Answering the Angels
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I want to acknowledge right up front that the story of the Annunciation, the visitation of Mary from the angel Gabriel as described in the Gospels presents us Unitarian Universalists, with all sorts of challenges. Read more →
In Praise of Weeds
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Pity the poor dandelion. It is, in many ways, nature’s perfect plant. Read more →
Freedom From. Freedom To
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Every spring at Stonewall Farm in Keene, New Hampshire—and at other dairy farms throughout northern New England—there’s a festival to celebrate the season. Read more →
Sweet Anticipation
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I had the exquisite experience recently of being in the midst of a community of hope. Read more →
Run for Your Life!
I have always been fairly athletic, and I enjoy playing a good game that gets my blood pumping. But I loathe exercise. I’ll run all day long if I’m on a court or a playing field, but ask me to run to get or stay in shape and I’ll kindly decline. I’ve tried several times in my life to become a runner, hoping to experience that “runner’s high” that I’ve heard so much about. In fact, when the running craze first hit the East Coast in the early ’70’s, I was among the first to buy a pair of bright blue Nike’s with the yellow swoosh on the side and take to the roads. I lasted about three weeks before pain and boredom overcame me. Two to three weeks seemed to be my limit every time I tried to get on the running bandwagon.
Then early this summer my daughter called and told me she had started the “Couch to 5k” program, and that I should try it too. I was skeptical, but she was persistent. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “Right,” I replied. “Like pulling fingernails is fun.” Eventually, she wore me down and I decided I’d give it a try. “C25k” (as we in the know call it) is an interval training program that starts off with lots of walking and a little running. By the end of nine weeks, you’re not walking at all, and you’re running the full 3+ miles.
I’m proud to say that I have stuck with the program and am now a “C25k” graduate, and that I’ve kept up my running since completing the program. My daughter and I have started looking for a 5K race we can enter together to celebrate our accomplishment.
But the truth is that I still find running really boring. I run a 3 mile loop around town that keeps me mostly on residential streets and a couple of busier roads. I was told that running on pavement is easier on your joints and muscles than running on the concrete sidewalks. So, when it’s not too narrow or busy, I opt to run in the road (always facing oncoming traffic as I was taught in grade school). I watch the oncoming cars carefully, to be sure that they see me and keep a safe distance. When a car gives me a wide berth, I usually give a little wave to acknowledge the driver’s awareness and kindness.
Lately, I’ve developed this little interchange between drivers and me into a kind of spiritual practice. For the past several runs, I’ve begun to say a small prayer or blessing for each passing motorist. As I wave, I say “May you know peace” or “Know that you’re loved.” I wish health, happiness, peace, love, passion, success, and joy to the occupants of the cars that pass me by. For those drivers who either aren’t watching or don’t care to give me some space, I pray for their attentiveness, their alertness, and their foresight as I hop up onto the curb.
In offering these small blessings to strangers who pass me by, I find that I, too, am blessed. As I pray for these things for others, I am reminded of the joy, peace, love, passion and successes I find in my own life. I experience the blessings of good health, of the air that I breathe in, of the incredible machine my body is. I notice the gifts of the sky, the trees, the wind and the sun.
May you know peace today. May you know that you are loved. May you feel joy. And may you find, in some small way, the opportunity to wish that for others as you go about your day.
Love,
Peter
The Mean Season
Like many of you, I am already bemoaning the tone and tenor of the Presidential campaign. I’m not surprised, mind you, nor are you, I’m sure. While we might have hoped that the candidates and their surrogates would “take the high road” and focus on issues in substantive ways, this fall promises to be the meanest, nastiest, most vitriolic campaign in our nation’s history. I am sick of it already, and it’s not even Labor Day, the traditional “kick-off” date for the campaigns.
To make matters worse, I find many of my friends, both real and “virtual,” pouring gasoline on the flames of division and divisiveness. No sooner are words out of the mouths of the candidates (or some talking head supporting one or the other of them) and – BAM! – social media is riddled with outrage. My friends (who tend to be left-leaning) are quick to both create and forward postings about the latest affront or indignity uttered by their conservative counterparts, often without taking the time to step away from the keyboard, much less to check the facts.
