Is angry debate all there is to organized religion?

I've been away for a while, but I see the conversation continued. I wish it had done so with less rancor -- with more of a desire to understand other views than an eagerness to prove them wrong. But that will only happen when people write about their own beliefs rather than insisting that they know what someone else believes, or that they know another person's motivations for posting.

So is it true that this sort of argument is the inevitable fruit of organized religion? Is it the best that churches can offer?

If I thought so, you certainly wouldn't find me there almost every Sunday. I know better, though.

Despite the noisy, often nasty debates that make up much of the news we hear about religion, that's not the real face of faith. Most people don't go to church or synagogue or mosque to join an argument. They go for community. They go to learn how to love. They go to find God.

This past weekend I experienced why being part of a church family matters. It had nothing to do with apologetics or condemning others or fighting over the meaning of Scripture.

It was my church's annual retreat in the mountains, a time for reflection and togetherness. The retreat was to be even more meaningful for me this year, because we were placing the ashes of my late husband in the memorial garden there.

The decision to make Kanuga his final resting place was easy. It was a place that had been special to us throughout our marriage -- in fact, we even spent part of our honeymoon in one of its cabins. We had laughed there, prayed there, made joyful music and lasting friendships. We led retreats and worship services that we wrote together. He played his fiddle to make children dance. It was, Gary once said, a place where he could be himself.

But as the time approached, I began to doubt whether that decision had been right. I began to fear that this place of such happy memories would forever be tainted by grief. That from now on the absence of Gary would be felt more intensely than the presence of God.

The decision had been made, though, so a few days before the retreat I sat down to plan the service. I pulled prayers and scriptures from several sources, then added, adapted and edited until it was the way I wanted it. And as I read the final prayer, something in me shifted.

The prayer read in part: "God of creation and renewal, we thank you for your good earth, which now cradles the body of our brother Gary. Continue to meet us here, at this holy resting place, where earth and ashes and dust mingle. Open our eyes to its beauty and our ears to the whisper of your voice on the wind. Keep Gary present in our hearts, that we may honor his memory by embracing each new day with courage and faith ..."

The prayer reminded me that the memorial garden would be a place not of remembrance only but of encounter. "Continue to meet us here," in the place where I had always found it easy to experience the divine. "Keep Gary present," not trapped in dusty memory.

It was a shift of heart that changed dread to a sense of blessing. And it happened because I chose to share this parting ritual with my church family. We could find together what I might not have found alone.

So it was with great gratitude that I welcomed about 50 people to that "holy resting place." We listened to one of Gary's students play "Amazing Grace" as he taught her to, while golden leaves spiraled to earth. We prayed and wept and read ancient words of hope and spoke of how Gary's life intersected with this place. We prayed some more, then sang enthusiastically while my son played guitar with his father's passion.

In the embrace of "organized religion," I found joy and comfort. No arguments, only love. It helped me find meaning when life's certainties fell apart.

That's the true face of faith. Too bad it's so often hidden behind a fearsome mask.