My brother recently came to visit me from New York City. Jennifer and I recently bought a house near Lake Glacier, and we finally put out a firepit in the backyard. My brother Jackson, a native Oregonian, was finding kindling, organizing wood, and scrap pieces of paper. It was a beautiful warm Fall night, and as the fire was lit, he asked me a question he’s never asked me before. He asked: What made you choose to be a Unitarian Universalist minister? This was a question I had answered many times, mostly with strangers. I have been asked this question by professors, by mentors, even by psychologists. I have been asked this question by congregations. But when my brother asked me this basic question it felt like I was being asked for the first time.
My brother has experienced more of my journey than most people. Unlike the people who have asked me this question before, he actually knew our parents, he knew what I was like when I was 12 years old, 16 years old, 22 years old. He has known me when I decided to be an actor. He knew me when I decided I wanted to teach history. He has known me through different phases and circumstances. In short, he has a taste of where I’ve been. And still, it sort of perplexed him that I would choose to be a minister of this faith, and minister in this church in 2019.
I didn’t answer the question the way I have in the past. I didn’t talk about growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness. I didn’t talk about our father who was an elder of a congregation. I didn’t talk about visiting my first Unitarian Universalist congregation. He already knew all this. So I told him something that he probably didn’t know. I told him about my experience of Youngstown. I told him about my experience of this church. I told him about a sense of belonging I have never felt before as an adult, a sense that I was in the right place in the right time. There are many things that have led me to choose this faith over the years, but many of these reasons have clarified and deepened since I’ve moved to Youngstown.
I think the question of belonging is at the heart of what it means to choose this faith. I think it’s a matter of feeling loved, feeling appreciated, feeling that we are in the right place to be the person we’re meant to become. I think it’s about healing. I think it’s about forgiveness. I think it’s about the powerful experience of reconciling where we’ve come from with where we hope to go. I think the question of belonging is about coming to terms with our self, and letting ourselves feel embraced, maybe for the first time by a community.
A colleague of mine, Manish, shared the moment he felt a sense of belonging. He was raised in a Hindu family, and was afraid to come out as gay for fear he would lose his entire community. He even contemplated killing himself. He walked to a bridge outside Washington D.C., and as he contemplated the end of his life, he realized he forgot to write a note. Manish shared this story recently for the public in a collection called: Testimony. He shared about how he went home, and confided in a friend about his despair. His friend told him the bridge would always be there. Maybe he should try living as a gay man first before he jumped to conclusions. Coming from a Hindu background, he hungered for religious community. He attended one of our most prominent churches in Washington D.C. He walked into the church with his partner, afraid that someone would tell him to leave. It was not a great sermon that showed Manish that he could belong here. In fact he remembers that first service as not being offensive, but more or less unremarkable. It was what happened after the service that changed his life. As he was about to dart out of the pew at the end of service and head to the door, an older woman blocked him with her walker. His first instinct was that she was going to say that he and his partner were not welcome. Instead she leaned in to hug him, and whispered in his ear: “I’m so glad you’re here, in our community. Welcome.” He describes it as if his own grandmother was hugging him, whispering words he had been waiting decades to hear: “I’m so glad you’re here, in our community. Welcome.” He describes the feeling as if he was being welcomed back after a long absence.
I had a very similar experience though mine happened in a dream. I left my whole community after my father died, which most of you know. After attending a Unitarian Universalist church for a couple months, I had a dream of members of that former community coming to my doorstep and knocking on my front door. They were holding my father’s cowboy boots, and they wanted to return them to me. I invited them in, and we sat at a table. They were trying to convince me to return to my former life. As we sat at the table, I shared with them that I had found a new community, and that in this community they were always welcome. It was the following Sunday after that dream that I knew I was called to be a minister of this faith.
I don’t think a calling is just for ministers. I think each of you who are here today have some kind of calling, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I’m amazed in hearing many different stories of how people came to this church or a church like this, at how similar these stories are. They all seem to come down to a fundamental, basic sense of belonging after years, sometimes decades of real spiritual loneliness. Often people are not even aware they’ve felt spiritually alone, until they find a home. Then immediately they feel the difference. It’s hard to put words to what feeling a sense of belonging is like. But an embrace, is probably the closest explanation. It’s a feeling of being embraced. It’s feeling that you’re being hugged by your father, your grandmother, by a God that you thought abandoned you. It’s a feeling of knowing you fit just as you are, and that who you are is sacred. All that you’ve experienced is sacred. All that you’ve struggled with is sacred. Every person you’ve loved is sacred.
