The Only Thing That Counts
What is Faith Without Love?
“The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.” Galatians 5:6 (NIV)
“How do you know someone’s faith is genuine?”
The question was posed at a recent Bible Study on Galatians, and discussion quickly ensued. The consensus was arrived at quickly and expressed clearly: when one’s behavior matches one’s belief.
“It’s a matter of a person’s deeds,” they said. Are they as kind, generous, and caring on Thursday at the water cooler as they are on Sunday in the narthex? Do they put Jesus’ words into action, loving God by loving their neighbor?
This Bible Study took Paul’s words to heart: “the only that counts is faith expressing itself through love.”
“Do you want to come to lunch?”
It was a whim of an invitation from a pastor friend during our seminary days, and knowing this wasn’t just any lunch invitation, of course I wanted to go! Together we left the esteemed halls of Duke Divinity School, nestled beside Duke Chapel in all its stonework and glory, and we walked beside carefully landscaped beds and across grass so green it didn’t quite look real. (It was.) We took the long walk to the graduate student parking, and I plopped my backpack at my feet as I climbed into her car. She didn’t drive us to one of the fashionable restaurants in downtown Durham, heading instead to the edge of town, where camps were set up in acres of undeveloped property, a unique neighborhood of sorts. We parked on a service road beside the highway and, though my friend had described what I could expect at this lunch, I nevertheless wondered what I had gotten myself into as I stepped out of the car.
It was a cold, clear February day and a ragtag bunch of folks were huddled under a tailgating tent, where a table was laden with chili and all the fixings. Camp chairs were grouped into large circles and some folks were already sitting with food on their laps, engaging in deep conversation. I heard laughter and the same kind of friendly banter I would’ve heard back at Duke in the dining hall, which made the juxtaposition that much more jarring. I ladeled chili into my bowl and had a seat in an empty camp chair between strangers, who quickly pulled me into their conversation.
The man on my right, I learned, lived in the woods and had no intention of returning to society, for a whole host of reasons, which actually made sense to me once he explained them. The man across from me was the jokester, who also lived in the woods and knew that his alcoholism was the cause, but that didn’t keep him from caring for his friends as best he could. And the man on my left was a member of the small, rural United Methodist Church that had prepared the meal. He was a home-owning, big-hearted man who was at home in this gathering, despite the social gap.
“I’m here every week,” he told me. Even when his church wasn’t in charge of the meal, even when other churches provided the food, he still came. When I asked what kept him coming back, he shrugged and said, “these are my friends.” It wasn’t the answer I expected. The conversation quickly moved on to sharing life stories and cheesy jokes, to laugher and eventually a time for prayer where celebrations were lifted, griefs shared, and tears shed.
It was all so very real, so very authentic; so much so that it made all the theology I was learning in seminary come alive. Forgiveness and grace took on new meanings. Justice and freedom did too.
I came back the next week, and the next, and the next until I was a regular, another friend in the mix of this ragtag group. My seminary experience was enriched by the relationships I made with the ones who lived in the woods and the ones who didn’t, the ones who came week after week from a handful of small churches, people who simply wanted to love their vulnerable neighbors as wholly as Christ had loved them. I saw the Church be the Church in a way that captured my imagination and my heart.
Faith expressing itself through love.
“How have you grown spiritually through this church?”
This is a question I am regularly asking the members of my new church, and I’m ashamed to say that I have been surprised by their answers. I expected lists of meaningful study curriculum or stories about influential teachers. But, by and large, the answer I’ve received the most is “service.” When I press for more details they explain.
“I go weekly to volunteer at the food bank because the church has a partnership there.”
“The church trained me to be a Stephen Minister, and caring for the emotional needs of people has made me a better person and a better Christian.”
“I think of that one time I went to Mexico with our mission team to serve alongside our Mexican ministry partners. I came back a different person, in the best way.”
This answer surprised me, but it shouldn’t have. Because it’s the same answer I have when I think about how the Church has helped me grow spiritually. Sure, I’ve learned a lot over the years in Bible Studies and sermons, but all of it would be worthless if the Church hadn’t also compelled me to do something to serve as Christ served, to love as Christ loved. It’s the gift the Church has given me, the inspiration and the means to express my faith through love.
As I write today, I am keenly aware that many of our vulnerable neighbors are facing a frightening and uncertain future as emergency SNAP funding has been denied and November is quickly approaching. I am not a politician nor do I have aspirations to be one, and I quite frankly do not have patience for political games or debates. But I am a Christian, one who is convinced that God cares for the poor and the vulnerable above pretty much all else. I am also a pastor, one who believes in the power of God at work through the Church as faith expressed through deeds of love.
The suffering around us is great, and the pain and anger over the injustices of our day can leave us feeling helpless. But when the Church is at its best, it has never shied away from suffering, nor has it sat on its hands in helpless anger. Rather, the Church empowers its people to cook a warm pot of chili in their quaint church kitchen, to muster up as many people as possible from their small membership rolls, and show up on a cold February day to share a meal and some love with anyone who has need of either.
The only thing that counts, St. Paul wrote, is faith expressed through love. The Church I know, the Church I love, the Church I am called to serve takes these words to heart, lives them as a motto and mission. Which is why I can confidently say, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.
Love you and your words.
It's so good to read your words and I can hear your voice as I read! This is the heart of the gospel!