Hate church? Hold on. A new thing is coming and it acts like Jesus.

Many Where True Love Is followers want nothing to do with church, and I get it. Declan does an astounding job curating content to uplift and energize people in this dystopian era where ugliness and exclusion are proclaimed as truth, and those messages touch a wide range of people. He and I have received a generous walloping of pain from churches, both in person and online, so we understand the distrust, and the content of the WTLI movement has broadened over the years in response to the communal pain. Given that reality, it feels downright miraculous that we've found ourselves in a wonderful faith community which actually does the stuff Christianity claims.

Something profound happened there at a recent service.

We entered the building at about the same time as another person. Declan and I took the three steps leading directly into the chapel, while a person in a wheelchair rolled up a longish ramp to the building's main entrance. It was very cold, and it felt good to be inside. The tech person was setting up to broadcast the service, and Rev. Myra bustled in and out, checking things to help ensure a smooth ordering of events. After a few minutes, she left and returned pushing the man we'd seen outside, chatting to him, and moving him to a position close to where we sat. "How's this?" she asked him, saying his name.

"Fine, fine, thank you," he replied.

We said our good mornings, and I closed my eyes to center in on being present to the God of my understanding. The man began muttering under his breath.

I'll call him Tom.

It's hard to guess Tom's age. Perhaps 34. Perhaps 58. His muttering meandered a bit, then slowed as his gnarled fingers worked at the top of a Hawaiian Punch bottle. Rev. Myra watched and asked if he needed help with it. Tom declined.

I presented my homily at the appropriate time in the service. I'd tried to accomplish a lot through it, packing it with information about sex, gender, and Catholic historical dogma. Being able to stand in that space and offer thoughts about the way divinity intertwines with creation is a profound gift, and one I take seriously. My sermons aren't always so tightly packed, but this one was pretty dense. The people scattered around the chapel were very good sports though, and appeared to be taking it in, despite my ambition.

The service moved along and we gathered around the altar for communion, as is the practice of this church on weekdays when small numbers gather. Tom rolled to the bottom of the stairs at the altar's base. A kind gentleman we'd not previously met positioned a chair for Declan, and the priest spoke the prayers of the people, reciting the standard pieces and then asking those gathered to lift their own needs. Tom spoke up, asking for prayers that city sidewalks be cleared so that people who needed to use chairs could get around. He spoke of wealthier neighborhoods and suburbs which have the resources to ensure accessibility but don't provide. His frustration was palpable.

Declan uses mobility aids himself, and we've encountered challenges over the years. But nothing compared to Tom's. You see, he has no lower legs.

I'm guessing they were amputated, or lost in an accident or in combat. His knees are still in place above a few inches of shin, each leg wrapped in some sort of stretchy socks. The reason for his prayer was clear, hard, and humbling.

Rev. Myra moved into the words leading up to Communion, and Tom climbed down from the wheelchair to the steps, where he pushed up on to his knees and and then prostrated himself, face down in the red carpet. We all watched, the priest most closely, to see if he needed help. She was keenly attuned to him. Ready to act, but only if needed.

What a profound thing to witness, this legless man who had to struggle through ice and snow to get to church, and who literally crawled up stairs to be close to the altar.

I recognized Tom from a month or two before, when we were meeting with Rev. Myra. He'd come to her office door speaking worriedly about benefit delays and overdue rent. Frustration colored his words. Our priest has a very Zen energy. She calmly explained that we were meeting, and that she needed ten minutes. He tried to leave, but the information he'd come to share with her demanded to be stated. He kept halting as he rolled toward the exit, saying more. After a few moments, Rev. Myra stepped toward him, took his hands, and said "Tom, look at me." She repeated it calmly a few times before he fell silent, gazing up into her face. She smiled, and said, "Give me ten minutes." Her voice was gentle. Firm.

He nodded, and left.

I'd been touched by her interaction with this man who was clearly a regular visitor to the building, someone who'd become family to the church staff. We'd seen them offer Tom coffee, popsicles, hospitality. Their welcome of him, along with Rev. Myra's grace-filled interaction, taught me a lot that day. The service in which Tom pulled himself to the altar taught me more.

The liturgy wrapped up, and after a few verses of the closing hymn Tom began singing Jingle Bells; in tune, cheery, and completely different from the music filling the space.

It was glorious.

Have you every experienced a welling up of emotion that is so strong, or strange, or transformative that it can't be put into words? That's what the service provoked in me. I struggle now, wanting to convey the power of what I saw, and knowing I'm failing.

This weekend Declan and I are helping with a "New Neighbors" party at the church, where refugees and asylum seekers will be welcomed and celebrated. A group of Afghani nationals will be there, and I've been researching foods so that I can take an offering or two which might feel familiar, if not authentic. There will be children, and I always think about what kids might like since buffets are often not very child friendly. I'm wondering what it will be like to be Muslim at a church party centering on a Christian high holy day, but realize I don't have to worry too much. I just need to show respect, honor each person's dignity, and share as much joy and hospitality as I can.

This all feels like Christmas to me. This all feels like church to me. Real church.

I'm sharing this story not to brag about the faith community we've landed in, but to give you a tiny bit of hope if you've encountered ugliness from people who say they're Jesus followers. There's a new reformation afoot, and good things are happening. More and more people are pushing back against the anti-Christ rhetoric and actions of people who call themselves Christian.

It's happening. Hold on.