Why, I wonder, do people who ordinarily behave in compassionate ways, support and perpetuate the vitriol that we’re so quick to bemoan? Is it just too easy to pass along a degrading comment about a political opponent with the push of a button? Are we trying to come across as “hip” or clever to our friends, most of whom are already aligned with our position already? We’re certainly not seeking to lift the political discourse out of the gutter that it’s in. Many of us wouldn’t dream of uttering in public many of the accusations we hurl online, yet we hit the “like” or “share” button with reckless abandon. And that makes us participants in, and part of, the problem
As people of faith (no matter what faith you subscribe to), we are called to seek out the best in ourselves and in others. That doesn’t just apply to our flesh and blood selves, but to our online identities as well. In our lives we stand in solidarity against schoolyard bullying. We march for human rights and the doctrine of inclusion. Some of us proclaim loudly and proudly that we “Stand on the Side of Love.” Yet behind the protection of our keyboards and our computers we don’t think twice about “othering” and even demonizing those who don’t share our political viewpoint or who see the solutions to our problems differently than we do.
Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against moral outrage and indignation. We need to voice, both loudly and clearly, our concerns and our solutions. We should advocate for our positions and our candidates. But when we mock, degrade and vilify those who think differently than we do, we debase not just them, but ourselves and the very democracy that we all so dearly treasure.
As we become inevitably immersed in this mean season, I invite you to join me in striving to live up to the principles of our faith, of your faith (whatever it is), no matter how hard that might be. In the language of Unitarian Universalism, let’s ask ourselves how might we continue to “affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity” of our political opponents? How might we remember to strengthen, rather than degrade, the strands of the interdependent web of which we’re all a part? Let’s consider how we might, in the words of Jesus, love not just our friends, but our “enemies” as well? Perhaps it begins by simply taking a breath before we hit “share” or “like” on our Facebook page. May that be our spiritual practice in the weeks and months ahead.
This day, and every day, I wish you peace.
Peter
Olympics Fever
I have had to tear myself away from my television to write this post. After all, the gold medal match in women’s doubles table tennis is on, and I hate to miss it. That may sound tongue-in-cheek, but I’m serious. In the past 10 days I have been consumed by the Olympics. While others criticize the strangle-hold NBC has on the games, I’ve enjoyed watching wrestling on my phone, sailing on my computer, and all manner of racquet sports on the various cable television outlets.
While I consider myself somewhat athletic, or at least active, I’ve been wondering why I’m so consumed by the “Games of the XXX Olympiad.” Yes, I watched the Olympics as a kid, and every four years they catch my attention. And I enjoy watching sports on television as much as the next person. But my experience of the Games is qualitatively different this year.
Like most, I’m drawn by the amazing achievement and ability of the athletes. The things they can do with their bodies, as well as their minds, is truly astounding. And the competition itself is compelling. Watching an individual or team progress from the early rounds to trying for a gold medal, we’re drawn into the battle ourselves. And while sometimes the “back story” that the network tells us about the athletes feels forced or rehearsed, there is genuine human drama involved in each stroke of the oar and each smash of the shuttlecock. I also enjoy the complete surprises, the “no-name” athletes from small countries who shock us with spectacular performances and unexpected victories.
But beyond all of this, what has captivated me this year as it never has in the past, is the pursuit, and sometimes realization, of human potential that Olympic competition represents. One of the sponsors of the broadcast runs a commercial showing the swimmer, Ryan Lochte, swimming across an ocean. His voice-over says that dreaming did not get him to the Olympics. That imagination didn’t get him there. That hope didn’t get him there. “I had to swim there,” he tells us. It was, he says, simply hard work that got him to the Olympics. And I think that’s the most egregious misrepresentation of what it takes to excel at athletics and, for that matter, any human endeavor.
Work without dreaming is drudgery. Work without hope is slavery. To toil without imagination is to repeat by rote, wearing down a rut that eventually will become a grave. It is imagination, dreams, and hopes that fuel our efforts, that inspire our achievements. And what has inspired me during these Olympics are the dreams of these athletes, along with their commitment to pursue them.
