Spirit of Hope, God of Many Names, Source of Love,
We gather at the end of a long week,
hearts heavy with grief for our neighbors in Paris,
all cities victimized by terrorists this week.
We pray for the victims, for the families,
for the communities marred by chaos and hatred.
May they have the resources they need to heal the wounded,
to care for the distraught,
to move forward in rebuilding places of peace.
And as we grieve, may those who mourn have the space and the time to allow their hearts to be full;
for the world has lost too many this week.
We hold in our hearts the Syrian refugees,
our siblings in the world who are escaping from these same terrorists.
May we not be swayed by false or confusing media reports that seek to make “all of them” out to be not like “all of us.”
May we be in solidarity with these peaceful neighbors.
Mother of Grace,
teach our leaders to lead,
not from a place of reaction,
or from arrogance,
or from fear or hatred;
help our leaders to lead from a place of hope,
a place of compassion;
the only sources of true strength in a world torn by factionalism and strife.
Where war has beget war,
and refugees have become homeless,
may we find new ways
to house the homeless,
to feed the hungry,
to welcome the stranger;
and not fall prey to a gospel of indifference and distance.
In our global world,
may we learn to be a global neighbor,
rooted in the hope of a world where peace is at the center.
This sermon was preached at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Huntington on 11/8/15 and looks at our history of building up and breaking down; asking where does privilege come in?
For those of us who have been on Facebook for more than a few years, it’s begun this nifty little habit of taking us on a stroll down memory lane. One of the new features periodically reminds us of posts or photos from a few years back asking if we want to re-share them. They tend to be moments that had a lot of attention at the time. It’s usually marriages, or witty comments, or … well… cat pictures. (It’s still the internet after all.) One of the more serious memories that have been popping up for me this Autumn, are from 4 years ago and the start of the Occupy Wall Street movement.
I think I only re-shared one of the memories – and I did so mostly because I was shocked that it had already been four years since the “public-private” Zuccotti Park was occupied down by Wall Street. It got me wondering though, where did all the public heretics, camping outside the center for financial architecture, get us to – today? It’s not hard to recall all the media critique of the protestors: 1) They didn’t have a clear leader. 2)They didn’t seem to have a set of clear demands they were protesting. 3) They were mostly trust-fund babies playing homeless.
It’s interesting how despite the lack of clear spokespersons, and a real platform that lifted up problems without clear solutions, most of the Occupy talking points have become central to today’s political discourse: 1) Affordable health care for all 2) bringing our troops home 3) tackling critical student debt 4) transparency in political fundraising 5) environmental action and 6) an end to racist structures like racial profiling and for profit prisons (to name just two.) As a quick aside, not incidentally, our social justice team will be leading our Fellowship this year through a period of reflection and action toward the last issue – prison reform in our country. You’ll hear a lot more in the weeks and months to come. And if you missed our announcement earlier, many of us will be joining in on the UUA common read of, Just Mercy. You can purchase a book in the social hall at the book table.
But regarding the Occupy critiques, I want to focus on the third bit and see how this relates to our own UU history of building up the world we dream about. ‘The Occupy protesters were mostly trust-fund babies playing homeless.’ At the time, I heard this over and over again in the media. My first reaction was to point out how actually that wasn’t even vaguely true. I remember the clothing drives, and the food drives, and even the business suit and hair cut drives geared to helping the homeless be prepared for job interviews – or just feeling basic human decency. I remember meeting a lot of UU youth – or newly young adults – folks who were raised in our congregations – who came out to do public witness for their faith and their values.
All of that, is what I would think – at first. But then I began to wonder – even if we were all merely trust-fund babies – what would that change? Why is it that when a person with privilege bucks the system, they are smeared as naive, or idealistic (idealistic said with that disparaging tone idealistic) or somehow disingenuous? But when trust-fund babies run for positions of leadership in our government or are propelled to positions of power in our corporations, they are seen as entrepreneurial or the embodiment of pulling oneself up from our bootstraps. (And as a side note, in case anyone hears this as a critique of one political party or another, all political parties are heavily filled with former trust-fund babies. So this is an equal opportunity observation.)
I think the answer lies in our relationship to privilege. When privilege pretends it doesn’t exist, we get to celebrate the American Dream without anxiety, and all is right in the world. When privilege becomes self-reflective, we have to call into question our sense of self; our sense of personal success; and we might have to change our behavior. …And that can be quite painful. So culturally, we are more apt to paint someone naive who invites us to call into question how we see the world. They’re just trust fund babies after all, what do they know.
