Boots and Blessings

I have concerns about community, about shibboleths, about only wanting to be around "people like us." But there is also something visceral, something that looks at a picture, reads a blog post, hears a conversation during coffee hour, and breathes in, "This is my tribe." It was a picture of a friend's mom that reminded me of this. Joy on her face, love on her shirt, a friend at her side, clutching a banner of her belief ... deeply and reverentially, I inhaled, held the breath, and thought, "I have never met her, but I know her. For we are related. She is my tribe." If she and I were to speak, we would already be speaking the same language. We might argue about the accent, but we could understand each other, even if we did not agree. How important is that! In this world, where we not only don't agree, but often times, we can't even understand each other. We speak the same language, we think, yet my words go whizzing past his right  ear,

Take a moment with me, would you? Imagine your church. No, not the place you go to on Sunday. It's not a place, it's people. But I'm not talking about your formal congregation. Think about your life, your day to day going and doing. Work. Home. Grocery Store. Gym. School. Soccer Practice. Imagine all the people whose paths you'll cross. Some you know, some you don't. Now imagine that they are your church, and you are their minister. We all do ministry, whether we call it that or not. Yesterday, I was in the subway system of another city, and I got off at the wrong stop. I stepped off at the next one, to head back. A young man was there on the platform. He had a welcoming face, and so I explained where I was trying to go and asked his advice. He gave it, along with some reassurance, and kind chitchat. I had stepped into his church, and he ministered to me. Where is your church?