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Sundays Remembered – 5/19/2013

In the family I grew up in, if it was Sunday, we went to church. I don’t mean that we always went there with big smiles on our faces. Sometimes I didn’t want to go; sometimes my brothers didn’t want to go; sometimes my parents didn’t want to go. And I don’t mean that we were there bright and early, sticking around to shut the place down. That congregation had two services most Sundays, one and nine and one at eleven, and my parents could not imagine a life in which they would happily get up in time to be at church by nine – we were definitely 11 o’clock people. And there were some Sundays we didn’t look forward to as much as others, like Easter, when the sanctuary was always too crowded and the dress code seemed to jump up three levels for no good reason.

But if there was church school that Sunday, then we were going to church. So from the beginning of preschool to the end of high school, I logged a lot of hours. And I want to tell you three things I still have with me from

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all that time.

Growing up in a Unitarian Universalist Sunday School, I sang a lot of songs. I can’t say I can remember them all, but I can remember at least one that we used to sing a lot. It goes, “Love is

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something if you give it away, give it away, give it away. Love is something if you give it away: you end up having more.” With those words, and in so many other ways, my church taught me that love is what truly matters in life. Love is the best gift we can give one another, it is the most important thing we need from one another, and it is perhaps the only thing there is that has no limit – that we can’t run out of.

In those fourteen or so years, I also did a lot of arts and crafts projects with paints and glue and yarn and glitter. I can’t say I remember them all, but I can remember the house I got to make, just for me, out of an old refrigerator box. I used a lot of orange paint and made a draw bridge with a string I could pull up and down. With that project, and in so many other ways, my church taught me a lesson about where my home is: in my body, in my congregation, and in my world. All can be as imperfect as a sloppily painted cardboard box, but all are also precious and wonderful.

Over all those classes, I had a lot of teachers. I can’t say I remember them all, but I can remember people who listened when I had something to say. People who read me stories and poured me apple juice, did their best to help me find answers to my questions and worked hard to share the big hopes and dreams of Unitarian Universalism with me. Even when they were still learning about our faith themselves.

To the children and youth, and to their teachers: I cannot tell you today which memories of Sunday school you will still carry with you fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years from now. But I can tell you that you will remember something, and the things you will remember will be the things that truly matter. And that is why we come together as a community to learn, and that is why we come together as a community to teach.

Undeserved Necessity – 5/12/2013

Back in 1950, the choir of the West Side Baptist Church in Beatrice, NE met on Wednesday evenings. Practice was scheduled to begin at 7:20. Some folks made it a habit to get there early, some tended to arrive right on time, a few might come straggling in late, but the warm-ups and the singing did, in fact, dependably begin by 7:25, each evening. So it was that on March 1st, 1950, Rev. Walter Klempel made sure to light the furnace at the church in order to keep out the late winter cold. At 7:27 that evening, that lit furnace ignited a natural gas leak from a pipe running underneath the street outside the church building. There was a fantastic explosion. The walls blew out, the roof caved in, and the steeple flew through the air and landed in the street some distance away. The combustion left the building a smoking ruin.

But choir member Lucille Jones was caught up in a radio program that wouldn’t end until 7:30 that night. Her friend Dorothy Wood waited for her, and so neither of them were there. Sadie and Royena Estes had a car that wouldn’t start. High school student Ladona Vandergrift was delayed by her geometry homework, which kept her from picking up the Estes sisters and from being on time herself. The choir director’s daughter who played piano for the rehearsal fell asleep after dinner and woke up late, keeping them both away from the church. Pastor Klempel had gone home for dinner and planned to bring his whole family back to the church with him, but when his daughter need a new dress after dinner, they were all delayed by the ironing of it. And Joyce Black dawdled at home because it was cold out that night and she didn’t relish even walking across the street from her house to the church, which exploded just as she opened her door. Of the more than fifteen people who were planning and expected to be in the West Side Baptist Church the night it exploded, all of them were somewhere else instead. There was terrible destruction, but no injury or loss of life.

