the real

"Only when we have come in touch with our own life experiences and have learned to listen to our inner cravings for liberation and new life can we realize that Jesus did not just speak, but that he reached out to us in our most personal needs. The Gospel doesn’t just contain ideas worth remembering. It is a message responding to our individual human condition. The Church is not an institution forcing us to follow its rules. It is a community of people inviting us to still our hunger and thirst at its tables. Doctrines are not alien formulations which we must adhere to but the documentation of the most profound human experiences which, transcending time and place, are handed over from generation to generation as a light in our darkness."

—From Reaching Out by Henri JM Nouwen

I find the above quote deeply moving. It reminds me of what’s real.

I’m in San Antonio this weekend, visiting my wife’s family. We’re having a very pleasant time. This morning we attended her parent’s church, even getting up early enough to attend Sunday school. I have to be honest with you: I didn’t agree with every element of theology I heard this morning in class. But I learned something anyway.

There was an older gentleman in the class, a real patriarch of the church. He’s somewhat set in his ways from what I gather and more than a little vocal. Throughout class he took it upon himself to interject his opinion on the passage being discussed, frequently reading the notes from his study bible in their entirety as proof of his point of view. The teacher, an intelligent, well-read, well-prepared middle-aged woman, was kind and gracious throughout. Every time he began to speak, she not only allowed the interruption, she invited his input. She listened to his objections and answered his questions, even the dogmatic ones, with respect and patience.

It was beautiful.

Not beautiful because I agreed with everything spoken or because the lesson was delivered with masterful skill, but beautiful because a very real display of love and community played out before me. I felt like I was on holy ground watching it. Seeing the church be the church.

And that is church: our struggling together, our loving each other even as we disagree, our patient acceptance of one another as God’s beloved. It humbled me to be so close to it, to know that I might not have been so patient. To see how much I have yet to learn about love.

But it gave me hope, too. Hope in the idea that church is more than doctrine and programs. Hope that in ways both great and small God’s people are living out the call to love others. Hope that my moments of weakness and mistake will be met, not with the cold criticism of those who think themselves above reproach, but with a warm mercy and patient kindness.

We are on this journey together, you see, and the landmarks guiding us along the way are not doctrine and rules but moments of quiet, unremarkable grace exchanged by fellow travelers. No, there’s nothing mystical in that, no magic formula that cures the world’s ails. It may even seem a small thing to some, and I suppose it is.

But it’s also what I see Jesus doing—meeting with people, people not good enough or smart enough or well-bred enough to run in the right circles, and embracing them with love and respect. In spite of their flaws. In spite of their sin. In spite of their lack of wisdom. He entered into community, birthed community wherever he went, because he loved people and he loved them as they were.

I think that’s beautiful and raw and real and while I am nowhere near his perfect standard of love, I hope I am learning daily a little more of what it means to love those around me. And I hope in the meantime, while I’m learning, those around me will be patient with me as I sometimes fail.