loves me? How am I supposed to recognize Jesus? I felt like an outsider, standing at the door of the church, wanting to come in, but never able to open the door. As I stood on the outside looking in, I was also afraid of what might happen on the other side of that door. Did God love me no matter what? What if I wasn’t “good enough”? Was I doomed to eternal hell for my sins? It sounded like this happened, at least to some.  

I hung in with church until my teenage years. But my frustration was building. People in church talked about God’s love and spend a lot of time proclaiming beliefs. “I believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God” “I believe Jesus died for our sins and resurrected on the 3rd day.” “I believe Jesus will return.” 

What do all these words mean? The words hung in the air, repeated over and over. My sharp-edged, teenage scent of hypocrisy heightened. But if it’s possible that I (or anyone else!) will end up in eternal hell, why should we care Jesus is the Son of God? Where is God’s love in this version of “truth”? This was too much for my teenage brain. Exasperated, I threw up my hands and yelled at God: “God, if you want me, you’ll need to come find me through something other than the church. I’m outta here!” I was 16.

Years later, when my husband, Bret, asked me to marry him, I was thrilled. Enthusiastically, I said, “Yes!” Quickly I followed with, “Just don’t ask me to marry you in a church!” My plea startled Bret, but he agreed. Instead of a church wedding, we had a lovely ceremony at the New York Botanical Garden. I was sure that wherever God was, He was present in that nature filled space. That happy day was in June, 1985.

Two years later, I was working near Wall Street, a block from the buildings known as the “Twin Towers.” I knew the streets well, including the local subway stations. And yet, I never noticed that almost daily I walked past a building that stood at the head of Wall Street. That building was Trinity Church, a large Episcopal church. One day in the spring of 1987, I walked by and for no particular reason, I walked in. I wasn’t aware that I was looking for anything related to God or church.

As I entered through an enormous doorway, I remember feeling peculiar, aware that it made no sense that I would enter a church. I felt my feet on the stone floor, as if the stone had been there since the beginning of time. The stone was solid, yet I feared it might crumble beneath my feet at any moment. 

Slowly, I walked into the sanctuary. My eyes gazed up from the floor, and immediately focused on an enormous figure of Jesus, etched in a stained glass window that hung above the altar. The figure of Jesus filled the window. His eyes were open but gazed down, His hand extended outward, palm turned up as if He were waiting just for me, inviting me to come close. Everything and everyone else in the church seemed to disappear. I stood, transfixed, unable to move, my eyes locked on the figure of Jesus that seemed to vibrate with loving power.  

I’m not sure how long I stood there. Then I heard the words, “You are forgiven.” Surely the words were in my mind, but they seemed to come from Jesus, speaking through the stained glass figure. Suddenly, tears poured out of my eyes, down my cheeks. Slowly, my feet moved, inching my body to a nearby pew. I sat down and surrendered to weeping, not knowing why I was crying or what was happening to me.  

I didn’t make the connection consciously, but my body knew. Something magnetically drew me, reminiscent of the Presence that I felt as a young child sitting in a quiet church. I felt safe there, as if sheltered by the walls that held a communal presence of prayer. I didn’t know it then, but this was (and is) the Loving Presence of Jesus Christ that stands at the center of Christian faith.

“You are forgiven” meant that no matter what I had done, God’s love holds me tenderly. In this moment that seemed to touch eternity, my lifelong fear that I would spend eternity in hell vanished. The fear melted away, like evaporated steam. I knew in my bones that this love was supremely trustworthy. 

While this was a uniquely personal message, intuitively I sensed that this is the message for all: the outpouring of Divine Love is available to all. This experience was no longer about “belief in God” but a heartfelt experience of connection “with God”. I stepped into the vision of God that Christianity holds, and it would radically change my life. A different consciousness emerged. I sensed God’s presence  — the reality of Love — in my life, the lives of others, and in the world. 

In this Trinity Church experience, I had a powerful transformation: sensing that God held me in love. This was an experience “of God”, a God in whom I could easily trust; much different from believing “in God,” a God who triggered more fear than love. I felt drawn toward Him, into a path of Love. In the weeks and months that followed, I attuned to Love that lives within and surrounds us. I came to a new level of consciousness. This was a deep feeling of “coming home”.

