My husband and I are often frustrated in our church. At our worst moments, I say things like "But if we left, we wouldn't get to see what Julie X looks like at 60, 70, and 80" and "Whatever else is hard, watch how Evan makes sure he sits next to Danny," speaking of a third-grader who consistently seeks the company of a younger child with severe disabilities and "Don't forget that Scott Z's the one backing Bread for the World," when Scott is also the most active conservative Republican we know.

Those people are the church to which we BELONG, whether we agree with the current pastor, disagree with him, or can't remember the sermon long enough to have an opinion.

Sort of like this country is our country, even when we're exhausted by its mistakes.

Liking those you agree with is easy. Loving folks when you don't like them so much is the real deal.

Another great post, Nate.

When I first moved to New York, I used to stand on the overcrowded subway platform and marvel at how no one ever pushed anyone off the edge. I mean, there we all were, completely vulnerable to one another. No safety railings, no relief from the endless torture of waiting for a late train, each of us silently enduring our growing impatience or physical pain or mental anguish over something in our lives.

When the company I worked for excused us from our duties on 9/11/01, it was 3:00 in the afternoon. My office was on 46th and Broadway, the heart of Times Square. We all knew what had happened in lower Manhattan because we had watched the towers collapse on a TV in someone's office 5 hours earlier. I couldn't believe no one was letting us leave the Times Square area, which seemed a likely target to me. If I had been the boss, I would have released everyone much sooner. I wasn't good for any work that day: it took me 5 hours to write a single e-mail of basic instructions to a freelancer.

When I finally walked out onto sunny Times Square, I saw something I will never see again: hundreds of people sitting on the sidewalks and the median, staring up at the giant ABC News scroll and hoping for some information to explain what the hell had happened. I couldn't walk on the sidewalks because there were so many people; I had to walk in the street. Not a problem, however, because all traffic had been suspended.

I walked 30 blocks south on 7th Ave. toward my apartment against the wave of thousands of people walking uptown. Everyone was very quiet, self-contained. I was by myself and spoke to no one the whole way. I didn't have to: I felt a community with everyone.

The same Sunday that Rev. Wright gave his God Damn America sermon, I was riding the subway to lower Manhattan to see what exactly had happened to my city. I couldn't have imagined the frighteningly unfamiliar war zone I would enter as I exited the station. Everything in sight was blanketed with brown-gray ash so thick it muffled our footfalls and obliterated all color. It slid like snow off of store awnings. This eerie moonscape was on the East Side, many blocks away from ground zero.

I can say that although I understand Rev. Wright's sentiment about 9/11, I think I would have felt it was utterly wrong for him to speak those words on that day, when the debris of the towers was still burning, when volunteers were still desperately searching the debris for survivors they would never find, and when homemade missing person signs plastered the city like a wrenchingly sad art exhibit.

I don't go to church, but I understand why people do. I don't believe in organized religion because it seems to cause much more grief than it relieves. I am not impressed with UCC's good works. I expect all churches to teach tolerance and assist the sick, the dying, the poor, the forgotten. That is the church's job, after all. I am glad you like your church, but I have grown tired of hearing about how exceptional UCC is.

I am not impressed with Rev. Wright or with any pastor. Wright is no more noteworthy than my superintendent in Brooklyn. At Primo's funeral it was revealed how he used to buy groceries or a daily cup of coffee for poor neighbors (he himself was plenty poor, of course) and how he gave temporary shelter in vacant apartments to down-and-out people who had no place to sleep. Primo's own family never even knew of his generosity toward others in the neighborhood.

The only church I have is my personal faith in my fellow man, although admittedly, that faith gets tested mightily. Unlike anywhere else, however, living in New York has easily reinforced my faith in a million ways. There is no other place where people are directly confronted with so many who are unlike themselves only to reach the conclusion that we are all, in fact, alike.

I don't believe in God as our maker and I certainly don't believe in God from a book, but when I saw these photos, I could believe that god exists in interactions beyond our comprehension.