My friend’s son died recently. He drowned while sailing solo to Hawaii. My friend doesn’t connect to a faith tradition. She aches for a meaningful way to grieve with others, but she cannot find appropriate rituals or ceremonies.

She’s felt Andy’s presence and senses his ongoing life. I believe that’s Spirit at work. Spirit doesn’t care if you’re sitting in a pew.

But after these tantalizing glimpses of Andy’s mysterious presence, she has no context for sharing or pondering the experience. She’s bereft again, solaced only by the love of friends and family .

I’m not saying that religious faith would help her understand the tragedy. I don’t think it would. A faith that claims to know why monstrous things happen seems shallow, often portraying a God that is a puppet master, cold judge or wrathful tyrant. My religious practices, rooted in Christian contemplative tradition, connect me to a different sort of God, one who dwells in Mystery but affirms humanity’s efforts to love and connect.

A faith community can come alongside those who suffer. (Or those who rejoice!) The community can participate in the grieving, while also giving evidence of something that transcends the individual tragedy. The darkness of grief can be illuminated by flashes of hope, experienced via lasagna delivered to the door, hugs in the church hall, prayers and tears heard in the pews. A faith community can give credence to the notion that Love exists and will continue to exist, offering sustenance throughout our lifetime and beyond.

I was brought up Catholic, with a mother who modeled sincere faith. However, church was gauged by length of service. Our favorite priest was Father Flash, who got us out of there in thirty minutes, sometimes twenty-five, especially in summer when beach traffic got bad by 9:30.

At home, we rattled off Bless us Oh Lord and these Thy gifts in about ten seconds before dinner. Going to church was no more connected to spiritual experience than scrubbing the kitchen floor was akin to eating lobster soaked in butter. It never occurred to me that they could be related.

But in my early twenties I stumbled upon a vibrant, experiential church in San Francisco, St. Gregory Nyssen Episcopal Church. Founded as a mission to urban dwellers disaffected from religion, St. Gregory’s was a revelation to me. Intellectually deep. Theologically profound. Filled with music and art and a participatory liturgy. This church was alive, and it satisfied a deep hunger I didn’t even know I had. After six years of intense participation in that church community, I knew I could never be without church again.

Leaving San Francisco thirty years ago meant leaving St. Gregory’s. I grieved. The first churches we tried out were NOT ST. GREGORY’S. It took a while to get over the loss.

Then we found a completely different church—not urban, not cutting edge. But the congregation was full of warm and lively people who took community life seriously without taking themselves too seriously.

They fed the hungry, visited the sick, cared for the imprisoned, and cherished the children—all the while enjoying themselves. Annual Oktoberfests, with the beer proceeds funding service projects, were non-negotiable. As was intelligent, relevant preaching and an engaged liturgy.

Also, it was clear that Faith Lutheran was sincerely rooted in something larger than itself—an imperative to love and to serve, to forgive and to ask for forgiveness, to say thank you and to ask for help. It was—and is—a faith community based on relationship—relationship with something larger than ourselves, something we acknowledge as Mystery while also seeking to connect to as Presence.

This humility of spirit means that the community is tolerant of diverse viewpoints. We are more interested in each others’ experiences and stories than in each others’ theologies or politics.

This embedded tolerance was captured eight years ago when a couple was pregnant with twins. The congregation was supportive throughout the difficult pregnancy. When the babies were finally born, two couples were chosen as godparents. One set of godparents consists of a union organizer and nurse practitioner devoted to grass roots activism. The other set of godparents consists of a financial officer and spouse who are active members of the National Rifle Association. At the baptism, all four godparents stood together beaming. All four continue to warmly interact with the family and with each other.

It’s not that ideas or beliefs are unimportant. They shape our outlook and affect our actions. But for me, real church is humbly anchored in something transcendent, something far greater than any idea or belief. The transcendent is a mystery. The only imperative we know for sure is the imperative to love. When that imperative is taken seriously, church matters to me.