In the last week or so I’ve witnessed two friends’ vastly different experiences with acceptance from other members of the LDS church. One, who sometimes posts about controversial topics on social media, was told by someone who does not know her personally, that she ought to simply leave: the church would be better off without her. The other attends sacrament meeting with a same-sex partner and wrote of being welcomed by the ward and uplifted by Sunday meetings and worship services. It seems clear to me which response is motivated by love.

On some level, I understand the instinct to push away things that threaten us. Certainly, I’ve found my own faith shaken after confronting ideas that radically conflicted with my beliefs, and I understand the fear of negative influences on me and my children.

But I also know that at a low point in my own life (in the MTC, ironically enough), when I held my doubts to myself because I was afraid of poisoning my companion, I nearly lost myself. It took an inspired sister to bolster my faith and remind me that we are weaker when we are alone. I’m forever grateful that she didn’t see my doubts as a threat, but as a call for help.

I like to think there’s room at the gospel table for everyone—especially those who are seeking a place.

In a recent conference talk, Elder Uchtdorf movingly said,

“Regardless of your circumstances, your personal history, or the strength of your testimony, there is room for you in this Church. . . . The Church is designed to nourish the imperfect, the struggling, and the exhausted. It is filled with people who desire with all their heart to keep the commandments, even if they haven’t mastered them yet.”

Similarly, Nephi wrote that the Savior extends an open invitation to everyone: “he inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile.” (2 Ne. 26: 33)

Does this mean I think we need to adopt a gospel of open acceptance for all behavior? No. But having standards is not the same thing as acting as a gatekeeper. As a wise stake president once pointed out, if all of our sins and misdeeds were as obvious as the person showing up to church smelling of cigarette smoke, very few of us would come to church at all.

So how then do we make room for those with different opinions, political beliefs, approaches to callings—even divergent religious beliefs or lifestyle choices?

I love this advice from President Gordon B. Hinckley:

“Be respectful of the opinions and feelings of other people. Recognize their virtues; don’t look for their faults. Look for their strengths and their virtues, and you will find strength and virtues that will be helpful in your own life.”

Focusing on the good others bring to the table goes a long way, I think.

I used to subscribe to the idea of love the sinner, hate the sin. But I’m increasingly troubled by that idea, not only because I struggle to separate the action from the person, but because it turns my focus to what I think they are doing wrong (usually from an incomplete perspective).

All I know is: I’m not called to judge. (Someone else’s worthiness is between them and God—and maybe their bishop). But I have been commanded to love.

Yesterday, I read this lovely meditation on faith. The author, Cort McMurray, writes: “Faith is a little like potato salad, or Thanksgiving dressing: everyone has a favorite recipe; everyone is convinced that their recipe is the only way to do it properly; and everyone is horrified by the absolute mess everybody else makes of it. . . . Faith is not threatened by other recipes. Faith understands that you can’t force feed your spiritual experiences to others, and they can’t force feed you: real faith, lasting faith, isn’t threatened by differing voices. Real faith is respectful. Real faith is tolerant. And real faith is unafraid to embrace all that brings light and truth and love to a tired and careworn world.”

I hope all of us can have this kind of faith—a faith that welcomes, rather than turns away.

Mostly, I suppose there is a part of me that recognizes my own fragility and hopes, if I falter, there will be someone who says to me, “You are still welcome here.”

In what ways have people made you feel welcome at church? How can we better reach out in fellowship to others?