Yesterday was the Feast of All Saints. Concerns regarding H1N1 have prompted the Archbishop of Philadelphia to decree that, for the time being, parishioners are to celebrate Mass without any physical contact with one another - no shaking of hands at the sign of peace, no sharing of the cup at communion. You'd think that these restrictions would make for a less intimate service; yet last night, I experienced an incredible sense of joy and unity at the celebration of the Eucharist that no fear of flu could diminish.

I'd been struggling a bit that day with the news that the Vatican is designing special protocols by which to allow parishes on the more traditional end of the Anglican spectrum to enter into the Roman Catholic Church. The remnants of the liberal feminist in me is screaming that these people are leaving the Anglican communion because of women's ordination and openly gay priests, and only want in to Catholicism because of the Vatican's stalwart opposition to both. I couldn't help but wonder, if Rome is welcoming them with open arms, what does that say about the definition of the Catholic faith in the modern world? Are we nothing more than a bastion of patriarchy and heteronormativity? I'd said as much to a friend that very morning.

Yet just as I was exiting the pew to join the communion procession, I felt a sense of peace and joy come over me at the thought of those sisters and brothers of mine being invited to the same table I was about to approach. It was as if I heard Christ saying to them, as He was saying to me, Come, eat and be filled with the bread of eternal life. Come, struggle with one another and see that all your differences melt away in Me. And that is the beauty and the truth of the Feast of All Saints. It is the hope and the promise that one day, we shall all stand together in the presence of the greatest love any of us has ever known. We shall all join that multitude "from every nation, race, people, and tongue" and realize that everything that divided us on earth has been reconciled in the glory of heaven.

I walked up towards the altar with a ridiculous grin on my face, unable to conceal my joy and gratitude at the fact that with each step I was saying yes to the struggle that will lead us to that promise, and yes to every person - gay, straight, old, young, liberal, conservative, traditional, revisionist, faithful, skeptical - who is struggling with me.

Living in community is teaching me that true commitment goes deeper than personal affinity or political alignment. The radical truth of community life is that even when we disagree, even when we argue, even when we can't stand to be in the same room, we still rely on one another. We still get up each morning and recommit ourselves to sharing the same house, the same table, the same resources.

The Church, with its billions of members spread out across the globe, is as much a community as my six housemates and I. And as a member of that global community, I have just as much a responsibility towards my sisters and brothers in faith as I do towards my JVC companions. I owe them the same respect that places openness, listening, and acceptance before judgment, condemnation, and fear.

And in truth, the challenge of Christian discipleship goes even further - beyond the walls of the Church and out into the entire world. We are called to love even those who hate us, to do good even to those who harm us. I am called to love even the politician whose views I abhor, the client whose personality grates against mine, the driver who cuts me off in rush hour traffic.

On the scale of human suffering, these are minuscule examples - but even these are easier said than done. That is why I am so grateful for experiences like the one I had at Mass last night - spiritual consolations that still the workings of my petty human mind with the hand of grace, that remind me of what the struggles of faith and community are all about.