We live in a time when this basic, fundamental embrace of a wounded and lonely soul is a radical act. I wish this wasn’t the case. I wish it was business as usual to embrace those who are hurting, those who are lonely, those who don’t know if they’re even safe to be who they are love who they love. Instead many of us learn to survive, and get along the best we know how without any kind of embrace. We learn to become steely, reserved, private. We learn to withhold key parts of ourselves, parts that maybe we even keep hidden from ourselves.
I don’t know if you notice I haven’t once mentioned theology or history. There is an important reason for this. We can’t reason our way into this fundamental sense of belonging. We can’t rationalize it, and we can’t force it. Understanding of theology and history only add depth and context for this fundamental sense of belonging, belonging in the largest sense of the word, all the experiences we’ve had, and all the experiences we will have fully embraced and made sacred, made meaningful. This fundamental embrace, this direct unequivocal welcome, this whisper in the ear: Welcome back. This returning of ourselves back to ourselves: this is what this faith is about.
We live in a time when our government and institutions are trying to block and put limits on this fundamental embrace. We see these limits being drawn according to race, gender expression, sexuality, whether you’re poor or rich, limits being drawn based on which zipcode you live in. We see limits being drawn in regard to who is deserving of fresh food, great education, even clean water. This is why we are a justice oriented church. We know that you can’t put limits on a full embrace. You can try, and it may succeed even for a good while, but it is destined to fail. We will show up to embrace those who need an embrace. It’s that simple and that powerful.
I know not all of you feel this fundamental embrace of your life. I know some of you, and all of us at some points get trapped in the narrative that we are what we can accomplish, that we have to prove we are worthwhile, that we have to deserve love, that the embrace of our life will only come after we’ve accomplished enough. All I can say is that this is a common story that all of us have to grapple with. It’s an American story. It’s a capitalist story. It’s a Puritan, Calvanist story.
This is a faith that reminds us there are other stories. There are stories that can encourage us instead of limit us, and commodify us. We can learn to be truly flesh and blood, a breathing person. We can learn to have feelings. We can learn to love again. We can learn to heal after being hurt. We can embrace frailty and vulnerability as gateways to a much wider embrace.
Many people are confused about what this faith is. I think it’s not because it’s so complicated. I think it’s hard to trust how simple and basic it is. You don’t need to be college educated to know what a hug is, to know a sense of belonging. The truth is a sense of belonging can elude any of us, maybe even the brightest of us. For many of us, we have learned to contend with learning how to embrace ourselves, to go it alone, and take care of our pain and yearning in private. Like a wounded animal, not wanting to be prey, we protect ourselves by imitation and privacy. Again, this is the culture we live in, but there is another way. Most people don’t find this other way until they reach a crisis, but a crisis is not necessary to allow an embrace of your life.
As Lisbet mentioned in her chalice lighting, this is the launch of our brief, 3 week pledge drive. Even in an individualistic culture, I don’t think it’s compelling enough to just think of ourselves to decide what our pledge means. I think it’s difficult sometimes to discern how much this community means to us, especially as we change over the years, and our stories change with us. But I think there is a common denominator. We can wish something for others that we feel sheepish about wishing for ourselves. I think it is easier to pledge to allow to save someone else’s life than it is to contemplate saving our own. I know our faith has the power to save lives, and I know some of you have experienced this. We don’t know how this saving power happens. It may be found in the sermon. It may be found in the service. It might be found in a long time member who blocks the pew with her walker and whispers in our ear: “I’m so glad you’re here, in our community. Welcome.” This saving power might be found in protest. This saving power might be found in prayer, a prayer that leads us to open our heart a little wider and risk generosity. Our pledge is a part of that embrace. It sets the stage and allows for the possibility for someone who is at the end of hope to find a way forward. Our pledge allows for a sense of calling, and ultimately a sense of belonging. We have a choice to pledge it forward. We have a choice to share this fundamental embrace. We have a chance to choose a faith that is deeper than our understanding of theology and history, and is much simpler and immediate: basic human affection and care, a nearly stubborn commitment to exist past the edges of limits, and say with open arms: “We’re here for you. I’m so glad you’re here, in our community. Welcome.”
