TOILETS AND GLITTER

A Christmas Eve Homily
Reverend Kent Hemmen Saleska
UU Church of Minnetonka
December 24, 2016

Friends, I don’t know about you, but this season this year, I’m feeling pretty exhausted. For me it’s more of an emotional and mental exhaustion than it is a physical exhaustion. Physical work can be hard, but if it’s not extreme, there’s even a rejuvenating quality to it because with physical work you can easily see what’s been accomplished: the lawn mowed, the boxes moved, a fence built, the garden weeded, the field plowed, the dishes in the drying rack.

But emotional and mental exhaustion is different. There’s a weight to it that physical work doesn’t have, partly because sometimes it seems endless, and you can never tell if you just completed a task, or if what you’re thinking or what you’ve done is enough. And sometimes the emotional and mental exhaustion comes when the task feels overwhelming. That’s part of what I’ve been feeling since the election, and in some other areas of my life too, that feeling of things being so big they are overwhelming.

When racism, even our own racial bias, was already a hugely challenge in our society, how will we address it under an administration that wants to go back to the “good old days” of shutting people down, beating them up and throwing them out, or in jail, when they, or we, attempt to speak up not just about our civil rights, but our human dignity?

And when it was already a challenge in the atmosphere of this corporate society to address environmental pollution and degradation, how will we address it under an administration that doesn’t just have differing environmental policies, but doesn’t even believe global warming is a real thing at all?

And when loving one another was already a challenge, how are we to live with the diversity of our world when so much fear exists, and is supported by so much of the state enforcement agencies.

So I enter this space and walk through this time with a deeply broken heart. It’s a heart that’s broken from so many hopes that have not been realized, and pain from the feeling that no matter how hard I work at making things right, the world and relationships and politics are just too big for me to respond well too, with reason and intellect and compassion, and certainly not all those things all at once.

And then today on Facebook, a colleague of mine mentions on our UU minister’s Facebook page that her child was born one year ago on December 26, but that she and her husband didn’t get the news until the 29th that he was going to be theirs. They adopted him on the 31st. She recalled getting the email that there was a baby, and did they want to show their materials to the birth mother? She and her husband had just been devastated a few days earlier after a long wait and finding out we didn’t get chosen to parent a different baby. They almost said no on the 23rd, but then said yes, and proceeded to distract themselves with holiday stuff. They didn’t even tell anyone.

But a year later she is feeling really overwhelmed remembering how they had no idea how their lives were about to change, and getting ready now to celebrate their son’s first Christmas and first birthday with their giant family. It’s a mixture of feeling lucky and happy, and sad that they didn’t know a year ago that he was born yet, and sad for his birth mother, and yet at the same time thrilled to be a family.

And in the midst of my own struggles and heartbreak, I see this message from someone else suffering from heartbreak, and about to say “no” to life, but then taking a leap of faith and saying yes. “There’s Christmas in the bathroom,” says Robert Fulghum. “And therein lies the message…Christmas is and ever will be found / where it’s looked for. / Most often close by, most always very underfoot. / Hidden away in the cupboards of our lives / waiting to be rediscovered in a rebirth of wonder – / Waiting to be dumped over / our hard heads like blessing oil / Waiting to be scattered like red glitter / on the walls and hallways of dark December.”

It’s an old story, either told the same way every year, or in an attempt to tell it differently and with pizazz, it gets told in sometimes bizarre ways. But look at us. No, I mean really look at us. Here we are, many of us who say we are not Christian, many of us who say the Jesus story doesn’t have much meaning in our daily lives, and yet here we are tonight. And not just sitting here, but packed in here, just as we are every year – and clear out into the North Room as well. We must think we can find meaning here somehow.

I’m not in a place to promise you anything. I can’t promise you that your hard work will pay off. And probably certainly not in your lifetime. I can’t promise you that I, or anyone, knows the way forward. And I can’t promise you that everything will be OK. Because for many people in the years to come, things won’t be OK.

