Archives for posts with tag: Unitarian Universalist

I am the adventurous child that feels safe enough in the world to climb over a fence and into the world of a caged gorilla at the zoo.


I am the gorilla that reacts with instincts that are at once tender and frightened.


I am the zookeeper that must respond quickly, with their best judgment, to the unfolding drama, in a way that serves the highest good.


I am the sharp shooter that pulls the trigger and releases the bullet that ends the gorilla’s life.


I am the parent of the adventurous child that clutches their racing heart and holds their churning stomach.


I am the bystander in the crowd that screams in fright and dismay, unable to look away.


I am the adventurous child that looks into the eyes of the gorilla and then feels their self being lifted, tossed, and dragged – their flesh being scraped and torn.


I am the gorilla that feels the flashing pain of a piercing bullet and feels the life force drain out of their body.


I am the parent of the child that watches, helplessly.


I am the zookeeper that must live with the consequences of their decision, being forever more questioned, and even reviled for their gut-wrenching choice.


I am the child whose life is now marked by a terror no one else will ever understand.


I am the parent whose life is now marked by a terror and a guilt no one else will ever understand, a parent whose life is now marked by public scorn.


I am the bystander that now must make sense of what I have witnessed.


I am the member of the public at large that now must wrestle with moral and ethical issues I had not considered before, issues of valuing one life over another, issues of freedom and individual agency, issues of responsibility for and protection of those entrusted to our care.


I am the person whose heart is broken open by a tragedy beyond anyone’s wildest imagination.


I am the person that rushes to judgment and finds some comfort in assigning blame.


I am the person that must live in this world where there are no easy answers, where people just like me are called to respond to circumstances that I have only visited in my worst nightmares.


I am the person that finds within myself a capacity for compassion and an embrace for ambiguity that stretches me into the fullness of what it means to be human.




IMG_7299Come to the well, my love.

Make a cup of your hands.

Scoop up handfuls of liquid silver

shimmering with the sun’s each ray.

Let the coolness

slide down your weary palms and wrists

drenching your arms in gladness.

Let water touch your lips

like the moist kiss of a lover

quenching your parched and lonely

desert soul

where seeds long to be watered.

Taste the sweetness of hope

blossoming on your tongue

singing songs of wonder

speaking words of praise.

Let this sacred wellspring

fill you to the tips of your wiggling toes

dancing on holy ground.

Know this place as your own

your birthright

a divine grace

freely given.

Protect it as if

your life depends on it.

Keep it as pure

as the driven white snows of winter

sparkling as the fragile faith of spring.

For wells can become bitter waters

steeped in poisonous leaves

of petty concerns.

You will know them by their colors:

green envy

yellow cowardice

blood red hatred

the seductive purple of gossip.

If you taste these

spit them out.

Contaminated waters

erode trust

tarnish the truth

rust what is good

destroy what is life giving.

Come to the well of life, my love.

Living waters move

in your blood

the same self stuff as mine.

A sacred trust

whose guardians are named









Come to the well, my love.

Let us be nourished.



O God of our beautiful and too often troubled world:

We come in this season of Advent, a season when winter’s darkness deepens over us, a season of waiting for the light to returnIMG_2209, a season of preparing our hearts for a new birth.

We come in this season with the memory of a Thanksgiving just past, a memory marred by the news from Ferguson, Missouri, news that our human family is broken and divided along lines of race and class, power and privilege.

Our prayers go out to the family of Mike Brown as they grieve their profound loss under the glare of the public eye.

Our prayers go out to the community of Ferguson as they struggle to express their deep rage, the riotous rage of a few that could not be contained by the peaceful protests of the masses. Our prayers are with them as they do the hard work of rebuilding.

Our prayers go out to Darren Wilson, a man whose life has been changed forever, living with the burden of knowing that he ended the life of another human being.

Our prayers go out to law enforcement officers whose work is often hard and lonely. Our prayers go out to them knowing they are caught in systems designed to uphold the status quo, even when the status quo is unjust, systems that rely too heavily on military tactics and the use of deadly force, systems that use incarceration and deadly force disproportionately against people of color. Our prayer is that law enforcement agencies heed the call to reform and transform their practices and policies.

May these dark days be an invitation to examine our own souls. We know that we are conditioned by nature and nurture to seek out the company of those who look like us and to turn away from those who are different. Help us to understand that the roots of racism run through human hearts, including our own.

May we find the courage to speak the truth of our own fear that it may not harden into hate. May we be given the humility to name whatever privilege we may possess, now matter how small or great our privilege may be. May we be granted the wisdom to claim whatever power we may possess and use it not to harm but to heal.

O God of our growing and changing world, may this season of darkness be a fruitful time of gestation, waiting and preparing for the birth of a new way of life, a life filled with peace and justice for everyone.

In the name of all that is holy, we pray.


IMG_2987The church is an institution unlike any other in society. It asks us to look higher. The church exists for a transcendent and holy purpose, to grow souls and transform lives within its walls and beyond. Fulfillment of this purpose is the one and only true measure of success.