The common religious interpretation of this story, including the one held by the West Side congregation itself, which rebuilt and still exists, is that this was a miraculous act of divine mercy. My message this morning is the final installment of a series of sermons offering some possible definitions of religious terms that are important to our tradition. The particular subject is grace – a word sometimes used to describe circumstances like the very happy delaying of those choir members in Beatrice, NE.[i]

In a number of religious systems, and in Christianity in particular, grace is an idea about which there is a strong consensus at the general level, and major disagreement at the level of specifics. So that the terms justifying, sanctifying and prevenient grace all have particular, sometimes disputed meanings. I won’t get into those meanings right now; they will not be questions on the final exam this morning, nor do I expect them to appear on the far grander, cosmic one which follows for us all. But the general meaning of grace is the mercy, gift, or favor of God, particularly something that saves or protects people from dangers both physical and spiritual. In the biblical story of the flood, the warning to Noah and the instructions to build an ark and save the animals and his family have been considered an example of grace. In Christian teaching, the forgiveness of sins and the promise of a happy afterlife are chief expressions of grace. The traditional teaching also holds that grace is something that cannot be earned or deserved: it is a gift, and not a right.

The one special type of grace I

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will talk about here is called “irresistible grace.” This is the doctrine that human beings are so innately bad that they are incapable of even wishing to be good, but that God chooses a select few and makes them so. This is tied up with the insidious idea, which is still abroad in the world today, that all observable circumstances are an expression of divine will. So people who are rich are rich because God wants them to be, and people who suffer, suffer because God desires it. People deserve only suffering and pain, and it is only God’s intervention that causes any other sort of fate. These ideas are important to us as Unitarian Universalists because of how loudly and emphatically we have opposed them.

Our tradition affirms a long list of things that all people deserve: justice, compassion, love; food, shelter, safety; freedom of conscience, and a voice in decisions that affect them. Anyone who lives in this world discovers quickly, however, that these things do not fall equally and automatically to all people. There are a great many things that all of us deserve but only some of us receive. So we and our ancestors have found it essential to the work of religion to struggle in the gap between the world as it is and the world as it ought to be. To try to meet the basic physical and spiritual needs of ourselves and others, and to identify and challenge the structures and systems that caused those needs to go unmet to begin with. This is why we answered doctrines of innate human depravity with hope in the capacities of the human soul, why we countered eternal damnation with universal salvation, and why Unitarians and Universalists have played major roles in movements against slavery, heterosexism, economic injustice and religious intolerance in North America and Europe. Our belief that the work of religion is to serve human need is also the motive behind our free supper program here at First Parish, and our determination, in the face of more than a few challenges, to serve as a temporary overnight shelter for homeless families in the Family Promise program. All people deserve to have such basic needs met.

But there is still at least one great gift that all of us need but which I believe none of us can be said to have earned: the gift of being alive. Before I existed, I had no merit to argue from. It might be said that a life that isn’t alive yet is a morally clean slate, but then I was no cleaner than any of the uncountable other people who might have existed instead of me. It is a staggering privilege to be, not just because of the grandeur of the world and the wonder of existence, but because there are only so many human beings who have or ever will exist – yet there are an infinite number of people who might have existed, if things had unfolded just a little bit differently. The you who was born in June instead of May, or in Cincinnati instead of Cleveland. The you who was born with a different hair color, different gender, different body type, or different set of parents. An impossible number of yous were possible; only one of you happened. And the one of you that happened is phenomenally lucky to have happened.

Which brings me to the definition of grace I want to offer you this morning: grace is luck redeemed by the purpose we put it to. It’s a fairly common idea that the seemingly disconnected events of reality are part of some vast and inscrutable plan. Simply put, that everything happens for a reason, a part of a larger, higher cause. I believe that evidence does not bear this out – that for every church choir spared from a natural gas explosion, there are catalogs of tragedies both horrible and horribly mundane in which people no less holy, lives no less precious, were lost to something equally arbitrary. Still, I cannot claim to know what is unknowable, and nor can anyone else. That leaves us in a world where things happen either without a larger cosmic purpose or without any knowable one. So instead of trying to find the hidden sacred reason for some great sorrow or joy which befalls us, our work is to find the best purpose to which that joy or sorrow can be put. This applies equally to winning the lottery, breaking your neck, getting divorced, becoming pregnant, or losing the Super Bowl. Something in your life has changed. How your life proceeds is never fully in your control, but you can choose its direction some, and the direction towards which you bend your life can grant some meaning, after the fact, to whatever changed it.