But I do know that under the cruel and brutal leadership of King Herod, a new light, and a new life was born. A life that, legend has it, came to teach the world about peace, forgiveness and grace – and a fierce love that would not die, a love that holds each of us, before we existed, while we are here, and long after we are gone. I can promise you that if you go looking for Christmas, in your cupboards, underfoot, or dumped over your head, you are very likely to find it.

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HOPE AND HEARTACHE

Reverend Kent Hemmen Saleska
UU Church of Minnetonka
December 11, 2016

Our Unitarian Universalist religion is a faith based in optimism. This optimism particularly arises from the Universalist side of our heritage. One of the more famous stories comes from over 200 years ago from the Universalist minister John Murray who reported a conversation with a deacon who approached Murray, saying he heard that Murray preached Universal salvation. A conversation ensues where Murray describes his Universalist faith based on scriptures that that tell how God sent his son [Jesus] not to condemn the world, but that through Jesus the world might be saved – while the deacon refutes that theology.

Then Murray pulls out the passage from 1 Corinthians 15, that “As in Adam all die, so in Christ are all made alive.”

The deacon wants to hold on to the notion that yes, because of Adam and Eve, all people are born in sin, so that’s why people need to believe in Jesus, so that they can have eternal life.

And John Murray said it doesn’t work that way. He said if you’re going to follow the words and the lessons of scripture, it’s either gotta be that only believers are born in sin and only believers who can be saved by Jesus, or it’s gotta be that everyone is born in sin, and that everyone was saved by the arrival of Jesus. And since the scriptures say, “As in Adam all die, so in Christ are all made alive,” that pretty well determines it’s the second meaning, that everyone is saved. Or as the old joke goes, the Universalists believe that God is too good to damn anyone, and the Unitarians believe they are too good to be damned.

The resulting theology and the resulting belief behind all this is in the basic goodness of humanity. Where other more traditional religions believe in the inherent evil of humanity – that everyone was born in sin – the Unitarians and Universalists generally have held a more positive view of humanity, that of inherent goodness. Down through the ages and generations this positive view evolved first into the original and slightly naïve Humanist slogan of “Humankind: Onward and Upward Forever,” and then into our modern and current phrase found in the wording of the first of our seven principles: that we covenant to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of each individual.

Because of this foundational theology, in the most positive spin some have called us a religion or a faith of hope. Now I don’t struggle so much with the notion of the inherent worth and dignity of each person as much as I do with the notion that we are a faith of hope. The “inherent worth” piece is a little easier for me because in humanity, I see inherent worth as different from a person’s actions. We may readily call someone to account for their words or their actions, but our faith calls us to honor their inherent worth.

I struggle, though, with the notion that we are a faith of hope for a number of reasons. First of all, in all the most famous and foundational writings upon which we base our beliefs, including scripture from the Hebrew and Christian bibles, we don’t talk much about hope. Even now, in our seven principles and six sources from which our living tradition draws, you will find mentioned justice, equity, compassion, truth, peace, liberty, love and reason…but no mention of hope!

Secondly, and more deeply and more to the point, I struggle with the notion that we are a faith of hope because I simply struggle with the notion of “hope” itself. Now it may be that others use the word “hope” but mean it in a different way than the way I generally understand it – so it may be that I’m just wallowing in semantics, and that when I don’t want to use the word and others do, that even so we both still really mean the same thing. But a primary reason I try to avoid using the word “hope” is that it gives the connotation – if not a very real request – of a desired outcome. And because rarely in life do we get what we want the way we want it, in my experience hope generally really only brings heartache.

