The Welcome Table

I was off from WES this past Sunday, and took advantage of the Sunday morning to visit a little Methodist church in a small town in rural Maryland. I was looking forward to being a guest in a tradition different from my own, but for which I have a great deal of affection, having loved my Methodist seminary and my many Methodist colleagues. The experience Sunday morning, though, has me thinking about the difference between a welcome guest and an unwelcome one, and the whole arena of interfaith welcome. One of the decisions I always have when I visit Methodist churches is whether or not to take communion. Methodists have an open table, something I love about the Wesleyan tradition (John Wesley believed that communion could be a means to grace, so you could participate whether or not you were baptized and whether or not you believed). I've attended Methodist services where I haven't participated, and ones where I've felt so welcome that I have joyfully received what my hosts offered. On this Sunday, of course there was plenty of theology that wasn't my own (for the theology wonks: pre-messianic apocalypticism and a TON of substitutionary atonement). But I've had so many wonderful, moving experiences interacting with theology that isn't my own, hearing stories of faith that I don't share but that I found inspiring. So the theology, for me, isn't a barrier to feeling deeply welcomed. What was a barrier was the sense that--well, that I was, specifically, not the person they wanted there, unless I was interested in being pretty radically changed. The sermon was built around the idea of the awesomeness of nature, and a beautiful psalm (66) that speaks about the whole earth singing to God. The minister talked about interdependence, a core value I share. But he also talked about a person he'd met, a young woman who loved nature as he did but who believed in evolution--and how wrong that person was. The sermon illustration was used a few times--how foolish, how sad, how wrong. By the time we got to communion, which was actually presented very beautifully and with a deeply inclusive welcome, I didn't feel that they meant me. I am, of course, a young woman who loves nature and believes in evolution. So surely, I felt by that time, I wasn't really welcome at their table. I want to be clear--the thing that pulled me away from their welcome wasn't the fact that the community believes in creationism instead of evolution. I have friends that believe all kinds of different things. It was that the sermon illustration was so specifically an anti-illustration. And what I took away was a commitment to avoiding anti-illustrations in my platforms (sermons), to finding a way to present my beliefs, my values, without needing to point out who's NOT in the group. Put another way, I didn't expect to be a part of this church--I knew ahead of time that I wouldn't share enough of their beliefs to join them--but I would have loved to have felt welcome, or at least not not-welcome. And I think they wanted me to feel welcome, would have wanted to welcome me even had they known that I was a young woman who loved nature and believed in evolution. The whole experience has me aware of how hard it is to find the right balance between stating our values and allowing in, welcoming in, guests who believe differently. That, I think, might be the challenge of a lifetime!

Dark, Light, and the Challenge of Language

I spoke this morning about language and how it affects us, and the challenge to move beyond a feeling of being "PC" and toward radical inclusion (you can listen here). If you were there, or listen to the podcast, you'll notice a moment where I spoke off the cuff about the light in the room (it had suddenly gotten darker) and linked the darkness to the "dark" subject matter of microaggressions. Then I realized I had just DONE a microaggression with the light=good, dark=bad paradigm, and called myself out in the middle of the platform. Hilarious opportunity for on the spot learning. But not surprisingly, that particular microaggression was the one I heard from a couple of people about afterward, questioning whether it was really valid. I say not surprisingly because I've sure struggled with it, and I still find it complicated. On the one hand, I completely get that over many years, we have developed a cultural narrative about dark things being bad. I don't like that narrative, and I want to work against it. On the other hand (as a member of my congregation pointed out this morning), it's not unreasonable to note that humans evolved to be diurnal, and that we might therefore find the daylight and sun appealing. I'd love to hear from more folks about this one--how do you handle it? Are there lines you won't cross in your language? We try, in the wintertime, to have music that honors the beautiful, serene element of winter darkness...but we certainly still have music that welcomes back the coming of the sun. I work hard to avoid "black sheep" and "white knights" and similar phrases. What works for you? How do you feel about this language challenge? And what are other challenges that you work with in the realm of language?

