Religious scholar Karen Armstrong has studied the teachings of religions large and small all around the world. And she has, as we all have, witnessed the strife in our world: the pain, the isolation, the injustice, the inequality.

And yet, she realized, no religion teaches that those things are acceptable.  All of the world’s religions, in fact, teach compassion.  They use different words and different concepts to talk about it, but all of them teach their followers to treat other people with kindness and respect.  All of them teach their followers that moral, good people help others.

In her book Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, Armstrong asks us first to learn about compassion.  What do the religions of the world say about it? What have we been taught about compassion—from our heritage, from our families, from our experiences? And most importantly, what does Unitarian Universalism teach about compassion?

We’ve got a principle about it, certainly.  We covenant to affirm and promote, among other things, “justice, equity and compassion in human relationships.” And yet, how often does our practice of this principle stop with promoting justice?

What does it mean to promote compassion in human relationships?

How would our society be different if we made it the norm that we try to feel one another’s pain—that we suffer with one another instead of watching one another suffer. Justice and equity only require the latter—it’s compassion that requires the with.

Our Universalist heritage also encourages us to compassion. The promise of universal salvation, at its most basic, is that all of us are going to end up in the same place when we die (we can disagree about where and what that place is). I don’t think of heaven as a realm for the soul that is outside of what we know—I think of it as right here, in the midst of the world that we know.

Your being, mine, and everyone’s—all part of one, interconnected, closed system.  I am regularly stopped in my tracks by the unfathomable beauty of this notion that we are inextricably bound to one another. The promise of our connectedness requires us to realize our unity with all of creation.

In his 1945 work A Religion For Greatness, Universalist minister and theologian Clarence Skinner emphasized our religious call to work toward the unity of all beings, which he defined as “the coherence of what may seem to be separate, into a oneness. Unity,” he wrote, “means an operative harmony, a functional relationship which belongs to all the parts of a whole.”

Later in this work, Skinner also wrote, “This great religious experience of the unities and the universals, however, tends to direct [humanity] outward toward what is greater than the atomistic human.”

Clarence Skinner pushed to expand the notion of Universalism that his spiritual ancestors had developed.  He called us to a “cosmic mind-set” in which we all realized our connection with—indeed our unity with—everything that is, everything that has been, and everything that ever will be.

We are one with the stars.  With the planets.  With the oceans and mountains and ice caps.  With the forests and the deserts and the fauna running through them.  We are also one with one another.

This unity of existence has profound implications for how we live.

This unity of existence calls us to suffer with those who suffer, because we are they and they are we.

This unity of existence calls us to practice compassion. Our faith teaches us we must.

Our hearts break open for the pain of the world. For the pain of our planet, whose delicate balance has come undone, and for all her creatures. For mudslides and floods, for rising seas and melting ice, for storms and droughts.

Our hearts break open for the pain of nations. For the cries of war, for the brutality of despots and dictators. For bombs and guns, trained on enemies whose hearts beat the same as ours. For leaders whose greed goes unchecked while their people starve, whose anger defies reason and ignores compassion.

Our hearts break open for the pain of communities. For hatred that marches down the street, and for history that has not yet been relegated to the past. For acts of terror that leave blood in their wake, for cries for help that go unanswered, for every time those sworn to protect instead inflict harm, for the brutality of our carceral state.

Our hearts break open for the pain in our homes. For sickness and death, for abuse and its aftermath. For those we desperately want to help but cannot. For relationships that require constant work, and for the anger that erupts to signal yet more work is needed. For children who struggle to keep up, bodies that no longer do what we want them to, and siblings who lose sight of what is most precious. Our hearts break open for the everyday pain that being connected and vulnerable brings to us.

PHOTO BY BRUCE HONG ON UNSPLASH

Our hearts break open for the pain in our hearts. For the mistakes we’re still beating ourselves up over. For the imperfections we have yet to embrace. For relationships we have lost and fear are irreconcilable, amends we have yet to make with those we have hurt, and the unfinished business of forgiving ourselves. Our hearts break open for life.