In the Hindu tradition, the great philosopher Ramanuja drew a line between what he called “cat grace” and “monkey grace.” A mother cat, when she sees that her child is in danger – or when she sees the same child doing something she does not think he should be doing – picks the kitten up by the scruff of the neck. She simply moves him to where she wants him to go, and his best contribution to her effort is to simply not resist. A mother monkey, on the other hand, carries and cares for her child, but needs the child’s cooperation: the baby monkey must cling to her mother.[ii] Grace is a fluid, unpredictable force, but opening ourselves to it sometimes means submission and sometimes means actively grabbing a hold. In the wake of hardship, some way forward might present itself easily: a loved one dies and we devote our energies to helping work against their illness, or to comforting other people in grief or pain. Something like this does not restore the dead or make senseless things sensible, but it is a light in the shadow.

Then, sometimes our expectations are turned on their heads. There is a legend of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi and his travels with the prophet Elijah. One night they were guests of an elderly couple who were so poor their only valued possession was a single cow. They were kind and generous with their hospitality, but after the visitors left, Rabbi Joshua heard the prophet praying that their cow should die. The two next stayed with a wealthy man who treated them poorly and did not offer them even a crust of bread. When they were back on the road, Rabbi Joshua heard Elijah pray that a dangerous crack in the wall of the man’s house should be repaired. They came to a town where the people refused to welcome or greet them, yet as they left, Elijah blessed them with the wish that they all should become leaders in their village. Then they entered a town where the people were warm and kind and shared all that they had. As they left, Elijah pronounced his hope that only one of them should ever become a leader. Finally, Rabbi Joshua couldn’t take it any longer, and asked the prophet why he had done these things, returned good with evil and evil with good. Elijah explained that he only prayed for the cow to die in place of the old woman, so that she and her husband would have more time together. The crack in the wall held a great treasure hidden behind it; Elijah had prayed that it be sealed so the unkind owner of the house would not gain more riches to hoard. The pronouncement on the unwelcoming town was not a blessing, but a curse: when everyone believes they ought to be the leader, no one thinks of or listens to anyone but themselves. And the wish for the welcoming town had been genuine: it is better to have a single leader, who takes seriously their responsibility, and whom the people can trust.[iii] Just like Rabbi Joshua, we cannot know everything that will come from a single event: good can follow evil, and what seems a blessing can also bring a curse.

So much has already been said by so many, myself included, about the response to the recent bombings in Boston. About the random circumstances that put some in harm’s way and others in unique positions to act with courage and to save lives. Among these many stories are veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan who have come to Boston to visit with amputees, give them advice on life with a prosthesis, and offer encouragement as fellow members of a relatively small club. It would be presumptuous and insulting to say that one person’s deep loss was meant to equip them to help another person endure a similar fate. We can find great lessons in our suffering but there are always other ways to learn. As a thing unto itself, suffering is fundamentally purposeless. How we respond to suffering, on the other hand, can be profoundly purposeful.

Voltaire’s famous character Candide is a young optimist who endures a series of great misfortunes and misadventures. At the close of his story, Candide’s mentor Pangloss recounts these events; some bizarre and improbable, most sorrowful and unpleasant. Yet, Pangloss insists that they live in the best of all possible worlds, for if any of these terrible things had not befallen Candide, he would not have found his way to the relative peace and happiness of a quiet farming life. “Well observed,” replied Candide; “but let us cultivate our garden.” We cannot control the whole world. We cannot fully know the world, in its boundless complexity. Even to judge the world, vast as it is, is a questionable undertaking for our limited selves. But we can affect the piece of time and existence in which we find ourselves. Fortunes fair and foul may buffet us – but let us cultivate our gardens.

We had no right to expect to live before we lived. We each come to reach this moment by some combination of luck, mercy, hard work, and the generosity of others, including the women who bore us in their bodies. Our lives, and all lives, depend upon such undeserved necessity. Even in a world where there is as much to mourn as to praise, our good fortune to simply be in it should move us to give meaning to that luck, by seeking to make the world we share a more just and compassionate place.



[ii] Fred Clothey, Religion in India: An Historical Introduction

[iii] From the Pesikta Rabbati

Going Alone – 5/5/2013

There is an old Jewish folktale about a scholar named Oyzar who sat alone in his home one morning, thinking through an important problem. That day, some of the village children were playing in the lane outside his window, as they often did. The scholar normally enjoyed the sound of the children, and sometimes he would go out and join them in their games. But on this day he was particularly vexed by the matter he was thinking through, and felt that he needed quiet to concentrate. So he developed a scheme to convince them to play elsewhere.