All this month we are reflecting on what it would mean to be a people of Ancestors. Our religious education program is inviting children, youth and adults to do some research into our religious ancestors and you can learn more about that in the Social Hall after service. In this spirit, I’ve been thinking about our religious forebears who have influenced me. As we consider today our religious proclivity toward building up and breaking down, I’m remembering one Unitarian lay leader, and social justice advocate, Dorethea Dix.
Dorethea was a nurse in the 1800’s who would some day come to serve as the Superintendent of Army Nurses for the North during the US Civil War. But she would even more notably change the entire landscape of mental health in the US and in many countries in Europe. She tirelessly campaigned for reform of our mental healthcare options during a time when many mentally ill people were literally kept chained in basements. Where today we may campaign for better coverage for various health matters, Dorethea Dix was active at a time when the mentally ill weren’t always treated as humans. She was essentially a human rights advocate for a group of people in our nation who weren’t always seen as people.
Ms. Dix was directly responsible for helping to build 40 such hospitals in the US, affect change in Europe, and even convinced Pope Pius IX to build such a hospital after meeting with her. She called our nation to our better selves, and left the world a much more human place for her being here. But I mention her today because of her interesting relationship to privilege. In her case, male privilege.
Ms. Dix never married, although she was briefly engaged. Considering gender norms and expectations of the time, she would be far afield, yet she was a deeply respected citizen. In her canvassing for mental health, she would visit state after state and lobby before the state congresses for funding and changes in the laws regarding civil rights. Now at this time, women did not lobby before any congress. It was improper for a woman to speak publicly in such a manner. She would tirelessly meet with state representatives in their legislative office – one by one – and sway votes of state congresses in her favor.
After so many states had followed her advocacy, she made a national name for herself and was finally offered a chance to speak before one state congress. One of her biographies notes that Ms. Dix refused the offer, and insisted on meeting with members of congress one by one. To paraphrase, she felt it wasn’t proper for a lady to speak publicly in such a manner, and despite the respect people held for her, she wasn’t going to win the basic human rights for people who were mentally ill by giving into impropriety for expediency. Dorethea Dix changed the face of health care in our nation while doing so in “a respectable manner” – even if it meant she had to work twice as hard to do it – and she insisted on doing it the much harder way because that was the normal way for women. She was bucking the system in a way that the system allowed. Essentially, she respected male privilege.
Now, to be clear, I’m not critiquing Ms. Dix for it. She knew what she was doing, and had a cause that she felt was her calling, and she thrived in saving the lives of the people under her personal and political care. She consciously understood her relation to male privilege and made choices she felt would lead to success. I applaud her understanding of the system, and we should revere her for her tireless ministry. But we can also learn from her awareness of the nature of privilege. When we challenge another’s sense of privilege, the road may be harder. So sometimes we can consciously choose not to challenge that privilege, in order to make other critical gains.
Can we be so conscious as our spiritual ancestor Dorethea Dix? Do we make the same choices? What was right for her, may not always be right for us though. I worry sometimes that modern Unitarian Universalism is too often reticent to challenge privilege where we may need to challenge privilege out of fear of being called naive, or idealistic or the reality that some doors will be shut when we do so.
I think certain forms of privilege can be easier to talk about these days than others. As a religious people of heretics and iconoclasts, for some time we’ve accepted the kinds of privilege men have as a real and negative thing for society. We can point to the real ways in which women are negatively and directly affected, and we generally understand that this also negatively albeit indirectly affects men too. We can look back on the 1800’s and easily say it’s not right that a national leader and reformer like Dorethea Dix shouldn’t be allowed to publicly speak before congress – and we can reflect on that with little personal sense of risk … now. But at the time, it would have probably felt like a much bigger risk.
Where do we fear to so tread today? Challenges related to gender are not gone from us – clearly. And sometimes those challenges are lifted up in a publicly predatory manner. Just this past election day, the city of Houston voted to end a piece of legislation that was designed to prevent discrimination in public places and housing based on race, sexuality, gender, gender identity and physical disabilities. But opponents of the provision zeroed in on bathrooms. Commercial after commercial would use cartoons to draw a man – vaguely dressed as a women – entering women’s bathrooms. Signs would insinuate the law would protect predatory men when they victimized helpless women. It was also a viscous caricature of Transfolk.