If you care about the world, your heart breaks open on a regular basis. If you care about another person, your heart breaks open on a regular basis. This business we call life, it breaks our hearts open wide. Again and again. And as our hearts break open, we have an opportunity to put them back together differently—to put them back together connected to one another.

Juana Bordas, in her book Salsa, Soul, and Spirit, challenges us to move from “I” to “we,” from the individualism rampant in modern-day European and Euro-American society to a collectivism found in Native American, Latino, African, and African-American communities. As Bordas writes from her own experience, “Latinos cherish belonging, group benefit, mutuality, and reciprocity. Interdependency, cooperation, and mutual assistance are the norm.”

Forming real relationships in community means engaging in the vulnerability of exposing our hearts to the world. And it means finding ways to engage in healing our hearts together—as one community, as a “we” instead of simply a collection of individuals. Forming real community means finding ways of mutuality and connection.

Beloved, you are not alone. You are part of a “we” that extends beyond your understanding. Let us knit our hearts together in community and commit ourselves to mutuality, curiosity, reciprocity, and cooperation.

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Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por el dolor del mundo. Por el dolor de nuestro planeta, cuyo delicado equilibrio se ha roto, y por todas sus criaturas. Por avalanchas de barro e inundaciones, por el aumento del nivel del mar y el derretimiento del hielo, por tormentas y sequías.

Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por el dolor de las naciones. Por los gritos de guerra, por la brutalidad de déspotas y dictadores. Por bombas y cañones dirigidos a enemigos cuyos corazones laten igual que el nuestro. Por líderes cuya codicia crece incontrolable mientras su gente se muere de hambre, y cuya ira desafía la razón e ignora la compasión.

Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por el dolor de las comunidades. Por el odio que marcha calle abajo, y por la historia que aún no ha quedado relegada en el pasado. Por los actos de terror que dejan sangre a su paso, por los gritos de auxilio que quedan sin respuesta, por cada vez que los que juraron protegernos hacen daño, por la brutalidad de nuestro estado carcelario.

Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por el dolor en nuestros hogares. Por la enfermedad y la muerte, por el abuso y sus secuelas. Por aquellos que queremos ayudar desesperadamente pero no podemos. Por las relaciones que requieren un trabajo constante, y por la ira que estalla para indicar que se necesita más trabajo. Por los niños que luchan para no quedarse atrás, por los cuerpos que ya no hacen lo que queremos que hagan y por los hermanos que pierden de vista lo más preciado. Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por el dolor cotidiano que nos causa el estar conectados y vulnerables.

Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por el dolor en nuestros corazones. Por los errores por los que todavía nos estamos castigando. Por las imperfecciones que aún tenemos que aceptar. Por las relaciones que hemos perdido y que tememos son irreconciliables, por las enmiendas que aún tenemos que hacer con aquellos a quienes hemos lastimado y la tarea pendiente de perdonarnos a nosotros mismos. Nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren por la vida.

Si te preocupas por el mundo, tu corazón se rompe y se abre regularmente. Si te preocupas por otra persona, tu corazón se rompe y se abre regularmente. Este asunto que llamamos vida, nos rompe y abre el corazón de par en par. Una y otra vez. Y a medida que nuestros corazones se rompen y se abren, tenemos la oportunidad de volver a unirlos de manera diferente, de volver a unirlos conectados con otros corazones.

Juana Bordas, en su libro Salsa, Alma y Espíritu, nos desafía a pasar del “yo” al “nosotros,” del individualismo desenfrenado de la sociedad europea y euroamericana de hoy en día a un colectivismo que se encuentra en los nativos americanos, los latinos, las comunidades africanas y afroamericanas. Según escribe Bordas a partir de su propia experiencia, “los latinos valoran la pertenencia, el beneficio grupal, la colaboración y la reciprocidad. La interdependencia, la cooperación y la asistencia mutua son la norma.”