I don’t claim to know a lot about Buddhism, but some of what I do know revolves around the first three teachings of the Four Noble Truths, that (1) life is suffering; that (2) suffering is caused by attachment to desires; and (3) that suffering ceases when attachment to desire ceases. As I understand it, attachment isn’t simply about attachment to desire. We can also have an attachment to outcomes. When we hope for something, we desire a specific outcome of an event or happening. When we play a game, we hope we win. When we go on a trip, we hope we come home safely. When someone gets diagnosed with an illness, we hope they get better. In all of these, we are attached to an outcome in the way that we want it to be an outcome. The problem arises when either the outcome isn’t what we wanted it to be, or doesn’t occur at all. Once again, hope brings heartache.

Another reason why I struggle with the notion of hope has to do with our theme for this month, “presence.” Presence is a state or fact of existing, of being present in a place or thing. Presence is about awareness, attention, and existing in this very moment. Hope, on the other hand, pulls us out of the present moment and toward a desired outcome that is not in this present time. We may even get addicted to hope: hope that doubt and mystery will go away, and accompanied by fear that it won’t, robbing us of the present moment. Our December theme of “presence,” then, invites us and calls us into this very moment, not just when beauty abounds, but when pain and sorrow are in the room as well.

A year before I began my ministry here with this congregation I worked as a chaplain resident for a year at Park Nicollet Methodist Hospital in St. Louis Park. Many times that year I entered a room or sat with a patient or their family when they were in pain from a surprising diagnosis of cancer, or were sitting in shock and uncertainty after an accident that involved a daughter or husband, or were aching and empty after the death of a partner or parent. Some found their way through slowly, allowing the feelings to wash over them, and taking each bit of news in each moment as it came and then letting it sink in before they made a decision. But others would want a prayer for their loved one would be healed, or would use some form of the cruel trite sayings like, “when God closes the door, he opens a window,” or worse, “everything happens for a reason.”

In times like those it is important for people to stay in the moment, to process what’s happening, because if they don’t, they often live with regrets and truncated emotional responses for much of their life. But I then discovered two things: the first was that even my desire for them to stay in the painful moment and not wash it away with a trite saying was my own hope, my own desire, my own attachment to an outcome that had little or nothing to do with what the patient or family wanted. Secondly, because my own agenda would begin to loom so large, I discovered in those moments that it was a challenge for me to remain present with them. So I had to learn how to enter a room, and remain in a room, with no agenda other than to learn – learn where the patient or family was emotionally and spiritually, and then learn what they felt would help them most in those moments.

It was not my role in those moments of pain to change their minds or argue with their theology – but if it seemed necessary for processing or healing, or even to avoid a promise I was not able to keep, I could, in some ways, challenge their theology even as I remained present with them. It could be a simple question that brought them back into the moment, like, “what scares you the most about this new diagnosis?” Or if they asked me to pray that their loved one would be healed, I would pray instead for the doctors and nurses to use all their knowledge and care to do what was in their power to bring healing.

In my own life, I was disabused of more traditional notions of hope early on. Just a couple weeks before Christmas in December 34 years ago, when I was in 11th grade, I came home from high school one day to discover that my dad had been admitted to the hospital because of some unusual signs. It took a few months for the doctors to determine what was going on, but eventually they learned that it was a rare illness called sclerosing cholangitis, a disease of the bile ducts, which carry the digestive liquid bile from your liver to your small intestine. In sclerosing cholangitis, inflammation causes scars within the bile ducts, and the scars make the ducts hard and narrow. The disease progresses slowly and can lead to repeated infections and liver failure. The only known cure, even today, is a liver transplant.

Two problems exist, though. First, the body has to accept a new transplanted organ, and the doctors gave my dad only a 50% chance that his body would even accept a new liver; second, the body’s whole system is what makes the liver fail, so even if the body accepted a new liver, they gave that a 50% chance that the new liver would acquire the same disease. And in the meantime, after attempting to recover from those major surgeries in his weakened condition, his quality of life would be next to nothing. Since he had a better chance of living, and living longer, without the transplant, my dad opted not to have a transplant surgery. So at age 16, I got the news that my dad was going to die, and that he had no more than 10 years to live. He endured with his disease for eight years, dying in February, the year after I graduated from college.