I usually talk about what kinds of actions we can take in response to this bigotry (and frankly, misogyny.) But today, I’d like to pause and reflect on how our own sense of privilege can feed this behavior. Privilege can teach us who are victims and who are victimizers – who matters and who doesn’t. In the Houston political attack adds: LGBT folks are caricatures of people, women are victims, and confusion around what maleness, or femaleness, or let’s just say gender – confusion around gender is terrifying. Privilege teaches us to say what’s normal and what’s not normal, and then we get to paint a picture that makes “not normal” really scary.
It’s also a pretty typical strategy of bullies – public or private. Someone with privilege in a certain area picks a fight with someone without the same power or privilege – the bully starts the attack and then when folks speak up against it, the bully claims victimhood. We see it in our schoolyards, we see it in our neighborhood circles and we see it in politics. A local ordinance designed to protect actual victims from bigotry gets subverted into a threat to those with more privilege and gets overturned. It’s like the old picture of a pie. If you’re used to getting the whole pie – if someone comes along and asks, “can I have a slice”, privilege teaches you to feel threatened. “Why are you taking something away from me?” When do we listen to that voice in our own lives? When do we fear scarcity when we have so much? When are we diminished by another’s addiction to privilege?
As a people of ancestors, what do our heretics and architects teach us? Our ancestral heretics amongst us teach us to challenge injustice where we find it, but our deep ties to a tradition of architects asks us to tread carefully whenever we seek change. Is balance really important when facing privilege? Or is it more important to try to see the places where we hold privilege, even knowing there are places where we hold vulnerability? Each of us, in our own ways, have one foot in both privilege and hardship. Both can be true for each of us. In better knowing ourselves, we can help to build a more just world. It’s probably just as important as all the action we take in the world – because truthfully – our inaction and our reticence speak as loudly as our actions for justice.
This sermon was preached at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Huntington on 11/1/15 as part of our annual Dia de los Muertos service remembering the lives of those who have passed. It’s written for a child-friendly gathering.
It’s always important to learn from our own history and culture as well as the cultures of those who may be different than us. But I think it’s especially important these days, in light of certain people in our country sometimes disparaging folks who may be different, to lift up the strength and values we find in difference. Dia de los Muertos, is a sacred tradition in Mexican communities where we celebrate the life of our ancestors. We often feel grief after someone dies. This holy day doesn’t say we can’t still grieve, but it does teach us to try to celebrate the life of those who were so important to us. Our ancestors live on, in a way, through us – and that is a good reason to celebrate.
This time of year, we remember those we loved who are no longer with us. Earlier, we read the names of those who have died since our last Dia de los Muertos service. It has been a very hard year for our Fellowship, with someone in our community facing such a loss about ever 3 weeks. In my own life, Brian and I have lost two friends in the past two months – both around our own age. With the loss so recent, it can be very hard to get to that place of celebrating the people who touched our lives. In some ways, I can’t yet. I just want to say that because I know everyone will come to this service from a different place, and I want to honor that. But in some ways I can; I can celebrate the laughs, and the lessons, and the hard times we got through, and the easy times we enjoyed. I can celebrate getting to carry a piece of their heart in mine, and maybe, hopefully, figuring out how to share that piece of their heart with you – day by day. And that is a reason to celebrate, to dance, to smile for what once was, and what will never really go away. Love is eternal, and we show it through the pieces of our hearts we give to one another. We can still do that, even when our hearts may still be broken. The human heart is a miracle in that way.
All this month we will be reflecting in worship, in our religious education classes, and in our journey groups, on what would it mean to be a people of ancestors? It’s kind of an odd question because in some ways, regardless of what we do, we are all a people of ancestors. We all come from someone, and that never really goes away. But the spirit of the question is really about, what would it mean if we lived knowing we come from those before us, and maybe live on in their name.
How do we live differently when we keep in mind the people we love, and who loved us? Are we kinder? Are we more forgiving? Do we want to be our best selves in light of what they meant to us, or did for us? We do that with our family or friends in our lives every day. I know when I’m doing something that will get picked up by the news, or when I post something to Facebook or Huffington Post, that my parents may someday see it or read it. I never quite know when they’re going to pay attention, (or find their way to the internet), but I know it could happen at any time. So I try to speak and act publicly in a way that keeps them in mind. My parents are still around – thankfully – but I think it still counts for living in such a way that I remember the people that came before me, who lifted me up, and helped me along life’s path.