Stepping out of his little house, Oyzar called to the children and asked, “Why are you all still here? I would think you would all be down by the river by now. Have you not heard that the great dragon of the sea is passing this way? How he breathes fire and belches smoke and never visits any town more than once in a person’s lifetime? How his body is the body of a fish and his head is the head of a lion? How his horns are the horns of a bull, and his wings are the wings of an eagle? And how to catch even one look of him will bring good luck and good fortune all the remaining days of your life? Well, what are you waiting for? You’d better run if you want to catch him; he might already have passed us by.”

With that story, the eyes of the children grew wide and they all set off as one at a gallop towards the river. Oyzar thought himself very clever, and did not feel too bad about having tricked the children until a little while later when he heard another loud commotion outside his house. Stepping out of his house again, the scholar found a crowd of people from the town streaming towards the river. When he asked what was going on, one of them turned and told him excitedly, “The great dragon of the sea is visiting our town today. He has the head of a lion and the body of a fish, he breathes fire and belches smoke, he brings good fortune to anyone who sees him and if we don’t hurry he will pass us by and never return while any of us still live.”

Oyzar listened to this exciting tale and quickly turned around and dashed back into his house. He took his coat off of the hook and was halfway into it and out the door when he realized that he had heard that story before. It was the same one he had told to the children earlier; word must have made it back to the village, and now some of the adults had fallen for his ruse. He hung his coat back up and returned to working through his puzzle.

Then, once again, loud sounds of voices and footfalls reached his ears. Once more he went out to see what was going on and found another group of people from the village walking towards the river. This group was older and more distinguished then the first, and so it moved a bit slower. In it were several of his fellow scholars, a few of his teachers, and the seven of the wisest folks then known to live in the town. He called out to one of these to ask what was going on, and the old sage turned and said, “Young Oyzar, it must be that you have not been diligent in your studies. For if you had devoted yourself fully to learning, you would already know of the great dragon of the sea, who breathes fire and brings good fortune and passes by our town no more than once in a lifetime. And if you had been truly studious, you would know that this very day is the one appointed for the dragon’s visit. You must recommit yourself to the work of learning, but for now, come with me, quickly, or you may miss your only chance to see the famous beast!”

Again, Oyzar ran back inside, grabbed his coat and darted back out towards the river. This time, however, he did not stop. As he ran, he thought to himself about the story he had told – he had simply made it up. But if the wisest of the wise believed that there was such a thing as the dragon of the sea, that it was tremendously lucky to see it, and that today would be his only chance for the rest of his days, then, it seemed to him, it must be true. So Oyzar ran all the way to the river and spent the afternoon waiting with the rest of the town, hoping to spy the dragon of the sea.[i]

It happens that we have had our own once-in-a-lifetime visitation here in Beverly, yesterday. I can’t say whether or not those of us who saw Angie Miller parade down Cabot Street yesterday are entitled to a lifetime of good luck – though I can say that the band from Beverly High was pretty darn great. But whether it’s in pursuit of something real or something imaginary, we human beings have a tendency to act in groups. The more folks that are following a plan, chasing a dream, or pursuing a celebrity, the more that others are likely to join them. This year we’ve

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been talking together about the courage to risk meaningful in order to do what needs to be done. I’ve offered some examples from in and around our tradition as Unitarian Universalists, of people who’ve shown such courage in different ways. This morning, I want to highlight the courage to step away from the crowd, to chart a different course even against a strong prevailing current. And the example I want to offer of this is Toribio Quimada, who is generally held to be the founder of Universalism in the Philippines.

Toribio Quimada was born on the island of Cebu, in the Philippines, one of thirteen children in his family. A former Spanish colony, the Philippines were and remain an overwhelmingly Roman Catholic nation, and the Quimadas were a Catholic family. Now I want to be clear that there are a lot of different ways to practice Catholicism – with more than a billion adherents, it’s an incredibly rich and varied tradition. The particular version that Quimada encountered in his childhood, however, was not of the sort that acknowledges this diversity. It was a rigid, doctrinal system that felt to him cold and controlling. Among many other things, he was taught in his local congregation that even the reading of the bible was a sin: one ought to listen to and learn from the priests, and be satisfied with their lessons and counsel.

