I grew up on the JC Penney side of the tracks, in a part of Nashville unimpressively learning to live in the newly integrating South. My ministerial parents hovered around church like birds around their feeder. From them and others I learned an authentic, kind, and generous faith. One was taught to do good things, to confess to God not-good-things, and to shy away from certain subjects.
Faith for me is home. It is the place where, in Christ, one studies the contours of the Human Face of God, so that one can more effectively and consistently love the person standing in front of you. For me, faith is where good intentions wed meaningful work. Faith is where human frailty can fall into the arms of divine compassion. Faith is where a smart person need not apologize for what he knows, but where he darn sure better be in touch with what he does not know.
For me, faith is one person at a time. It is Cavan, who died of AIDS, Bobby who had to carry a gun to work, and Nadine, who, when visiting the nursing home, held the Christmas wrapping paper tube to the ear of her almost deaf friend from church, so she would not be lonely. Para mí, la fe no es sólamente en inglés. (“For me, faith is not only in English.”)
I love living out my faith at Broadway, where people are wise enough and mature enough to know who they are, but where they also are humble and courageous enough to grow toward who they are becoming. It is home to hundreds of stories, each with its own loves, its own losses, its own unfixable places and own inestimable mercies. It is a home well worth having.