I watched a young American table tennis player named Ariel Hsing progress through the early rounds of the singles tournament. At age 16, Ariel was playing on the world’s biggest stage. We were told that, at the age of 8, Ariel dreamed of playing ping pong at the Olympics, that she wrote that dream down on a piece of paper that she kept in a box in her room. And there she was. She eventually lost to the number two seed in the tournament, but her dream had become a reality.
And as I watched Ariel I wondered what my life might have been, had I had such a dream and had I pursued it with such dogged determination from such a young age? Or what any of our lives might have been had we done so? And then I realized that we needn’t ask that question in the past-tense, like only our youthful dreaming matters. Each day, as long as we’re still breathing, we have the chance to dream, to imagine, to hope. And each day we have the chance to work to make that dream a reality.
What is your dream for yourself? What do you imagine doing, or being, or becoming? What is your hope for the future? How and when will you (and will I) start the work of making them a reality?
It Could Have Been Otherwise
We spent the Fourth of July like many others do. We got together with family and friends, we had a cookout with way too much food, and we set off some fireworks once it got dark. The family fireworks are always a highlight of the day, and we all anticipated a great show this year. What we didn’t bargain for was the near-disaster they turned into.
As dusk fell the men (family tradition dictates that it’s always the men who prepare and set off the fireworks) brought out boxes and boxes of pyrotechnics (all legal, here in New Hampshire). We sorted through the stash, prepared the fuses, and decided what order we’d shoot them off. The rest of the family, including children, enjoyed blueberry pie and ice cream on the deck overlooking the “launch site.” The first several displays went off without a hitch. And they were met with appropriate “oooh’s” and “aaah’s” from the friendly crowd. As we try to do every year, we started off small, building up to the “big stuff” toward the end.
About halfway through our show, we had a little glitch. As rockets went soaring skyward, a couple, for unknown reasons, shot off to the side. One came buzzing by those of us standing near the pile of un-ignited fireworks. We laughed it off as an abberation and kept going, bringing out the “big guns” as we neared the end of our show. Then, right in the middle of one of the biggest displays we had, the entire thing blew up. It was a massive explosion that sent red-hot rockets sizzling in every direction. Including several that aimed right at the crowd. People dove for cover and ran in every direction. Once the smoke cleared, we took a headcount. Everyone was accounted for and safe. No one was injured by the blast. Never, in all the years of setting off family fireworks, had we had such a close call. (It wasn’t until the next day that we learned that another family suffered a similar malfunction that seriously injured several small children.)
Fortunately, my wife and daughter missed this whole incident. They had decided to drive our grandson home before the show began. But they had a close call of their own. As they rounded a bend in the road, my daughter noticed a large shadow looming off to the left. She slammed on her brakes just as a bull moose, standing as tall as her SUV, loped across the road right in front of them. Her quick reactions averted a disaster that could have led to their serious injury or worse.
After the smoke cleared from the fireworks malfunction and we found out everyone was all right, and later when I heard of my daughter and wife’s close call with the moose, I breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a silent “thank you” to the Universe that our family was intact, safe and sound. In both cases, it could so easily have been otherwise.
Close calls and near misses remind us of how precious, and how precarious, our lives are. And gratitude is the appropriate response to these reminders. It doesn’t matter to whom or what you pray your prayer of thanksgiving, or that you even call it a prayer at all. Whether or not you believe that it is “God’s will” that you or a loved one avoided tipping over into the abyss, or that it was fate, or plain, old dumb luck, we can’t help but give thanks that we and our loved ones are here to greet another sunrise.
The writer Jane Kenyon expresses this sentiment in her poem “Otherwise.”
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birchwood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
On the Fourth of July it could so easily have been otherwise. Someday it will be so, for me and mine, and for you and yours. For all the days until it is, let us experience and express our gratitude.
Peace,
Peter
The New Face of Courage
Courage comes in many forms and it wears many faces. We often think of those who put themselves in harms’ way for the sake of others as being courageous. The firefighter who rushes into a burning building. The soldier who risks life and limb to save a buddy who’s been wounded. The mother who shields her baby from imminent danger.