Formar relaciones reales en comunidad significa comprometerse con la vulnerabilidad de exponer nuestros corazones al mundo. Y significa encontrar formas de participar juntos en la sanación de nuestros corazones, como una comunidad, como un “nosotros”, en lugar de simplemente una colección de individuos. Formar una comunidad real significa encontrar formas de reciprocidad y conexión.

Amados, no están solos. Son parte de un “nosotros” que se extiende más allá de su comprensión. Unamos nuestros corazones en comunidad y comprometámonos con la colaboración, la curiosidad, la reciprocidad y la cooperación.

“We are writing this in pencil, not etching it in stone.”  — from the Article II Study Commission Report 1/17/23

One of the defining characteristics of our Unitarian Universalist faith is that ours is a “living tradition.” We do not etch our faith in stone precisely because we hold sacred that it must change. It must adapt to new challenges, it must meet new understandings, and it must evolve based on new experiences and connections.

Members of the Article II Study Commission & some UUA Board/Administration Liaisons (l-r): Dr. Paula Cole Jones, Dr. Rob Spirko, Maya Waller, Becky Brooks, Kathy Burek, Rev. Meg Riley, Rev. Cheryl M. Walker, Satya Mamdani

This change includes our most central language as well, which is why our Association’s Bylaws mandate regular reviews of Article II of the UUA Bylaws, better known as the Principles, Sources, and Purposes of Unitarian Universalism.

The current version of how we articulate the center of Unitarian Universalism is the seven Principles. Those principles were introduced to us in 1985, and were a significant change from the concepts that preceded them. Their passage was not without disagreement, some of which was rooted in a love for the 1961 language.

In mid-January 2023, the commission that has been faithfully working for the past two years released their proposal for an Article II that leads our faith into the future. Most dramatically, it replaces our Principles with seven core Values, each of which comes with a charge to each of us, expressed as a covenant.

The values are centered on Love, named as a spiritual discipline that holds us together, and are named as Interdependence, Pluralism, Justice, Transformation, Generosity, and Equity. There’s even a beautiful graphic representation of them in the report. There are more words, of course. And most of what we love about our current Principles lives on in some version in our Covenant.

Of course, this is the central document for the Unitarian Universalist Association, centered in the United States. It is not the guiding force for UU congregations outside of our Association—including non-UUA member congregations elsewhere in our world. It remains to be seen how this understanding of Unitarian Universalism might ripple out and be transformed as it meets the realities of other cultural understandings of our faith. I hope it changes as it does so. It’s a living tradition, after all.

I hope that CLF members will read the report and reflect on this new way of understanding our Unitarian Universalist faith. Delegates to the 2023 UUA General Assembly will vote on a final version of this proposal in June. We will likely hold engagement sessions over the next few months as materials come available to do so. Keep your email open for such announcements.

From the Article II Study Commission Report: a visualization of the new proposed language for Article II, defining six Unitarian Universalist Values, all centered in Love. Graphic design by Tanya Webster.

Often, when people find out that I was a scientist before becoming a minister, they make assumptions about how my brain works, or about how I must see the world. These assumptions are based in a perception of science as cold, distant, and rational. And while it is true that I bring a certain rational brain to bear on collecting and analyzing data, that skill is reserved for when it is truly needed.

Instead, my science background invites me to see magic and mystery in the world around me. It invites me to wonder at everyday occurrences—to find the special and the sacred in the blooming crocus, the varied songs of the cardinal, the laughter of children, and the storm blowing in from across the river.

My science background invites me to see all of these things as intricately interconnected to all of existence, and to marvel at how complex it all is.

My science background invites me to realize that the depth of that complexity means that it is impossible that humans will ever understand it fully.

Too often, people see science as an attempt to do just that—to understand everything fully. But any good scientist will tell you that every new discovery brings with it a new depth of understanding of what is still not known. Every question answered means two more questions asked. As Physicist John Archibald Wheeler once said, “We live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. As our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance.”

My experience of science is that it asks me to see our world as full of wonder. Full of possibilities for understanding. Full of questions that are exciting to pursue.