… I want to tell you a story now. It’s called “A Lamp in Every Corner.” It’s written by Janeen Grohsmyer, a UU and published in a book of short stories under the same title, and it speaks to this in a different way.
I think about Zora’s lantern from time to time. This story reminds me of a UU summer camp on Star Island off the coast of New Hampshire and Maine, that some of us here goto. It’s a Summer camp for children, youth and adults. I’ve gone for years, although I haven’t had a chance to go recently. Every night, the last events are evening worship. People line up outside and are given a lantern, and they walk up a stony path to a small chapel and light the way with those lanterns. The chapel itself has no electricity, so the lanterns help everyone see each other while sitting or singing in worship. Have you ever been in worship at night, lit only by fire? I know many of us here have who have attended Fahs Summer camp, or maybe you’ve been to a youth con where this happens. It’s a special and powerful feeling, especially in a world of lightbulbs and smart phones and video games. Going back to natural fire for light can feel magical, right?
I think there’s a way that’s true for going back to our roots, or our source, when we remember living in the light of the people who came before us. The world can be very modern, and shiny, and new sometimes, but there’s something special and powerful about remembering where we came from – and who we came from. The lights can still shine around us, whenever we remember to mindfully reach over for the lantern hanging from the hook and carry it with us consciously.
And some of our ancestors weren’t just a light we can see by. Some of them helped build those churches and congregations that came before us. Some of them nailed the lantern hooks to the walls; some of them built the lanterns we carry today. I look around this room and remember that this main hall was not always here. The chalice on the wall behind me was built by Les Swan. These lecterns and chalices were hand-crafted with love and care. When we’re a people of ancestors, we don’t just come to this space and see 4 walls, red chairs, a rug and wooden lecterns. We see pieces of our history that frame who we are, where we’ve been, and imagine where we may some day go. We live into this religious community remembering the people before us, and hopefully, we bring our best selves – hoping to live in the light of those who came before, and making way for those who will some day take our place. And we make something beautiful through it.
There’s a buddhist parable that’s like this. Some of you have heard this before, which means it’s a great story to share again… (tell story of the drop of water and the wave.)
I love this story. I’m a huge beach-goer, and I think of it often when the sun is glaring off a gorgeous wave, rising and falling. The waves come and go, and gift a certain beauty and character to the ocean that wouldn’t be the same without their passing through. Each of us will be ancestors, or role models, or the hope for another’s heart. May we be so with gladness in our eyes, and a fullness in our hearts for those who helped us along the way.
This sermon was preached at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Huntington on 10/25/15. It reflects on pop culture’s fascination with “Back to the Future” Day on October 21st and what that teaches us about change.
If you watch the late night talk show circuit, or read Facebook, or follow the stories that get covered over and over again on the internet, then you might have heard something this week about the old movie, “Back to the Future 2.” In the movie, they famously traveled forward in time 30 years to the date, October 21st, 2015. That was this week. The movie studio put out a promo with the character, Doc. Brown, coming out and telling us the future is what we make of it. One of the late night talk shows even got the actors Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox to reenact one of the scenes – as if they were finally arriving into the future, in the middle of the talk show.
The running jokes have all been centered around what did the screenplay of that movie get right, and which predictions were wrong. No, we don’t have any flying cars, and the hover-boards we have aren’t really hover-boards. Cars don’t run on trash, and thankfully our fashion sense is 30 years better than what the fashionistas of the 1980’s would imagine – for example, no, few of us are wearing spaghetti strainers as hats. Oddly, they did predict a red-headed casino owner would be seeking power.
It’s a classic 1990’s science fiction movie, but also rather typical for 80’s campiness, so the movie itself isn’t all that deep, though still fun. I have been struck though by all the folks who have gleefully sought out the comparisons to today’s world. Or one notable tweet that chided us, ‘if we wanted to have hover boards and flying cars by 2015, we should have elected leaders who would better fund science.’ Ouch.
I began to wonder if we had a script that was supposed to happen, that we all forgot about, until the day of the play. My fellow former theater folk here may have had that anxiety dream once or twice. I’ve noticed since we crossed the millennial threshold, the big blockbusters have, for the most part, stopped putting dates on the screen for things that happen in the future. But I did marvel at how dates (like today – 2015) used to sound so far fetched and futuristic. I imagine if you grew up earlier than the 1970s, 2015 sounds even more out there. How did we get here? Where did we go right, and where did we go wrong?