A big challenge in dealing with a terminal illness, especially as a relatively inexperienced 16-year-old, is finding anything that passes for hope, when the only real thing to hope for is less pain or fewer maintenance procedures to unblock a bile duct, but never a longer life with more time with my dad. People would even say dumb things like how my dad’s illness and death would make me more compassionate and understanding toward others, and my reply was always that if I had a choice, I’d rather be a less compassionate person and still have my dad.

With that experience so early in life, hope was something I mostly learned to live without. Sometimes that made life pretty hard, but it also created two other realities in my life. The first was living more in the moment. I had a tendency to do that anyway, but my father’s long illness caused me to take fewer things for granted and learn to experience things more fully as they happened. The second was learning to take chances when they arose – so one thing I did as an 18-year-old high school graduate was take a bicycle trip across the country, from coast to coast.

In some ways I’m still not very good at it, but when I’m able to do it well, living without hope is a gift. I can take out my worst fear and look right at it, and then begin to look around to see what options, support and resources I have. Hopelessness is a gift. It helps us look around in the present moment, and rather than looking for something we want, we look around for what needs to be done.

It’s important to understand that living without hope is not the same shutting down or retreating. In fact, it’s the very opposite. I’m not at all saying “don’t work for justice” or “don’t work for outcomes.” It’s more about not being consumed by the outcome. As I experience it, the life work around this topic is to not be “tricked” by hope – that is, getting lulled into the false notion that if we just work hard enough and are diligent enough and faithful enough that we’ll get what we want: a job we applied for, a better marriage, a longer life, a healed child. Because in this life there’s not much we control and sometimes life just doesn’t give us what we want no matter how honest and faithful and genuine and diligent we are.

But just because we learn how to not be attached to hope and how not to be attached to outcomes doesn’t mean we don’t work for outcomes. Living without hope is not to be confused with working toward something we value. So yes, be diligent, be courageous, show up, be faithful, work hard, pull in allies, read and learn and grow and evolve and transform. In this new political and social climate of more brazen hatred and fear, do all you can to work to create more love and justice in the world…I’m just saying that all that work doesn’t guarantee the outcome you or we want. It’s like being back in the hospital and not praying for healing, but praying for the doctors and nurses to use all their knowledge and care to do what was in their power to bring healing. It’s a little like when teams pray before a football game. It’s pretty dumb to think that God chooses one football team over another, so it’s a pretty empty prayer to say, “Please God, make us win this game.” But it’s a more powerful and more faithful prayer to say, “Give me the strength to play my best today.”

Being present in the moment to what is happening, to what we feel and what we know is a basic way to begin learning how to move through the world in authentic and meaningful ways. The poet Mary says, “This is the first, the wildest and wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of our attentiveness.” And the writer Henry Miller says, “The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.”

We rarely get to learn the consequences of our actions, and most of the good work we do in the world emerges after we’re gone. As my colleague the Reverend Jill Jarvis says, “Deeds and words and choices which seem from our perspective to have no impact all, may prove to be the small change that moves history in a new and unexpected direction.”

We Unitarian Universalists balk at the notion of definite hard and fast answers to the deepest religious values. We say we value complexity and nuance and ambiguity. So here’s our chance to take the bull by the horns and live in ambiguity. I know it is hard to imagine how we can work toward a future without feeling our actions will make a difference. But in the long run, rarely is history written in four-year increments. It may be that feeling insecure, even groundless, like the teachings of non-attachment in Buddhism, will increase our ability to be present, with ourselves and each other, and stay in the work.

* * * *
I want to close with a few readings on finding strength and presence without hope:

[SARA] Thomas Merton: Do not depend on the hope of results…you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results, but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself…you gradually struggle less and less for an idea and more and more for specific people…In the end, it is the reality of personal relationship that saves everything.