Many times as a graduate student in cell biology, I holed myself up in a small, dark room with a very large microscope for hours as I experimented on immune cells taken from lungs.  My experiments examined the movement of those cells, and on testing whether the proteins I studied stimulated those cells to move.

It was amazing and humbling to understand that the things I did on the large scale made those cells move on the microscopic one. There, in that small, dark room, looking at those very tiny cells, I could not help but be overwhelmed by my connection to a vast and unfathomable universe.  I could not help but be filled with a sense of wonder and awe.

PHOTO BY DREW HAYS ON UNSPLASH

In this world away from that microscope room, I also see wonder and awe everywhere.

I want to invite you into this wonder-full way of experiencing the world. This way in which everything is an exciting and sacred thing.

When next you read about a scientific study, I want you to imagine the scientists who produced it. I want you to imagine them in their labs, or field stations, or conference rooms. Imagine them asking questions—lots and lots of questions. Imagine them getting more and more excited by the questions before them. And then imagining them figuring out how they are going to ask those questions in their work. Not how they will answer them—but how they will ask them.

When next you experience something you don’t understand (and for me, that is almost every moment of every day), ask questions about it. Change your questions and see if it changes your experience of that thing. Ask other people what their questions are and see if those questions change your experience. Enter into the world of wonder. It’s a wonderful place.

In the 1940s, as the German army began to impose its totalitarianism across Europe, many people fled in fear of their lives. At the time, the Unitarian Service Committee (USC) committed itself to rescuing as many refugees as possible. Their work was dangerous, and they saved the lives of many.

The documents created to help these refugees escape needed an official logo, so Dr. Charles Joy of the Unitarian Service Committee hired a graphic designer, Hans Deutsch, himself a refugee, to create one. The flaming chalice drew upon ancient religious symbols to be an official seal for the USC. The communion chalice, the holy oils used for blessing in many religions, the altars of Greek and Roman times, and lights put in the window as a symbol of hospitality are all evoked by the flaming chalice.

Throughout World War II, this symbol guided refugees to safety on travel documents, business cards, and in the windows of otherwise hidden offices.

After the war, the flaming chalice gained popularity as a symbol of Unitarianism, and then later of Unitarian Universalism. The ritual lighting of the chalice in UU worship became widespread in our congregations in the 1970s.

Our flaming chalice is still a symbol of life-saving welcome. Where it burns, its light beckons us all to live up to our shared principles and participate in the liberation of all people.

There is a famous joke about early-20th century U.S. President Calvin Coolidge, who was known as a person of few words. One day, it is said, Silent Cal, as he was known, went to church and his wife Grace stayed home. When he got home, Grace asked him what the sermon had been about. “Sin,” replied Cal. “What did the preacher have to say about it.” Grace asked. Cal paused, sighed, and replied, “He was against it.”

Theologians for millennia have disagreed about the nature of sin, and whether and how sins are ultimately reconciled. Some have declared that, thanks to the great harm done to people perceived as committing sins in the name of religious judgment, it is not even a useful concept.

I believe that having a moral code is useful, and that looking at our actions through the lens of that moral code is a worthwhile exercise. I also believe that we, as Unitarian Universalists, need to be careful not to make “sin” into a permanent mark against someone. Sin is not a useful concept if it is used to make people into the dehumanized “other.”

James Luther Adams, a famous 20th century Unitarian/UU theologian once wrote, using the unfortunately gendered language of his time, “It cannot be denied that religious liberalism has neglected these aspects of human nature in its zeal to proclaim the spark of divinity in man. We may call these tendencies by any name we wish, but we do not escape their destructive influence by a conspiracy of silence concerning them.  Certainly, the practice of shunning the word ‘sin’ because ‘it makes one feel gloomy and pious’ has little more justification than the use of the ostrich method in other areas of life.”

I agree with Adams.

So what is a Unitarian Universalist theology of sin?

Many Christians define sin as that which separates us from God. This, of course, asks humans to pretend that we know what it is that God wants, and we know the danger that thoughts like that have wrought in humanity. I believe that sin is defined as a separation in relationship as well, just not necessarily our relationship with a divine.