Connecting In to the Manifold

At some point during the week--usually about 8pm on Saturday night--I wonder why it is that all these clergy are writing different messages for Sunday morning. Couldn't those of us in the same tradition just split up the weeks, each take one, and read each other's stuff the other 51 weeks of the year? Later in the week--usually, and thankfully, by 11am on Sunday morning--I've decided there is something unique to say, something that is just right for this congregation of people at this time. But I still wonder, how are we connecting with each other, in our individual little meeting houses and societies and churches. How is the particular-ness of what happens at my congregation on Sunday part of a movement or a tradition that relates to the particular-ness of what happens at your congregation at the very same time? For me, the answer is often in the music we share. Although WES doesn't use a hymnal, we do frequently sing songs that are found in other Ethical Societies or in UU congregations. Two Sundays ago, we had an especially connected morning: singing two new pieces, one written by a local UU and one by a member of the Brooklyn Ethical Society. In both cases we actually know the composers, and there was something just so sweet about singing this music that was written out of the traditions we're connected to, part of that big river of liberal religious and ethical movements--a river that extends back hundreds of years and that is alive and flowing now. Then this past Sunday, we closed with a beautiful song we've sung before, and after the platform service someone came up and told me I should really friend the composer on Facebook, that she was a neat person. I'm so grateful for the connection that music creates, and the way it links us with each other...even in our particularity.

All I Have (On Email) Is Now

Something truly bizarre has happened with my work computer, which means--among other things--that I every day when I go into my email I have only the messages that I've received in the last 12 hours or so. (Note to worried people-who-have-emailed-me: I will eventually get all the email back, and I promise I'll respond to you). But the whole experience has me thinking about our attempts to live in the moment, and how much our lives fight against that hope. What if we really only did have the present moment? What if we only ever had emails from the last 12 hours, or to-do lists for the day, or worries for...oh I don't know, even just the week. I know that I'm finding something remarkably relaxing about having my inbox filled only with the details and the concerns of the very-present moment. Imagine not seeing, when you log in, the hundred emails that you haven't yet responded to and you're sure require your immediate attention. Eventually my inbox will be re-filled with all those old emails. And perhaps eventually I will fulfill my lifelong dream of actually going through all those emails and dealing with them once and for all. But in the meantime I'm really hoping that I can hang on to the sense of presence-to-the-moment that my email woes have created.

You Can't Freeze Glowsticks (or Life)

As we packed up at the end of our family camping trip last week, my five year old daughter suddenly came barreling into view, panicked and holding out something small and shiny. "Can we freeze my glowsticks?!" she practically shouted. "They will last if we freeze them!" I challenge you to look into the eyes of a five year old and tell her that you will not freeze the glowsticks that are obviously central to her entire happiness in life. So, with the help of our wonderful camping hosts, we ended up with a gallon bag of ice, five little glowsticks wedged into the center. Those glowsticks, and the rapidly melting ice, traveled all the way back from Indiana to DC with us. And now the glowsticks have been rescued from the water and they are in my freezer, where I am sure my daughter will check on them to ensure safe arrival. But here's the thing. You can't really freeze glowsticks. The little glowsticks have some color left to them, but not a lot of shimmer. Somehow the whole, sweet thing felt like a giant metaphor to me: our deep and earnest desire to save what we love, what we treasure, and the reality that we never can, not really. That everything is transient--summertime, camping trips, life--and sticking it in the freezer will only leave us with a bag of cold water and tepidly colored sticks of plastic. So grab your glowsticks and run around like crazy with them, high over your head, symbol of summer. And then let them go. As the poet Carl Sandburg writes, "Gather the stars if you wish it so. Gather the songs and keep them. Gather the faces of women. Gather for keeping years and years. And then...Loosen your hands, let go and say good-by. Let the stars and the song go. let the faces and years go. Loosen your hands and say good-by." Darling daughter, no ice will keep the glowsticks aglow forever. Hold them tight, then loosen your hands and say good-by.