[KENT] Women working against a violent dictatorship in Zimbabwe in the early 2000s:

  • How we’re going is important, not where. I want to go together and with faith.
  • I feel like we’re holding hands as we walk into a deep, dark woods.
  • In my grief I saw myself being held, us all holding one another in this incredible web of loving kindness. Grief and love in the same place. I felt as if my heart would burst with holding it all.

[SARA] Rudolf Bahro: When the forms of an old culture are dying, the new culture is created by a few people who are not afraid to be insecure.

[KENT] Vaclev Havel: Hope is a dimension of the soul…an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart. It transcends the world that is immediately experienced and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons…It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense regardless of how it turns out.

[SARA] Gail Brenner: In a nursing home I spoke to a charming 92-year-old woman faced with possibly never returning to her home. When I asked how she felt, she responded, “I’m not attached.” She proceeded to tell me that as a young girl, following the death of her mother, she learned that being attached brought her suffering and being open to the comings and goings of life brought a sense of ease. This understanding enabled her to live life to the fullest – she had many wonderful adventures – as she was no longer afraid of what she could lose or gain.

[KENT] T.S. Eliot: in the Four Quartets:
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

DEAR 605

NOTE: Every December, on the first or second Sunday of the month, I preach a sermon that is a letter to a Christmas character. This year, since this will be our final Christmas season in this building before we move to our new one, I wrote my annual letter to the building itself. -Kent

Annual Letter to a Christmas Character sermon
Reverend Kent Hemmen Saleska
UU Church of Minnetonka
December 4, 2016

READING: Notes below taken from actual church Board Minutes and Newsletters
August 2, 1964: General Meeting of Amity UU Fellowship
Henry Norton reported on the negotiations and stated the price had been orally agreed to, but that the Wayzata Church could not commit themselves as to date until they had actually broken ground for their new building. The earliest date the building might possibly be available is March [1965]. It is the intention of the Board of Directors to acquire adequate facilities as soon as possible. The building fund drive will continue as planned. Further negotiations will be considered with Wayzata Church as well as investigating other possibilities.

November 25, 1964: Board meeting
New members accepted were David G. Opheim [and] Mary N. Opheim…

January 7, 1965: Letter to Membership
There is a good possibility that the Fellowship can purchase the Wayzata church in accordance with previously negotiated terms without the necessity of selling the 3½ acres of property that it owns on Minnetonka Boulevard. The Wayzata church should be adequate for the needs of our Fellowship over the next four to five years at which time other arrangements could be considered.

February 8, 1965
From Expression Newsletter article: STATE OF AFFAIRS AT AMITY
The membership of Amity has voted to proceed to hire a minister and to purchase the Wayzata Church building both by its near unanimous approval of the budget for the coming twelve months and by the encouraging financial support as evidenced by the results of the pledge canvass…Loan commitments are being sought so as to be able to complete the legal technicalities involved with the purchase of the Wayzata church now that both congregations have approved the transaction. Possession of the church will take place August 1.

February 24, 1965: Board meeting
Bill Merlin will act as our lawyer and has drawn up a purchase agreement for the Wayzata church, which will be signed by Joe Connell and himself contingent upon a mortgage of $13,500 at 5¾ %. We have received an oral commitment of a 10-year $5,000 loan at 6% interest from Unity Church [in St. Paul].

April 25, 1965: Annual meeting of Amity UU Fellowship
In a vote of the membership, congregation voted to change their name by a margin of 13 votes to continue with Amity Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, and 47 votes to change to the Unitarian Universalist Church of Minnetonka. An additional name was proposed by Mary Merlin: the James C. Reeb Unitarian-Universalist Church, but it failed to gain enough votes. Motion was made and seconded to amend the articles of incorporation to reflect the name change.

June 30, 1965: Board meeting
First Federal Savings and Loan has approved the Mortgage application. Closing date is August 1, 1965. Report of the Building and Lands Committee: Work parties were organized to begin working on different parts of the church between August 1 and September 12. Bids were solicited from stained glass companies for the cleaning and repair of the stained glass windows; John Prellwitz will paint the church sign; Bob Fetzek will make a new sign for the church property; Bill Hardacker will contract work to be done on the chimney; work is proposed on the driveway; classroom partitions being considered.