Once again, I turn to Adams, who declared that Unitarian Universalists “deny the immaculate conception of virtue and affirm the necessity of social incarnation.” What does this mean? Virtue—and its opposite, sin—are defined by relationships. There is no such thing as goodness or evil in and of themselves—both are defined by the effects of our actions. The effects of our actions on other people as well as on the interdependent web of existence of which we are a part.

Sin is what separates us from one another.

Sin defines people as “other.” It makes them invisible when they are right here in front of us. Sin silences. Sin abuses. Sin gaslights. Sin knowingly harms another and then blames them for overreacting to that harm. Sin creates systems of oppression that target people for who they are, and makes those systems of oppression replicate themselves again and again.

My colleague the Rev. Molly Housh Gordon draws upon womanist theologians in her understanding of sin. She writes, “I have come to think of sin as an ethic of domination that desecrates particular lives as well as perpetuating sinful systems. Drawing upon the work of womanist theologians like Emilie Townes and Delores Williams, I conceive of sin as the exercise of control over another in a way that objectifies, or, in Williams’s words, ‘invisibilizes’ others and our connection to them. This domination destroys difference—tearing the fabric of the web of life.”

Gordon continues, “Sin is the acts of domination and annihilation that result in part from our illusions of separateness. Our sin is every moment that we forget or violate our relationships within the web of interconnection that binds together all creatures and our world.”

Sin is what separates us from one another. It is what breaks relationships. It is the point at which one stops listening, the point at which one stops caring. It is the point at which we believe another to be irredeemable.

And sin is something we all must grapple with. We all do it. And we all must seek redemption for it when it occurs. It might not be a permanent mark on our souls, but it certainly is a permanent part of life as we know it, since none of us is perfect.

If someone asks you what your minister had to say about sin, you can tell them I’m against it. 

Interdependence has been a central concept to our Unitarian Universalist faith since our current principles were adopted in 1985, and yet, too often Unitarian Universalists have focused on the implications this has for our relationship with the natural world around us, without understanding that we, too, are part of that web.

What does it mean to acknowledge our place in the web of all existence?

Our Universalist ancestors taught us that we all end up in the same place when we die. Centuries ago, they meant that all souls would be in heaven, but I like to expand this theology and filter it through my scientific brain.

I am regularly stopped in my tracks by the unfathomable beauty of this notion that we are inextricably bound to one another. All of our being ends up in the very same place when we die—the same place it came from in the first place, the same pool of atoms and energy that has created all life since the formation of our Earth, the same protons and neutrons that will create all life for the duration of our planet’s existence.

We are one with the stars. With the planets. With the oceans and mountains and ice caps. With the forests and the deserts and the fauna running through them. We are also one with one another. This unity of existence has profound implications for how we live. We need to learn together to make decisions that consider the other beings with whom we share our fragile planet.

The theological notion of interdependence exists in relationship with other parts of who we are, and the most important has yet to be inserted into our principles. The most important concept that interdependence relies upon is accountability.

When we are accountable to someone or something, we hold ourselves responsible to them. When we are accountable, we allow others to measure our success. In justice work, we talk about accountability to those who are most vulnerable, those who are oppressed, those who are the targets of discrimination and hatred.

When we practice accountability in justice work, we take instructions from those who are most effected by the work we are doing.  When we practice accountability, we learn to live the tenets of interdependence.

We understand that climate change is changing our oceans. Carbon dioxide is acidifying them, hotter temperatures are melting ice and causing sea level rise. We understand that we are interdependent with the beings of the ocean, and that our fate as humanity requires that we address their fate.

What does it mean to be accountable to them, though? What does it mean to be accountable to the people of Kiribati, whose island nation is disappearing under the sea? How do we live understanding that our actions might determine whether or not they have a home in a decade?

We understand that modern agricultural systems are wreaking havoc on our planet, on its soil, on its beings, on pollinators and birds and animals. We feel our interdependence with the earth when we eat. What does it mean to be accountable to this knowledge?  How do we change our behaviors to take into account the needs of those most vulnerable to this change?

