I THOUGHT IT WOULD JUST BE an ordinary ride home. But when my friend, who had kindly offered me a lift, asked me if I wouldn't mind stopping off for a meeting on the way, I agreed. I certainly didn't expect the car to pull up in front of a church. I soon realized my friend had a different kind of meeting in mind. Curious, I went in with her.
The moment I stepped inside, I felt a presence I'd never felt before. The smiling faces welcomed me with a look that said. "You've come to the right place." That said they were happy to be visited because they knew they had something to share. I was also struck by the noticeable absence of pictures or icons in the church. Only a serenity. A quiet, gentle presence that filled the room. A love that was not personal or human. Although I hadn't asked to come to this church, it seemed to be just what I needed to melt the sorrow and sadness I'd felt for some time.
As we sang the first hymn, I realized that the Reader conducting the meeting was not a priest or religious leader. There must be something else impelling this service, I thought. Something unseen, impersonal. Could it be this same impersonal love I'd felt the moment I'd walked in? And was this impersonal love behind the sense of inclusion I felt, inclusion communicated by the words "Our Father" in the prayer we repeated—words that made clear everyone was worthy of God's love, everyone was accepted?