In the weeks and months that followed, I returned to Trinity Church. Some days I just sat in the quiet, other days I attended services. I was falling in love with the prayers and liturgy of the Episcopal Church. I learned to use the Book of Common Prayer (the prayerbook of the Episcopal Church), and the Hymnal (the book of hymns used in worship services). I learned the rituals: when to stand, sit, and kneel; how to receive communion. Most of all, I came through the door that had always eluded me, into a different dimension of experience, feeling loved and accepted by God. My fear of eternal hell no longer held my faith captive.

A few years after my Trinity Church experience, my husband and I joined a large church community in New York City. The architecture of the church building invited us in. This was a large Byzantine structure in midtown Manhattan. The building seemed to proclaim a spiritual power in contrast to the towering city skyscrapers that surrounded it. The rounded dome of the church building conveyed Divine maternal arms embracing all, and offering a refuge from the daily stresses of life. 

From our first experience, the Rector’s sermon captivated us, and we returned week after week. Each Sunday, we heard story after story of people transformed by God’s love. The message was, “God loves you, no matter what. This is the most essential wisdom you need. And here are actual stories of how God’s love transforms ordinary lives.”These stories were riveting. Our hearts opened, and we witnessed this vision of God’s love moved through the people and life of the parish. Within a few years, my husband and I became active members, taking on various leadership roles. These experiences continue to shape our faith today.

However, divine love notwithstanding, even the best church communities may face real financial challenges. In this community, long standing financial woes brought the community to the brink of bankruptcy. In time, leadership changed, bringing a sense of new vision and possibility. 

But like many large organizations, power struggles emerged and dominated decision-making. The “old guard” wasn’t happy with the “new guard”. Battle lines were drawn, heated arguments ensued, conversations got ugly. There was plenty of blame to go around. We became disheartened. Something of my old frustrations with church hypocrisy re-ignited.

And then came September 11, 2001. Suddenly this parish, like many churches, filled with people. They poured in, day after day, during the week and on Sundays. Why? Not because of special programs or exalted preaching. People came because they were frightened and desperate. Overnight the world had changed. Now we lived in a world where people used airplanes as to blow up office buildings. The new world was terrifying. People came to church looking for a larger reality than what we were seeing; a reality that offered hope in the essential goodness of Life.

9/11 was a potent reminder that, in our darkest hours, we yearn to touch the presence of  divine Love; a transcendence that holds all the darkness, yet not be consumed by it. In spite of all the failings of the church, 9/11 reminded me that a power within Christianity remains, as if buried deep in the basement of the tradition, that offers unwavering Love in times of great suffering. 

The challenge for church leadership is how to respond, how to bring the message forward and keep it alive, despite all the forces that might undermine it. The months following 9/11 were especially difficult for clergy. How to help? Many well-meaning clergy and leaders offered sermons, classes, and images to make sense of what happened. Panels of speakers interpreting the new reality popped up everywhere. 

These were noble efforts. However, the church offered another kind of power, the power of silence. In that silence is the unseen reality, the promise of hope that amid suffering, the encounter of Presence of God. This power has inspired two thousand years of Christian faith and discipleship, conveyed in transformed human lives, and witnessed in Christian art, architecture, music, and icons. In the words of Psalm 46: “Be still and know that I am God.”

The vision that inspires Christianity is full of mystery and promise. It’s an all-encompassing vision, capturing the totality of human life, including great suffering and joy. Perhaps you too have had powerful transformational experiences with God, within or outside the Church. Your experiences may look like mine or not. However, perhaps you know as I do that the reality of Christian community life often falls dreadfully short of its exalted vision. Perhaps, like many, you have concluded, “I believe in God, but I can’t go to church anymore…” Or, you may continue to attend church, yet feel vaguely dissatisfied. 

Wherever you are in your faith journey, consider these questions:

• How do you experience God’s presence in your life?
• How do you experience the absence of God?
• What support do you yearn for in your journey of faith? 
• What support are you able to offer others?  

For all the failings of Christianity as an institution, I remain captivated by the vision of God’s love. I am humbled by the power and beauty of the truths that She holds. These truths are worth fighting for.