For as long as I’ve been a Unitarian Universalist, I’ve partaken in the yearly ritual of reporting numbers. How many members have signed the book? How many dollars have been pledged? How many attend on Sunday morning? How many are enrolled in religious education? How many new programs did we start? How many weddings? How many memorials?

Some years the numbers go up. Some years the numbers go down or stay flat. When they go up, we celebrate. We pat ourselves on the back. We feel good about ourselves. When they go down or stay flat, we worry. We wring our hands. We wonder what we’re doing wrong. Soon as the numbers are in, we’re on to the next year, with strategic plans in hand, hoping next year’s numbers will look better.

Somewhere between up and down, celebration and worry, self-congratulation and self-flagellation, there is ministry. Though the numbers may tell us something about ourselves and how we’re doing, the numbers alone can never convey a full sense of who we are and the difference we make in the world.

It’s easy to describe and quantify what we do, harder so the effects of what we do. What are we achieving, really? Are individual lives being transformed and made better by what we do? Are we becoming a cohesive, caring, compassionate, and active community with the collective wisdom and power to positively affect our local community? Are we creating an enduring legacy for those yet to come?

What might change if we spent time asking these questions instead of simply counting numbers?


Feeling lost is part of the spiritual journey. The path twists, turns, and spirals in on itself. The lesson of the labyrinth teaches that each step on the wandering journey leads us into the center, the heart, the essence of who we are as beings. Finding the center, we can return to the world, feeling more grounded, a little less lost, and perhaps more ready to engage the arduous and wondrous task of living.

I’ve been following several Facebook pages dedicated to Unitarian Universalist growth and evangelism. There’s a common conversation on them about who is or isn’t welcome in our congregations. The conversation brought to mind a question raised by the Worship Associates at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Tucson, where I serve as minister. They thought it would make an interesting topic for a worship service. It’s a fill-in-the-blank question. Would you still respect me if you knew _________?

Traditionally, the culture of our Unitarian Universalist congregations has tended toward well-educated, middle to upper-middle class sensibilities. I know this is an over-generalization, even a stereotype. Stereotypes become stereotypes because they do reflect a certain reality. I hear the kinds of questions newcomers get asked. For example, “What do you do?” The person answers, “I work at Raytheon.” And the questioner responds, “Oh, so you must be an engineer.” This leaves the newcomer, who is actually a janitor, wondering, “Would you still respect me if you knew what I really do for a living?”

I’ve always maintained that in order to achieve the racial and ethnic diversity we long for, we must first become more economically and socially diverse. Today’s shrinking middle class and recurrent financial melt-down means that the cultural makeup of our congregations may be changing before our very eyes, and quickly. Though it’s never been safe to assume that everyone who’s attracted to liberal religion comes from highly skilled professions, it’s more important than ever to check our assumptions. Our unchecked assumptions speak volumes about who’s actually welcome in our congregations.

These past few years our religious movement has been focused on identity. We do our best to welcome people for who they are: gay, or straight, or in-between — black, or brown, or white. This is good and important work, making sure we are welcoming of people who’ve been oppressed and marginalized because of who they are. At the same time, identity is not the whole story of any one person’s life. I think that people often feel unwelcome not only because of who they are, but because of what they’ve experienced, or their life circumstance, or what they believe, or what lifestyle choices they make, sometimes out of sheer necessity.

Our first principle says that we affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Yet, these days, I suspect that some or most, if not all of us come to church with that question in our head: would you still respect me if you knew –

I just lost my job. My son is in jail. My spouse wants a divorce. I dropped out of college. I drive a truck for a living. I vote Republican. I’m undocumented. I’m a gun owner. I’m underwater on my mortgage. I’m being treated for mental illness. I read the Bible. I don’t listen to NPR or watch PBS. I filed for bankruptcy. I’m addicted to alcohol. I’m not a vegetarian. I don’t buy organic. I can’t afford to send my kids to college. I pray to Jesus. I work for Border Patrol. I don’t recycle. I had an abortion. My daughter dropped out of high school. I’m up to my eyeballs in student debt. I don’t believe in God. My parents are divorced. I served time in jail. I was abused as a child. I don’t know how I’m going to pay my rent this month. I believe abortion is wrong. I have PTSD. I’m up to my eyeballs in medical bills. I depend on food stamps. I chant and meditate daily. I’m addicted to painkillers. I’m on medication for depression. I was once homeless. I’m a survivor of domestic violence. I’ve had mystic religious experiences. I dropped out of high school. I don’t have health insurance. I’m on the verge of being homeless. Would you still respect me if you knew?

When we can truly answer the question, “Yes,” then we just might begin to grow. When we can respectfully honor differences in religious beliefs and practices, when we can respect people who hold differing political views, we can’t help but grow in acceptance of one another. When we can begin to minister to the pain and suffering present in so many of our lives, we can’t help but grow in compassion and empathy. We might remember why it is we even bother to do this thing we call church in the first place. We might find ourselves truly living into our religious principles. We might find ourselves growing into becoming that which we long to be: a truly open, welcoming, and diverse community – a beloved community.