August 5, 1965: Board meeting at the home of Irene Chanin
Joe Connell reported that the completion of the church purchase had taken place on Friday, July 31, 1965. The amount paid to the Wayzata Free Church was 21,600.00 [including the purchase of the parsonage next door], with the remaining $400.00 being kept in an escrow account to pay for clearing of Title.

September 9, 1965: first Board meeting held at the 605 church!
There are some problems which remain to be solved – the problem of sound carrying throughout the building is the most urgent one. The furnace must be cleaned; a bid of $185.00 has been received. We have not as yet been able to obtain a piano: an ad has been placed in the suburban paper. Betty reported that there would be a new sign outside the church by Sunday [and] the church will be ready for occupancy on Sunday, September 12 [1965].

 

SERMON: Dear 605
Annual Letter to a Christmas Character sermon
Reverend Kent Hemmen Saleska

Dear 605,

Every year at this time, usually the first or second Sunday of December, I write a letter to a Christmas character in an attempt to explore more of their story than what we usually hear. So in the past I’ve written to Jacob Marley, Santa Claus, Elsa from the movie Frozen, Rudolf, and many others.

This year is a little different though. This year, this is our final holiday season in this building: our final Thanksgiving service; our final Christmas play by Jeff Hatcher in this building, our final annual Christmas pageant in this building; our final Winter Solstice service in this building; and our final Christmas Eve service here. It’s a momentous time. Ever since the City Council gave their final approval last May for our plans to build a new church, we have been charging ahead with great new energy, so relieved and so grateful and so full of vision and pent-up action and joy to finally be moving forward on this project after over a decade after this congregation voted to move.

And at the same time there is a weariness from working so long and hard on this project, and yes, a sadness in many of us about leaving this building. There are so many memories wrapped up here, many joyful ones and a few painful ones. So this year, rather than write my annual letter to a Christmas character, I thought I’d write this one you, 605, the building at 605 Rice Street that has housed this congregation for the last 51 of our 56 years in existence.

Today I brought my rocking glider chair from home to share this letter with you, 605, because I was inspired by a recent story from one of our long-time members, Nancy Johnson. During our Sunday service in October to honor the dead, you may remember that some of our long-time members shared some of their memories and stories of this place. Nancy grew up attending church in this building even before you housed us, 605, back when it was the Wayzata Community Congregational Church. You probably already remember this, but Nancy said her sister’s wedding was held in this church, and she remembers having church suppers in the basement because the kitchen was located down there back then. And then she said, “The furnaces were always a problem so the man who fixed them placed a rocking chair in one of the furnace rooms so he could be comfortable while he waited to see if they worked properly.”

dear-605-1

So this morning I wanted to sit in this rocking chair as I share this letter with you, 605. You see, our theme for the month of December is “Presence.” And when I heard Nancy tell her story earlier, and mentioned the man in the rocking chair, I was moved. Now, I have no idea who the man was, partly because it was so long ago and partly because he was someone from two congregations before we even arrived here. In fact, you probably know who it was. But I don’t even know if that man was sweet and kind or mean and grumpy [I learned from Nancy after the service that his name was Carl Linman, and he was very nice!]. To me though, no matter what kind of man he was, I know that he cared. Maybe he was the life of the congregation and was one of those happy outgoing people who was involved in everything. Or it may be that he was a quiet man who just knew he was good at mechanical things, and so, having faith in the congregation and the people who carried out its mission, wanted to take on one role he knew he could do – something he could do in a way that others could not.

So to me, it was a story of caring, of stepping up and stepping in when something needed to be done and a person knows they have the experience or the talent or the knowledge for it. For me, it was a story of presence. That man in the rocking chair – and others after him – was present with you, 605, all the while you were present with the people of the Wayzata Community Church, and then the people of the Wayzata Free Evangelical Church after them, and then our people after that, those of us in the Unitarian Universalist Church of Minnetonka.