At CLF, we also understand that the addiction of dominant U.S. culture to mass incarceration is a direct descendant of the systems of oppression that founded this country. The United States began with slavery and genocide and continued into an era of terrorism at the hands of private individuals, and now it is the government itself practicing that violence.

We ask ourselves often what it means to be accountable to our incarcerated siblings, who are the targets of this violence. We ask ourselves often what it means to be accountable to Black and brown communities torn apart by systems of injustice. And now we are asking how our larger faith movement might be accountable to the voices of our incarcerated UU members. It changes the way we do things to practice that accountability.

I have heard some recently say that accountability is something they fear—because accountability requires those of us with power in this world to exercise that power as power-with, and not as power-over. It requires us to take directions, to listen, to understand relationship.

Instead of being something to fear, however, I invite us to think about accountability as the way in which we live our commitment to interdependence.

The Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco hangs this banner in support of a permanent ceasefire now. The banner is from the Interfaith coalition of Faith Communities across the San Francisco Bay Area. Photo credit: Aisha Hauser

Recently, several people have taken the time to write to us about the ways in which we talk about Israel and Gaza, especially on our weekly talk show, Voices of Unitarian Universalism (aka The VUU). I thought that our wider community would be interested in my response.

It is correct to say that the CLF Lead Ministry Team has taken a clear stance on the current state of the conflict. We believe strongly that the preservation of life is the value that should be most paramount. I have been taught by Jewish teachers that this value is in line with the highest teachings of Judaism. We believe that all lives are worthy of preservation, even if all lives are not equally threatened by violence at present.

We also believe strongly that those with the most power to preserve life have the most obligation to do so. On a recent show of The VUU, my co-minister Christina Rivera eloquently spoke about the power imbalance present right now in Gaza, and why our stance is that Israel needs to be responsible for a cease-fire. Some have noted that Chris made them think; for this we are grateful.

We have not taken a stance on Zionism, nor will we; it is simply not our place as non-Jewish people. We understand why criticizing the actions of the State of Israel might make it seem as if we have done so, but we are clear that the actions of Israel are not on behalf of Jewish people everywhere. We have strongly opposed anti-Semitism in all of its forms, as we oppose all forms of hatred, oppression, and violence.

We have invited Jewish UUs onto the show who share our viewpoint on the abhorrent ways in which current Israeli leadership is dehumanizing Palestinians, abrogating treaty obligations, and murdering innocents. To be frank, we don’t want to feature voices who might support that. I don’t think that academically debating the term “genocide” is worthwhile as hospitals and refugee camps are being bombed. It’s a strong word on purpose.

We are committed to continuing this dialogue in the future. We are working on having Jewish UUs speak on The VUU about the ways in which anti-Semitism is rearing its ugly head around the world. When we do so, we will invite people who have been chosen by Jewish UU communities as leaders.

We hope that the CLF community appreciates the values with which we have come to these positions. We hope that you will continue to let us know how we can live out those values, when we agree and when we disagree with each other.

Interaction Institute for Social Change | Artist: Angus Maguire.

Perhaps you have seen the widespread cartoon image that illustrates the difference between “equality” and “equity” [above]. First drawn in 2012 by Dr. Craig Froehle, it shows two panels. In each, three people of varying heights are trying to watch a baseball game over a fence, and they have three crates to stand on. In the scenario labeled “equality,” everyone gets one crate, which allows the tallest person to tower over the fence, but the smallest person still can’t see the game. In the scenario labeled “equity,” the crates are distributed so that everyone can see over the fence.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this cartoon as Unitarian Universalists discuss naming equity as one of the core values of our faith. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about why there is a wooden fence in the first place, and about all of the people in the stands whose access to the game doesn’t depend on the distribution of crates.

If someone were to attend the game in a wheelchair, they’d need more than crates to see over the fence. They’d need an expensive ticket, and a ballpark policy that carves out appropriate and desirable places for wheelchairs to be. (It is purely coincidental but illustrative that this week, a friend who uses a wheelchair and loves baseball took to Facebook to decry the ways in which several major league teams make it harder for him to attend games by putting additional steps in place if one wants to buy a wheelchair-accessible seat.)