…I think most of us recognize, most of the time, that there’s no real script. We do our best and take one step at a time through the years. Life is a mixture of joy, and challenge, hope and grief. Some of us have it easier, and some of us have it harder, but none of us live without stress. That being said, I think most of us also fool ourselves into living like there is a script. It sounds different for each of us. Maybe yours is the standard american dream – graduate from school, get a job, find a spouse, have children, and own a home. It’s a good script to have. It only becomes a problem when we think we should follow it, but life doesn’t match it. Maybe school isn’t for you. Or these days, jobs change far more frequently than they used to. My dad retired after working at the same company for almost 50 years. That kind of security doesn’t really happen anymore.
Or maybe you’re not looking to get married, or to get married again. Or children aren’t in your future for social, biological, or economic reasons. When family doesn’t look like the way we were raised to imagine it, it can be the source of great pain. I know that grief is real and legitimate; it’s good to acknowledge it if it’s a source of pain for you. But I find for myself, that I have to check where is the real sense of loss for me, and where I’m feeling loss from not following that imaginary script. We all deviate from it, but we don’t all have to feel bad when we do.
Or maybe you’ve lived that script and enjoyed the fullness of it, and are now wondering, what next? What does retirement mean for me? Do I become less busy, or more? When I move to be closer to the grandkids, what will become of my long time friends that have meant so much to me? I think this is the hidden secret about the classic script. Even when it’s full, and realized and meaningful, it doesn’t always offer the answers we may crave. At some point, we take a turn, and need to figure it out on our own or with our loved ones. So I’m cautious of scripts. They may be a good framework for goals, but they aren’t full of a lot of answers. I wonder how often we follow those scripts thinking they’ll have answers….
Other than the “American Dream” that I’ve just talked about, there’s another kind of tradition that we often adhere too. I call it, “The way we’ve always done things.” I think this script is probably as guilty, if not more so, of being the source of everyday smaller sufferings for those who otherwise have everything they need. It’s the kind of pain that happens when the only thing that’s “bad” that happens, is that an event, or an action, or a schedule is different than it would have been in the past – and we experience pain. Often, the new event or schedule is just as good, or near as good, or possibly even better – but it doesn’t matter; we’re off script from how things have always been done – so it triggers pain in us. Not real injury, or real grief, or real loss; it triggers imaginary suffering. I say imaginary suffering, because the only pain we’re experiencing is in our heads and not in the actual world.
Some of us may be wondering if I’m being a little unfair to tradition, or not giving tradition it’s fair voice. First, know that many Traditions (with a capital T) have history and meaning and purpose that are valued by communities, and I see that too. We honor holy days and holidays in our religious community for this reason. Likewise, memorial services, weddings and child dedications often are at the top of my priorities. So yes, tradition can be vital and life-saving and affirming. Second, rest easy; tradition always has it’s fair voice. It’s probably the loudest thing any of us ever hear. I think that’s the case, because traditions (with a lower case t) can also pretend-shield us from our daily struggles tied to change.
Why do we face change with such fear and trepidation? In hindsight, it’s probably obvious, but we do it time and time again, and in the moment forget, so it’s important to repeat. We’re growing older, or the world is less secure than I once imagined, or I’ve had enough grief in my life lately – those are all thoughts that are real and true and important to acknowledge. But sometimes, we try to avoid acknowledging change by lifting up the shield of tradition. It’s as if we imagine – if this other thing stays the same, everything else will as well. … but it doesn’t. Life is change. Life is newness, and letting go; day after day. And that’s beautiful and that’s hard. But change is here to stay; tradition or no tradition.
What would we be like if we were a people of letting go in the face of scripts and tradition? Can we be a little easier on ourselves when things don’t turn out as planned? Even if they really don’t turn out as planned can we still go easier on ourselves over it? Can we learn to assess and judge where we are in our lives without needing to compare it to our neighbor, or to our childhood and child-like dreams? When the day comes, if it hasn’t already, when you feel like your religious community wasn’t perfect in some way – can we be patient enough to remember that that’s an eternal truth for human community – we don’t do perfect? That’s probably a tradition with a capital T that we can not change – maybe the only one.