You, 605, have been a presence with so many people during your time. Of course, you were not the first one on this site. As the story goes, in 1881, twelve people who were concerned with their own unfulfilled spiritual needs, covenanted together to – as they described it – to “bring civilization to the wicked, uncivilized village of Wayzata.”

So in 1881 that group built a little wooden church on piece of donated property on the corner of the two dirt roads, Walker and Rice Streets at the top of the hill. The congregation grew over the decades so in 1912 they built a new church. Unfortunately that building only lasted for four years, because it burned down in February of 1916. But the congregation was resilient, and in addition to their own funds, and since they were the only church in town back then, they went through the town, soliciting funds from ALL the residents – which is partly why, I suppose, they have that name: Wayzata Community Church. In any case, in 1916 they rebuilt you, on the foundation of the 1912 building, and amazingly, completed construction in seven months during that same year. So this building that you are now is essentially the same layout and design as the 1912 building, and now you are just a few months past 100 years old.

It’s pretty amazing to think of what you’ve seen and been through. You were built just before our country entered World War I. You’ve been present through three congregations, two world wars, the Great Depression, the independence of India from Great Britain, the creation of the state of Israel, the Civil Rights movement, the Women’s Rights movement, the Black Power movement, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Cold War, the construction and destruction of the Iron Curtain, the imprisonment and release of Nelson Mandela, the attacks on September 11, 2001, and the following wars around the globe to fight terrorism, the election of our first black president, and most recently, the election of the least politically experienced president in the history of our nation. You’ve been present and witness to a world in its automobile infancy that was still largely dependent on horse power to a world that has sent men to walk on the moon and created tools to see galaxies far beyond our own.

You’ve seen quite a lot. And you’ve seen a lot of us, too. Us Unitarian Universalists. We may be the third group to be housed here, but we’re the ones who’ve been here the longest. The original congregation was here 32 years, the next was here about 12 or 13 years, but we’ve been here now 51 years!

After meeting for five years in the cafeteria of a grade school in Minnetonka, our congregation purchased you, 605, in 1965. And as I read it in our history, the people were so happy to get a new home to call their own, one where they wouldn’t have to set up every Sunday morning, then take everything down by  noon, and then gather in the homes of their members for every single meeting.

To our way of thinking, it’s also a little strange to think that our first minister, the Reverend Robert Brownlie, who was called here in 1966 – the year I was born – lived next door at 615 Rice Street, because back then, that house was that parsonage for this church. I always wanted to live close to the church I served, but never THAT close!

Much has been said this year about our time here, with our 100-year Sunday service celebration last May with the other two congregations, and the local paper write up of our history, and members who’ve shared stories and pictures this fall. I myself first saw you in the mid-1990s. I was the Youth Director at First Universalist in Uptown Minneapolis. I brought my youth group out here one time for a youth conference. And the next time I saw you was in 2007, when the ministerial search committee began to consider me as a possible next minister. That was a joyful time, for both the congregation and for me. And now, here we are, in our tenth year together – the longest relationship this congregation has ever had with a minister, and for me too, the longest job I’ve ever had.

We’ve gone through a lot in our time together too. Not only was it the five-year legal process where we sued the city in Federal court, invoking Federal law around the separation of church and state in order to build our new building, and then the last three years of raising money and working to design the building (which has taken an inordinate amount of time out of just regular, normal church life) but there’ve been other good things we’ve done as well: creating a congregational covenant together, hosting a social justice empowerment workshop that helped guide us in social justice for many years, the work around defeating a Minnesota amendment that would deny marriage rights to same-sex couples, creating new rituals like our Winter Solstice celebration, the delightful annual Jeff Hatcher holiday play, and the multiple-year process to change from an operational governance system to a policy based governance system. And now we are in the middle of rewriting our mission, and within the next six months we will move into a new building.