This past week, I saw another face of courage. It was worn by a young woman who lives in Arizona, whose mother brought her across the border when she was an infant. All her life she lived in fear. In fear of the knock on the door in the middle of the night. In fear of the police who patrol her neighborhood. In fear that when she came home from school her mother would be gone, taken to a detention center to be deported.
This young woman, now in her twenties, has declared her freedom from fear and has become an advocate for the rights of undocumented people just like herself. She has attended and spoken out at immigrant rights’ rallies. She has “bucked the system” and achieved both a Bachelor’s and a Master’s degree from Arizona State. She has started a “language exchange” in Phoenix, where undocumented youth from her community can come and teach Spanish, thereby earning a little cash to support themselves while they also learn to speak English from their students. (See the video here: Spanish for Social Justice ) She is, in all aspects of her life, proclaiming her heritage, her identity and her status in the face of frightening, brutal and repressive forces. And she’s doing it with joy and love. The face of courage that I encountered last week wears a big smile, and it is beautiful.
After hearing this woman’s story, I’m called to ask myself where courage comes from. Not the “run into a burning building” courage (which, while certainly admirable, often is more a reaction to circumstance), but the kind that says “I’m in this for the long haul, no matter what.” The kind of courage that enables and empowers us to get out of bed, day after day, to face a world full of risk and danger. I have to believe that this kind of courage is grounded in love. In the love that we receive from others and in the love we have for the world.
We need a community of love around us to provide the foundation for all that we do. Knowing that we are loved, no matter what, by our family and our friends gives us the courage to venture out into a hostile world. It also forms the basis of our self-esteem, the basis of our belief that our lives matter and that we can make a difference. This kind of love empowers us to declare our own worth in the face of those who would deny it.
A love of the world calls us to engage with it, in all its beauty and all its horror. When we love the world, like a parent with a troublesome child, we acknowledge its imperfections, yet we cast our gaze to the horizon of its potential. Love for the world allows us, in the words of Bobby Kennedy, “to dream things that never were, and say, why not?” And it creates in us the commitment to do what we can to make those dreams a reality.
As I move through the days ahead, I will carry the image of this young woman with me. She is, for me, the new face of courage.
Peace,
Peter
What Really Matters
I recently conducted a memorial service for a young woman who had taken her own life. She left behind a loving husband and her five year old daughter, as well as her mother and siblings. It was, in every sense of the word, a tragedy.
I had only met this woman briefly on a few occasions, but she made a big impression in a short time. She talked about having just received an advanced degree and starting a new job. She said she was looking forward to becoming a part of our congregation and enrolling her daughter in our religious education program. She was one of those people you wanted to be around. She seemed so full of life and hope and dreams. That’s why I had such a disconnect when I received a call from her sister, telling me what had happened. “How could someone like that do something like this?” I asked myself. It made no sense. And then in conversations with her family, I discovered that she had been waging a life-long battle with depression and bipolar disorder, and I realized that all was not as it seemed on the surface.
As I have reflected on this woman’s life, and her death, these past few weeks, I’ve reached a simple, but perhaps profound, conclusion: All of our lives are incredibly complex. Each of us has much more going on than we like to admit, to each other and perhaps to ourselves. Every one of us has a story that we hold deep in our hearts, that is ever unfolding, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, and we are much more than we appear to be. We all wrestle with our demons, and yet we present brave faces to the world. And even when we think we know someone well, there’s a lot we don’t know.
Knowing that every one of us struggles, every one of us hurts, every one of us is so much more than meets the eye, we must, in our every encounter, treat each other with kindness. Kindness is the healing balm of the soul. Kindness must be our “default” mode of interaction, because we don’t know what the other person is really going through.
In her poem “Kindness,” the poet Naomi Shihab Nye writes:
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
With this young woman’s death, I realize that it is “only kindness that makes sense any more.” It is kindness that we have been looking for. Kindness is the only gift we can give each other that will ever really matter.
This day, and every day, I wish you peace.