It seems to me that true equity is that everyone has access to the game in a way that fits their bodies and brains and not their wallets or the willingness of someone to give them a temporary boost.

It wasn’t until I decided to write about this cartoon, though, that I learned that its original creator researches inequities in healthcare. This makes the difference between getting into the ballpark and trying to see over the fence even more stark. For too many people, inequity leads to death.

I have hope that our Unitarian Universalist embrace of equity will be deeper and more meaningful than a cartoon. Part of the proposed language for what would be our core values reads that “we covenant to use our time, wisdom, attention, and money to build and sustain fully accessible and inclusive communities.”

If we are really serious about equity, then, we will work to make our communities—inside and outside of our congregations—fully accessible and inclusive.

This means accessible and inclusive to all bodies. This means accessible and inclusive to different ways that brains work. This means accessible and inclusive to people with different financial means. That means accessible and inclusive to people with histories of trauma and also those who are imprisoned.

It also means that Unitarian Universalists are called to understand ourselves as part of accessible and inclusive communities, so that when we build structures that allow everyone to be part of things, they don’t come across as unfair or unequal.

Have you ever complained that someone else got a crate to see over the fence, even if you didn’t need one?  Sadly, over my years as a minister I’ve fielded way too many similar complaints.

Instead, let us tear down that fence and let everyone into the game. Let’s create space where we can all have the place we need to participate, and where we don’t resent the full participation of others.

Rev. Dr. Michael Tino
Lead Ministry Team, Church of the Larger Fellowship

Recently, I’ve heard more and more people wondering what is the place of covenant and accountability in Unitarian Universalism. In some circles, they have become almost dirty words–signs that we are somehow abandoning the individualist faith that so many people mistakenly think we are. And yet, both of these concepts are central to our faith.

Covenant consists of the sacred promises we make to one another. It is not a fixed set of beliefs, but rather a living understanding of how we are in community together. Covenants define the practices of Unitarian Universalism as well as what we are striving to create together.

As a faith movement, our congregations are bound to each other in covenant. That covenant is expressed in Article 2 of the Unitarian Universalist Association by-laws. It lives there because covenants and by-laws, unlike creeds, are meant to be changeable. As our understanding of our faith deepens, as our understanding of our world develops, and as the circle of our faith widens to welcome in those who have too long been marginalized, we must adapt the promises that hold us together.

And so it is that our covenant has been updated recently. Rather than simply asking our congregations to “affirm and promote” principles (a phrase that I came to see as the faith analog of the meaningless phrase “thoughts and prayers”), our new covenant asks us to engage in specific actions to live our faith in the world. It asks us to understand power, how it is abused to lead to oppression and exploitation, and to actively work to dismantle those things in our world. It asks us to commit to changing, growing, and repairing damaged relationships. It asks us to create fully accessible and inclusive communities, and to embrace our differences as we learn from one another.

These are good promises, solid promises that, if we keep them, will help us center our faith in love and live from the values we claim: justice, equity, transformation, pluralism, interdependence, and generosity.

But what if we don’t keep our promises?

That’s where accountability comes in.

In 1646, the congregations in the New England colonies brought delegates together to discuss how they would be governed. The 1648 Cambridge Platform has served since then as the basis for what we call “congregational polity,” the way in which Unitarian Universalist congregations still come together. Even in 1648, congregations realized that one of their responsibilities to each other was to be able to hold each other accountable to the practices and ideals of their faith.

How this happens has changed a lot since 1648, but it has not ceased to be part of the relationship among congregations. We are collectively responsible for the covenant of our faith. And so, we have to be collectively responsible for asking our sibling UUs to be accountable to that covenant.

Accountability does not mean punishment, nor does it mean banishment, like so many people seem to fear. It does mean that we are allowed to ask each other to do better. It means that we are allowed to point out when each others’ actions fall short of the values we claim. Yes, it might mean that we are going to have to get used to giving and receiving constructive, loving criticism.