So I’ve come to wonder what wisdom you might have, 605, to share with us? I’ve wondered what knowledge or wisdom you’d have to share about how you might see things going on in our world today. I look up into these rafters and think about the people who built you, and what might have been going on in their lives one-hundred years ago in 1916, and I wonder if their lives, thinking about the World War that was going on, was vastly different from how we feel today, or if there is any remarkable similarity. You are not a mountain, but dear 605, you have seen a lot in your time.

You see, part of it is that I’m having a hard time. Ever since the election I realize that I’ve been grieving. As a colleague of mine, the Reverend Joanne Fontaine Crawford, articulated similarly, I feel I am grieving for the death of what I thought was my country. I realize this comes from a place of privilege, since native people and people of color have never had the experience of this country that I have – even today, as we gather in this beautiful warm sanctuary, thousands of clergy and laypeople from many denominations and over 2,000 military veterans are joining native people at the Standing Rock reservation in North Dakota to join together in an interfaith Day of Prayer, called by Chief Arvol Looking Horse, to “unite for our children’s future.” Though not everyone can be there physically this weekend, they are asking religious people for support, to stand with them physically, or in spirit, and spend a day in prayer with them.

But I have always hoped for better. Even though I know my country has not always lived up to its aspirations and ideals, up until now I have always held those ideals as a guide, like the north star, and almost every work of justice I’ve done has been guided by both the human ideals articulated in our nation’s constitution, as well as the values and beliefs articulated by my faith. But now I am feeling deeply discouraged. I’ve seen the media be manipulated by a showman, and whatever dignity the presidency had, has been stripped away by a thin-skinned, petulant, crass, narcissistic, politically inexperienced and morally irresponsible man. And all, apparently, without regret.

I’ve always tried to be a pastor to everyone, to not take sides, at least not here in church, between one political party and the other. But this feels different. This is not normal. This isn’t Democrat versus Republican – what’s going on now is an attack on our religious values: that all people have inherent worth; that revelation is continuous; that we have promised ourselves and our world that we will direct our efforts toward creating a loving community with liberty and justice for all; and to honor the interdependent web of existence.

The attack on these things, or the destruction of them, is just not ok. I feel disillusioned, and even frightened, that we could be manipulated so easily to be our worst selves. So part of what I’m grieving too, is the myth that our country is “safe” from such things.

I am heartbroken.

So in this loving time of year, during a time in our congregational life when we are preparing to leave you, 605, and grieve your loss as well, I look to you for some wisdom, some lesson in how we may move forward with a sense of purpose and meaning, while holding on to our liberal religious values and beliefs.

One lesson I’ve learned from you, 605, is your presence. You have housed three very different faith traditions. You have witnessed a community church that was probably fairly in the middle of the road in religion, and then what was probably a more right-leaning evangelical group, and then us, on the far left of the religious spectrum. Even though people in our groups may not think they could get along, you have always been steadfast. You have always been here, offering hospitality for anyone who needs it. And for me, that is pretty much the core of any faith tradition. How they – the people who call themselves part of that faith, whatever faith it may be – how they express and practice hospitality.

Are they bitter and mean, joking about people who are not like them, people who are “too liberal” or “too conservative”? Or are they open to differences, in a healthy way that can both set boundaries but also be open to difference and unique life and belief and practice? We Unitarian Universalists say we believe in diversity, but we don’t always practice it.

So if there’s one thing this season can bring us, and if there’s one thing I hope you will be able to remind us about, even after we are gone from here, is hospitality. Though nothing is certain yet, it is looking more and more like a theater group may move into this space. It makes me happy that you will not be torn down, and that you will continue in your practice of hospitality, not just of religious groups, but secular groups as well. Your hospitality carries on and continues to inspire. Even after we move away, I hope we can stop by to visit, and maybe see a show. Thank you so much for your presence and your wisdom.

As ever, your friend,

-Kent