Buckets, Rainbow Sparkles, and Metaphors

The other day I mentioned, out of nowhere, to my five-year-old child that I loved her. I just happened to be thinking of it, and it seemed like a nice thing to say out loud. She came up to me and said, "Mama, you're filling my bucket!" Turns out her class at school has read a book about the invisible buckets we all carry, which are filled up with rainbow sparkles when people are kind, or hug us, or show us love. And they are tipped over when people are hurtful, or hit, or push us down (this is preschool, after all, although I'm afraid the same exact lesson could be taught in the adult world). I was delighted, of course, that she felt I was "filling her bucket," and had a little moment of gratitude that my own bucket is filled so frequently by my children (and only occasionally tipped out by them). But it got me thinking more deeply about the image of the bucket, filled with rainbow sparkles, and how valuable having images like that can be--not just for children, but for adults too. My daughter confirmed the next day that the bucket was invisible, and I don't think she believes it exists in any real sense, but it's very clear that she understands it existing, truly, in a metaphorical sense. Images and metaphors have been deeply important in my life--often when I think about that big concept of inherent worth, I find myself imagining it as a glow, or a spark, an aura that I can see around people's bodies and selves if I try hard enough. I'm not suggesting there's something there, but that I want to engage in the practice of imagining and seeing something there...that the visual, metaphorical "something" is important to me as I try to live the bigger concept. How about for you? Are there images or metaphors that help you to understand concepts, or help you to live in a way that makes you proud or happy?

Feeling Proud - Reflections on the DC Pride Parade

Yesterday I was lucky enough to be part of the WES contingent at the DC Pride Parade, marching alongside UU congregations from around the area. It was my first DC Pride with WES, because every other year we've somehow managed to schedule the Board retreat on the same weekend. The day was perfect: sunny without being oppressive, a little breeze, and the fabulous Pride theme of "Unleash the Superhero Within" (featuring grand marshall Lynda Carter). The WES group had a great time, and I wanted to share just a few of the highlights of Pride for me. The kids: WES marched with five children, in outfits ranging from Ethical Culture t-shirt and rainbow beads to full tiger costume and "superhero tiger" sign. They were the hit of the parade...cheers and high fives all along the route. And, most poignantly for me, appreciations to the parents for bringing them out, for carrying signs about loving all families, for showing with our children's presence that this isn't just a drag queen parade or a Dykes on Bikes parade (although both of those contingents rocked, too) but an everybody parade. And from the kids' perspective, it was an hour and a half of thousands of people telling them they were awesome. So, win-win. The adults: we had two superhero capes in our contingent, one on a 6 year old girl and one on an always-beautifully-costumed adult. Every time the parade rounded a corner, both of them took off, soaring around the parade route in the open space, capes flying out behind them. It's not often you get to see unbridled joy in action, and yesterday offered it in abundance. The other marchers: I sometimes hear complaints that Pride has gotten too corporate, and I can see the concern--what started as a counter-cultural action about deserving to live openly has evolved into what can often look like moving ad space. But then I think about the fact that LGBTQ rights have moved forward enough in this country that companies actively WANT to be in the Pride parade, that it's not about corporate responsibility to do the right thing but about smart business. And that makes me happy. The spectators: Everyone is happy at Pride. People are cheering and hugging and throwing candy and catching beads. Our WES contingent saw a bunch of other WES members, including two of our fabulous teens, along the parade route--and nothing is more fun than slowing down your marching so you can hug someone standing on the sidewalk, someone who is proud to be there and proud to know you are there. And, I think partly because we were marching among other faith based groups and with kids, I saw a number of spectators crying too, clearly moved by the experience of affirmation. It's hard to get better than that. The impact: But my very favorite moment of Pride came not from a crying spectator but from a shouting one, screaming even. As we came around a bend, a fair amount of space ahead of our contingent and our banner, a young woman suddenly ran out from the sidewalk where she was watching with friends. She looked to be in her 20s, short spiked hair, tight white muscle tee, cut off jeans, plenty of piercings. She ran toward our banner, jumping up and down. "That's where I'm getting married!" she screamed to her friends, "That's where I'm getting married! YES!" And that was Pride for me: the experience that WES and WES' commitment to inclusion and welcome touches so many more lives than we know--with our officiants, with our building, with our words, with our actions. Happy Pride, everyone. It was an honor to walk.