When your Sunday school teacher forgets a kid’s name, or your minister is not all things to all people, or the choir member finally someday misses a note (I know that hasn’t happened ever), or a Board president doesn’t see things exactly your way – can we learn to let go and let live? Can we live into the next today, and not stay stuck in the time of disagreement or disappointment? Many religious communities face this challenge, and it’s a normal thing to wrestle with. I’ve shared this with our Board, and I think it might be helpful for more of us to hear it, so I’ll share it here too. People don’t come here to be happy, and our purpose is not to make everyone happy. If happiness were the main goal, religion would have died out a long time ago, and with it, religious communities. When we fixate on holding onto how things once were, we increase our own suffering. Happiness may be an end result of our search, but striving to be happy usually ends in suffering. We cling for what was, or we grasp for what might be. Neither grant the genie’s wish.
Religious communities, in all our imperfections and our awkward dance between tradition and change, seek not to grant happiness, but to offer hope. That through all the turmoil and the hardship, we can remember the times of solace and joy. That change also brings us out of places of suffering. This pain we feel will someday go away. That the loss of a loved one, does not steal from us the times we shared together; that we are forever changed for knowing them, and the world is so too changed for our passing through. We give hope that this all means something. And it does. When I’ve known times of hardship, religious community has helped me ground myself and find my direction anew – before all the change and all the turmoil. But through that change, something new came about. And we’re living in that something new today.
Can we find hope in letting go? Can we make room for what may come by learning to let be what once was? When we toss the proverbial stone into the waters, hoping it will skip, will we go with it clutching till we soak ourselves, or will we let it sail on it’s own, free of our steering hand?
I’ll close with a return to where we began; “Back to the Future.” Time travels a cute, albeit fascinating, sci-fi idea. We can’t hop into a fancy car or a spinning blue box and travel backwards or forwards in time to the past or the future. But each of us, every single day, travel into the past or wonder about the future. When we cling whole cloth to the old, or to tradition, or make contingent our happiness about things yet to be – we travel in time. We live a life that once was, or a life that may never be. But in both cases, we cease living our one precious life. We may not be able to choose or change certain things about our lives – sometimes pains and grief may not be wished away – but we can choose to live our life. Living into today – saying “no” to our minds’ ceaseless drive to send us forwards or backwards in time -is a precious act of faith. Faith that this moment, this life, is here and sacred and worthy of living. It begins today, again and again.
Spirit of Life, God of Many Names, Source of Renewal,
As the fullness of Autumn returns to us,
and the trees turn bright with reds, and oranges, and yellows,
help us to find places where our hearts can lighten, or brighten,
in letting go of what once was.
We often grieve what has passed before us;
and grieving is often the only right emotion to feel before great loss or suffering;
But too often we grieve the small things,
never letting them fall away,
or turn into something new.
May we find the wisdom of the brighter path,
with a lighter load to carry;
knowing that for so many things,
our burdens are too often cherished worries never released.
Mother of Renewal, stir in our hearts the willingness to accept a new day,
and the courage to welcome it with open arms and loving eyes.
Spirit of Life, God of Many Names, Source of Hope,
We come together at the end of another week,
some worn down by struggles of health, of home, or work.
Some missing a friend or a family member,
whose gone too soon;
others looking forward to a second chance,
or a new beginning,
with gratitude and excitement in our hearts.
May we be a community that makes space,
for the sharing of joys, and sorrows, angers and hopes,
with grace and forbearance;
knowing each of us are in a different place on the road before us.
In our nation’s life, we pause this holiday weekend, to remember the Native American lives lost from the European colonization on what is now our soil.
Teach us to remember our history.
Though we can not make amends for what has come before,
may we learn from those ways,
never to repeat them in our lives today.
May we develop new ways of relating to neighbor and stranger,
without violence, or coercion,
deceit or greed.
Mother of Grace, help us to find a sense of humility, where we have privilege,
and strength, where we face oppression.
In our struggles we may learn compassion,
and in our power, may we learn temperance.
On today, National Coming Out Day, help us to be ourselves,
may we find the courage to step out from our places of hiding,
and may we find there,
places of safety and refuge,
amidst the pain and the risk.
Where we may have ignorance or confusion in our hearts,
toward those who are different,
teach us kindness and patience,
rather than hatred or judgement.
As a community of faith,
may we be a safe harbor,
in a world that is often harsh toward difference.
Challenge us to use our presence,
as a healing force for justice and equity.
Knowing that although we have come far in the civil rights struggles of our times,
there are many people are still left behind,
and the work of building the beloved community,
is just as pressing, as ever before.