I invite a friend to a gathering of my community. It's his second time, though the first was brief. I can't quite say why, but I sense an unease in him—something I don't have words for. I've learned not to push when it comes to Faith and Light, yet in this case I'm fairly certain his encounter with the people there went well. Even though I don't want to press the matter, I can't let it rest. Finally, a clue arrives from a mutual friend: "Maybe he'll come after Mass." This group is perceived—and perceives itself—as part of a movement rooted in the Church, and that creates discomfort for anyone who doesn't feel they belong to the ecclesial community.
And yet I've lived in this same situation for ten years, and it has never kept me from fully engaging with the community. I want to find a gentle way to tell him that Faith and Light is a place where "difference" is welcomed—or at least doesn't go unnoticed. More than anything, I want to tell him that I believe Jesus Christ left a message for humanity that can be shared even by those who don't believe in his divinity. The possibility and the greatness of mutual love doesn't belong only to Christians. It's something profound that you encounter at Faith and Light; it's the foundation itself. Whether that love comes from God or not is not a small thing, but it certainly doesn't prevent us from living it.
This conversation might be too demanding for my friend, anyway. Because except for a few essential things, you can't really talk about Faith and Light. You can only tell your own story—your own faith and light—and let experience do the rest. "Come and see."
What I think comes from my own experience. I don't know what the experience is like for others who don't believe—and what an ungenerous definition that is, isn't it? The world isn't kind to us, as if the reassuring label "believer" actually described everyone so classified. Still, there are many people who have drawn near to the movement's life without having faith, yet finding light (and shadow) through the communion the community creates. It seems to me that little has been done to understand why we are there—why people like us come—or to reconcile our presence with the movement's roots and mission. I'm convinced we owe respect to what we don't share and what rightly belongs to the community's life. I'm also convinced that what we can give, and especially receive, from these people is immense, and that there's no good reason to hold back or go elsewhere.
Faith and Light, and the people I've met there, have shaped my growth. They've been a source of reflection and friendship—a safe harbor where you're accepted for who you are, often despite who you are. Faith isn't the only thing you find there, though once someone did tell me my presence made no sense unless I could also live that dimension in faith and light.
But these thoughts took ten years to form. They can't be explained without the context in which they grew. So I've decided: I'll send my friend an email inviting him to lunch after Mass. The rest, he'll discover on his own.