It wasn’t until his early adulthood that Toribio encountered any tradition other than Catholicism. When he moved to the island of Negros and was exposed to Presbyterianism through his cousin, he read the bible for the first time. This led him to become a Protestant and join with the Iglesia Universal de Cristo – the Universal Church of Christ – a local church organization in the Philippines. He was now free to read the bible, but still constrained in most of the other ways that he had been before: the Protestants of the Philippines were very nearly as orthodox as the Catholics. The emphasis in both groups was on a harsh, dangerous, judging God, whom all people should fear and obey. This and other elements of the faith did not sit entirely well with Toribio Quimada, but he still had a strong calling to the religious life. He became a minister, and eventually a leader of several congregations within the larger Iglesia.

You may be waiting for the anticipated shoe: how this fellow found his way into our shared history. It comes by a lovely bit of serendipity. Hoping to gain some much-needed materials for his congregations – to obtain more bibles, among other things – he sought assistance from people of good will in other nations. The United States has a long history of involvement in the Philippines, including a long pseudo-colonial occupation, which Toribio grew up under. When Toribio found a listing of churches in the United States, he looked for one that would match some or all of the name of his own. Under ‘U’ he did not find a ‘Universal Church of Christ,’ but he did find a ‘Universalist Church.’ After a false start, he received a reply from the Universalist congregation in Gloucester and was connected with the Universalist Service Committee who sent the requested bibles and other religious and educational literature.

Through this accident, Toribio Quimada found a faith that responded to many of his own concerns about the narrowness and meanness of a religious system that, so far as he knew, was the only option in existence. He began to share his ideas – against the infallibility of scripture, and towards a more humane, compassionate, and loving God – with the congregations in his care. Many came to share some of his outlook. His questions, and the answers he proposed to them, were intolerable to those above him in the church hierarchy: his license to preach was withdrawn, and he was eventually excommunicated. Yet the congregations that had been entrusted to Rev. Quimada left with him.

Knowing that someone else, often anyone else, agrees with you, or is even willing to entertain the idea that you might be right can be a great help in finding the courage to embrace a new idea. The story is told of the Prophet Muhammad that when he received the first of his revelations he was alone in a cave. When he returned to his wife, Khadija, she saw that her husband was troubled and afraid. He explained to her what he had seen and heard: an angel, mystic letters written in the sky, poetic lines of divine wisdom, which he was instructed to repeat. “I have never abhorred anyone more than a poet or a madman,” Muhammad said. Now he seemed doomed to be both. But Khadija reassured her husband: she knew him, and knew what sort of man he was. If God was going to choose a prophet, this seemed to her a fine choice. Because she believed in his message even before Muhammad did, Khadija is remembered as the first Muslim.[ii]

Finding the larger Universalist movement gave Toribio and his people the same sort of validation. What the congregations who left the Iglesia Universal de Cristo forged together was a religion, a form of Christianity, grounded in a universally loving God and otherwise steeped in a reverence for skepticism and freedom of thought. His community’s first personal contact with the larger Universalist movement was a missionary from Japan, Rev. Toshio Yoshioka, who reported to colleagues the profound relief of a people who had previously struggled with the doctrines of original sin and eternal punishment, but had believed that they had no other choice. Soon after, the congregations on Negros became affiliated with the Universalist Church, and the Unitarian Universalist Association following the consolidation in 1961. While the vast majority of congregations in the UUA are located here in the United States, the Filipino congregations are among the key exception: their 25 congregations and more than 2,000 members are part of the same governance structure as we are. Our central offices in Boston belong just as much to them as to us, though they are 13 time zones further away.

There are a few lines from a song I think of often as a catalog of some of the possible costs for doing what we feel is right. They go like this, “I am asking everything you have to give. I am asking everything you have to give….You will lose your youth, your sleep, your arches, your strength, your patience, your sense of humor. And occasionally, the love and support, of people you love very much.”[iii] Toribio Quimada did, in fact, pay a very high price. Embracing Universalism meant expulsion from his religious association and alienation from much of his family. It gave him a derided outsider status in his community: when he ran for local political office, opponents scared away orthodox voters with the slogan, “If you vote for Quimada you will become a Universalist.” Toribio’s faith led him to activism on behalf of the poor, particularly peasant farmers. This was likely the reason for the nefarious circumstances of his death; it has not been proved, but he seems to have been targeted by agents of the repressive government then in power in the Philippines. Setting out against the wind of tradition, the current of the status quo, or the tide of the crowd can be hard, and it is sometimes very costly.

