Six weeks ago my father died. I have not spoken much about that except to friends. Grief is deeply personal, and the journey is different for us all. Suffice it to say that as a primary caregiver for my Dad the past three years, two in a nursing facility, I have been up close and personal to the end of his life at 91. My father was a wonderful, larger that life presence in my life.

For weeks it is the cursed insane busy-ness after death. Experience is crowded out by necessity, but that is not all bad. Denial has its reasons. When grief comes calling, you do not have to seek to find it. It is there.

After things calmed down, we traveled to be with children and grandchildren up north. We spent, for the first time in a long time, Easter away from Birmingham. And it was the first break that I have had since my father passed away. I have to confess that I went to church in a different spirit than I have in a long time. I felt the need to go., but honestly., I found myself going because I felt I needed something familiar.

We were in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. I had noticed the congregational church there on previous trips and, after an internet survey of places we might go chose First Congregational Church. I read about its history—and it was considerable.

It was organized in October 1734 in the Native American settlement of Stockbridge. A young man finishing his ministerial studies at Yale named John Sergeant was called by the Muh-He-Kun-Ne-Ok (Mohican) people of the Berkshire Hills to serve as their pastor. Sergeant was a well-loved shepherd by his adopted people, and many became Christians because of his influence. Sergeant died in 1749 and was succeeded by Jonathan Edwards—yes, THAT Jonathan Edwards, who was among the most influential colonial-era clergy. It was during his tenure here that he wrote his masterpiece, Freedom of the Will, which remains one of the greatest works in American theology. Edwards left the church to become the President of The College of New Jersey (Princeton).

From 1950 to 1971, famous theologian Reinhold Niebuhr made this his church home. While there, it is said Niebuhr composed his famous Serenity prayer that every graduate of AA knows by heart.

A progressive and prominent liberal congregation in the United Church of Christ, I discovered. Well, maybe it will be a handful of people on a New England Sunday morning, I thought. We Southerners have our stereotypes of religion in the North. I could not have been more wrong. We entered the church and soon it was filled with worshipers. A brass ensemble played spectacularly on one side of the balcony and a handbell choir was on the other.

The pastor preached a gospel sermon of hope and resurrection. The worship was inspiring. As I left, I felt something in my chest, a familiar and indescribable twinge, as though I had accidentally walked into a beautiful hidden room full of old treasures from earlier life. It was hope.

It reminded me of a time when a young chaplain came to my office and worried to me that she had to preach the Easter sermon in the chapel at the hospital that Sunday. She confessed, “I have witnessed so much pain, so much suffering of late, I don’t know if I can believe it enough to preach.” I said, “It’s okay if you can’t believe it. The rest of us do. Go in there and preach as though you still believe it. They need you.” It was ridiculous and audacious advice, looking back. But the next week she came to see me and tell me, “When I began to speak, I felt my faith coming alive.”

Now I had been languishing there, walking along the road of the valley of the shadow of death and exhaustion. And just being there, singing, worshiping with these strangers, I felt something come alive.

Since I have retired I have come to see the power and crucial importance of two realities. It isn’t the administration or sermons or programs or any of the other things that can absolutely obsess professional ministers. One is the simple reality of the fellowship of the people, their community, communion, love for one another. THe power of that, when you have it, is an extravagant gift. The other is how important it is that Christian people give themselves to the suffering world around them in love.

H. Richard Niebuhr, Reinhold’s equally famous brother, once wrote that the purpose of the church and its ministry was “the increase of the love of God and neighbor.” That says it pretty well. Is love of God and love of my fellow humans increasing among us? Then we’re on the right path.

I left with a little hope, lifted out of the fog that had surrounded my soul for a month. Hope that people gathered together in a strange place could love one another. Hope that the dismal and dysfunctional and depressing politics and vitriol that is suffocating our souls at the moment is not ultimate.

My wife and I watched the movie “Conclave” last weekend as we were following the enormity of Pope Francis’ death and the wide impact of his life. A conclave is about to begin. It is a spectacular film full of great acting. It will not give anything away to quote the words of one cardinal in the film who says, wisely, “The church is not tradition. The Church is not the past. It is what we do next.”

I hope that is true. The world so needs what we might do next. I hope we will.