Who couldn't use more light, more clarity in a time of questioning? And if we are in the middle of our own search for light, it sometimes helps to hear the experiences of others who are finding "there ariseth light in the darkness," as the Psalmist describes it. This column records experiences that show something of the wide range of seekers and the way in which the light of Christ, Truth, restores, redirects, and regenerates lives.

"Where's your church?" is a question usually answered by someone describing a building in a particular part of town. But is that really where Church is?

Mary Baker Eddy, writing in Science and Health, describes Church as "the structure of Truth and Love; whatever rests upon and proceeds from divine Principle." She continues, "The Church is that institution, which affords proof of its utility and is found elevating the race, rousing the dormant understanding from material beliefs to the apprehension of spiritual ideas and the demonstration of divine Science, thereby casting out devils, or error, and healing the sick" (p. 583). She says nothing about a brick structure on the corner of Main Street or a building where Christian Scientists, Baptists, Roman Catholics, and so forth, go to pray and worship. What Mrs. Eddy said and knew about Church reveal a spiritual concept—a concept that is not limited to denomination or place. So where is Church, then?

Not long ago, I joined a branch church of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston, Massachusetts. It took me a long time to take this step, mostly because my concept of Church was in need of repair. I had come to view Church as a place that is sometimes pleasant, sometimes not, and whose politics I felt I'd rather not get involved in. But I finally joined because, among other things, I felt I needed to give back, instead of just soaking up all the wonderful ideas coming from Sunday services and Wednesday evening testimony meetings. But my sense of Church was still mostly that of a group of people swayed by church politics or divided into camps concerning controversial issues, yet somehow trying their best to live Christian lives. To be honest, I wasn't very comfortable with this view, but I didn't see any alternative.

Then, on the Sunday that I was formally introduced to the other members of my branch church, something happened. The service that Sunday was beautiful. The subject of the weekly Lesson-Sermon read from the desk was "Sacrament." The power of forgiveness and repentance woven throughout the readings on that blustery, chilly Sunday was inspiring. At the end of the service, as if on cue, sunlight came in through the stained-glass windows—at first tentatively, then showering the congregation. All through the service and after it, I experienced a feeling I hadn't had since childhood. Let me explain.

While growing up in the country, one of my favorite things to do on snowy days was to sit underneath a pine tree that my dad had planted near the end of our driveway and watch the snow fall. The area where we lived, before being developed, was part woods and part apple orchards. Most of the apple trees had been cut down to make room for homes, and the woods were a bit beyond where the houses were built. So the pine trees planted by my dad were special. The one near the end of the driveway was just big enough to surround me with its branches. It provided me with an impromptu fortress on snowy winter days. I remember sitting under that pine tree, enjoying the snowy scene and feeling a wonderful sense of peace and beauty. Although I was alone, I knew instinctively that something was protecting me and loving me. The world seemed warm despite the cold. And that feeling of warmth was more than just being sheltered by the pine tree. Once I grew up, however, I never experienced that feeling again—anywhere—until I attended the Sunday service I've just described.

That Sunday, far away from the quiet of a country snowfall, I once again experienced the feeling I thought was lost forever. I suddenly glimpsed something of what I thought true Church must be. It was there under that tree when I was a child, and it was there again on that Sunday, so I obviously hadn't lost it. It became clear to me that this feeling is not confined to any particular place; it is within me, so it must be in every child, in every adult. It's a feeling of being uplifted, roused to a fresh view of life in God—a feeling of joyful peace. I understood the sense of what I saw Church to really be: the beauty, the peace, the protection, the joy. And so on that Sunday I knew that Church is not about going to a building or merely learning to get along with people who may or may not have the same views. The true concept of Church is with you wherever you go. It isn't just something you get from an inspiring Sunday service, or a feeling you leave in the church edifice when you go home.

It seemed too simple, this unexpected answer to my questions about Church! But it served as a reminder that the true concept of Church doesn't have walls. It's not confined to denomination or edifice.

Each of us has it within. We take our concept of Church with us when we go to a Sunday or Wednesday service. And when we have challenges within our church organizations or with family, friends, or business associates, we can remember that nobody is ever outside the true concept of Church. We're all included. We're all there.