There is also the very real risk of simply being wrong. Sometimes, the crowd is right, or at least the best course cannot be found by running in the opposite direction of it. It is important to remember the difference between argument and contradiction, because indulging in contradiction is one of the best ways to be wrong. “Argument is an intellectual process. Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of whatever the other person says,” as Monty Python’s Flying Circus reminds us. Choosing a different path simply in order to be different is contradiction, not argument. And there’s another important lesson from a different TV show I believe should guide our attitude towards going alone. Here I will clean up the language a bit for the pulpit: “If you meet one creep in the morning, you met a creep. If you meet creep all day, you’re the creep.[iv]

Yet, as like the song says, when the spirit says move, you gotta move right along. When we know that something is not right, when we see injustice, or are a party to it. When what we say, or what is being said for us, does not agree with what is true in our hearts, we have a duty from our faith, to stand outside the consensus and choose difference over conformity. As the teacher Jesus is said to have taught his students, when they told him of having rebuked a stranger who was performing miracles in Jesus’ name, “Do not hinder them. For whoever is not against us is with us.” Additional exfoliant from banished free braids…

those understandings.



[i] Traditional Eastern European Jewish story, based on a retelling in Steve Sanfield’s “The Feather Merchants”

[ii] At-Tabari 2/207

[iii] “We Will Never Give Up,” by Kirsten Lems, based on a speech by Jill Ruckelshaus.

[iv] Graham Yost, Justified, Season 4, Episode 1.

[v] Mark 5:38-39

Reading Between the Lines

There is a practice from the early days of Puritan worship in New England. Some of you have heard me talk about it before; it’s something I keep coming back to because it fascinates me. Worship in that place and time was not centered upon a formal sermon, prepared in advance. Rather, the crux of the service was a reading from the bible.

The reader did not, however, simply read the text and then sit down. Doing so would have been considered hollow and spiritually empty. Instead, speakers would read their passages line by line, interrupting frequently to explain the meanings as they understood them. They would also offer their interpretation of the stories and lessons they read, pointing to ways in which they found the ancient words to apply to their own lives and the lives of people in their community. When this was completed, the congregation would respond. Anyone could rise and provide their own interpretation as well – and here I really do mean anyone; in a profoundly sexist and repressive age, this may have been the place where women in these communities had the most freedom to speak their minds.

This practice eventually fell away. One of the possible reasons for this is that such an open forum became too much of a threat to those in authority, who benefited from the status quo. A lengthy address by a minister – which at that time meant a man with a high degree of formal education, almost guaranteed to have an interest in not rocking the boat – became the safer option.

That original practice of collective reading and interpretation, of paying very careful attention to a single, short text, comes from the tremendous reverence that our Puritan ancestors held for the bible. It was a singular source of guidance and inspiration for them. In our current formulation, we Unitarian Universalists tend not to feel a strong connection to that strand of our history. Our tradition affirms that wisdom and meaning can be found in many different sources, so that while the bible may be very important to some of us, it is not the sole spiritual authority for us any longer. But that attitude does not originate from discarding that book that was so precious to our forebears. Rather, it grew out of a sense that other words, other stories, and other books could convey truth and meaning too. We arrive at our collective openness to wisdom from literature both sacred and secular not by demoting the bible from a position of reverence, but by promoting everything else to reside alongside it.

So this

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summer, I want to invite us to return to an ancient practice in light of our present religious understanding. During our summer services in July and August at Dane Street beach, we will follow a version of the worship method I described: reading a relatively short text line by line, with explanation throughout, and opening a place for people to comment and reflect on how it relates to their own experience and their own lives. I want you to be a part of this. All of us have some book, some poem, some story (and for many of us, yes, some bible passage) that touches us deeply: counseling, inspiring, or challenging us. If you would be willing to share yours with the congregation on some Sunday this summer, please speak to me or to a member of the Music & Worship committee.

In Faith,

Rev. Kelly Weisman Asprooth-Jackson

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