What's ironic about my son's baptism is that while he was becoming involved in that church, I was finally delving into the Unitarian/Universalist faith. While he was with his father and stepmom studying the Bible those weekends, I took a four-hour class called "Finding Yourself at UU," which confirmed my suspicions that I am theologically home in this liberal religious community. Robby was baptized on Easter Sunday. I became a UU member one week later.

Only about 200,000 people formally identify themselves as UUs in this country. About 1,000 of them belong to First Universalist Church of Denver. I was stunned to learn only 200,000 of us exist because the UU philosophy strikes me as so peaceful, logical and all-embracing that I feel everyone could love it.

But so, too, do Christians feel. And people of most every other faith. All of us believe to some extent that our way is THE way, and thus come the misunderstandings, and sometimes downright hatred.

Because I believe so strongly in Unitarianism, and because there are so few of us, it seems the least I can do is to shed some light on what some view as a faith without a faith.

Simply put, the UU faith is in people, the basic goodness that is inside us all.

Its principles stress the inherent worth and dignity of every person, justice and compassion, acceptance of one another, the encouragement of spiritual growth along with a free and responsible search for truth and meaning;, the goal of a worldwide peace, liberty and justice and respect for the interdependent web of existence of which we are a part.

It draws upon concepts from religions worldwide, including Christianity, Judaism and paganism, as well as Humanism, reason, science and nature. Most poetically, the UU faith is fed by the "direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces which create and uphold life."

What Unitarians like to do most is something called social justice, taking action to make life better for others. Thus, I can already feel the pressure to volunteer. The choices are dizzying: The Habitat for Humanity, Green Team Task Force, Gay and Lesbian Rights, Criminal Justice and Prison Reform task forces, along with projects specific to anti-racism, disadvantaged urban teens, poverty, reproductive choice and religious freedom.

The church has three different choirs and a school open to all of Denver that offers classes such as "Thoreau as Spiritual Guide," "The Heart of Christianity," "Compassionate Communication" and "Becoming a Love & Logic Parent." Its adopted a family from a Third World country, paid for them to come to Denver and given them a home. It has its hands in so many projects citywide that I cannot yet get my head around it all.

These things may make sense to me, and I may find a place in them, in time. For now, I'm focusing on the message.

Yesterday, while my son was trapped in the car with me on our way home from a weekend ski trip, I tried to frame it for him.

I asked him if he understood what the Unitarian faith was about and he said 'no.' I was so surprised I almost jumped in my seat. On and off for years, we have been attending Unitarian services. Never, in all that time, has he understood it, and never had we discussed it. I felt I had let him down, failed to communicate an entire philosophy, and one that means so much to me. It was clear that at his father's church, they had explained their faith to him, not just once, but many times.

So, I tried, yesterday to do so. I told him that I felt God is hard to define, so big and wonderful we can't quite grasp it, but that whatever kind of God it is, I think it's a loving spirit. One who would never create a place called hell. One who would never send a man to earth to be tortured and die for our sins. I didn't say that I believed God isn't necessarily a loving spirit or even a being with the capacity to make decisions about any person's life or death. I didn't say I felt people came up with definitions of God only to try to sense out of something I felt was incomprehensible.

Jesus was a good man, I told him. Maybe, I silently wonder, he was the Martin Luther King, Jr. of his day, a powerful inspiration, but not the son of any god or a person with powers beyond Robby's or mine. I suggested to Robby that we celebrate his life and learn from the good things he taught, and that his death was nothing to revere or even something on which I felt people should focus.

"I don't think people are really all that bad, that someone would have to die for the things we've done," I said. "I think we're all pretty good. It's just that some people get twisted by life, hurt so much they become confused about what's right and wrong. But most of us, we know what's right or wrong whether we go to church or not. I think we're put here to help one another, and to enjoy this world that God created for us."

Faith, I said, is a mysterious and beautiful thing. We use the words "faith" and "beliefs" because they are not facts, because people can think they know, but no one can possibly know for sure, I said. But most people can't live a life based on logic alone. Most of us have have faith in something bigger than us, even though we may express it differently, and when you think of it that way, isn't it great?

Robby stared out the window away from me. He opened his mouth to speak. I waited for questions, a profound comment, a smile of gratitude, maybe even a tear of recognition.

"What ski area is that?" he asked, pointing.

"That's Loveland," I said. And after a pause, "If you ever have any questions, just ask me. Do you think you'd be comfortable doing that?"

He nodded almost imperceptibly, and I could see he did indeed have a question. He turned his head away again, resumed looking out the window.

"Is Loveland a big ski area?"

"Well, no, not really," I said easily. "But it's close to Denver and easy to get to, and a lot of people like it because of that."

I smiled in equal parts amusement and relief. For this question, I had an answer.