For too long, our faith has been mired in a hyper-individualism that is good for no one. We are not the faith where, as some claim, one can believe or do whatever one wants to. We are instead a faith where we proudly center our interdependence with one another, a faith that insists that none of us are in this alone.

In the back of our hymnal is an uncredited (anonymous) reading that blesses us with these words: “May we know once again that we are not isolated beings, but connected, in mystery and miracle, to the universe, to this community, and to
each other.”

To these words, I add this: May our connection to each other be grounded in covenant. May it be a connection of mutual accountability and growth. May it be a connection that helps us all live with love at the center of our lives. 

Rev. Dr. Michael Tino
Lead Ministry Team, Church of the Larger Fellowship

The results of the 2024 U.S. Presidential Election have been devastating for many of us. The election of Donald Trump to a second term as President is more than worrying for all of us grounded in a commitment to love and liberation — we know that his fascist and authoritarian agenda threatens the lives and well-being of many of us and our beloveds. The following message was shared online by Rev. Dr. Michael Tino on the day after the election.

November 6, 2024

Beloveds,

I am trembling today with grief and fear. I am finding it hard to breathe, even as I force myself to focus on ways of breathing meant to calm my body. I hugged my child extra long this morning as she left for school—it was all I could do at that moment.

I am reminded again and again of my relative privilege right now. My BIPOC friends remind me that this is exactly who the United States has always been. It doesn’t make it easier. I am mourning a nation that has never really existed, and knowing that doesn’t make the grief less.

Perhaps you are feeling some of this, too. Please know that you are not alone.

At some point, we will figure out what we need to do next to protect those who are most vulnerable right now. At some point, we will be part of a movement to save the lives of those who are threatened by the fascist agenda that won the day in yesterday’s US elections. That doesn’t need to be today (even if we know it’s coming).

Right now, I am reminding myself that I am part of a faith grounded in love. A faith that always has been and always will be profoundly counter-cultural. I am leaning on my faith ancestors to guide me, and I am trusting that my faith community will rise to the challenge presented to us.

I invite you to pray with me (or center yourself, or meditate):

O love that will not let us go, remind us of your presence now.
Remind us of your power now.
Remind us of your tenacity now.
Fill us with your strength that we might know ourselves connected to a love greater than we can imagine.
For we will need that love as we move forward together. Amen.

Yours in faith,
Rev. Michael

Rev. Dr. Michael Tino
Lead Ministry Team, Church of the LargerFellowship

“This being human is a guest house
Every morning is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!”

— from “The Guest House,” by Coleman Barks, based on the original poem by Jallaludin Rumi

Around the world and for many thousands of years, humans of different cultures have created rituals of sympathetic magic intended to invoke unknown powers to act in our world. This kind of spiritual work asks us to make connections between objects and actions and the ways in which we want to affect the world.

In the northern hemisphere, it is winter now, and the farther north one goes, the shorter the days become at this time of year. Where I live in the northeastern United States, the darkest days of the year, clustered around the Winter Solstice, have just over nine hours of daylight in them, a full six hours less daylight than we enjoyed in June.

Our bodies feel that difference. For some of us, it is a welcome feeling of cozy darkness as the long nights wrap us like blankets. For others, it is a dreadful feeling of loss as the light dwindles and comes at sharper angles from a sun closer to the horizon.

And the sympathetic magic that many cultures from the farthest north places have developed to face the winter involves light. We adorn trees, festoon our houses, hang lanterns, and light bonfires. We welcome the fullness of the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow. We bask in the warmth of the blazing Yule log (or the psychological warmth of its digital equivalent on our TV and computer screens).

The Christmas trees that became traditional in the United States began as pagan German celebrations, hung with dried fruits to capture the color and scent of summer and lighted softly with candles. Throughout the Northern Hemisphere, people are celebrating in ways that were designed by the ancients to convince the sun to be reborn, to return to us and give us light and warmth. And, lo and behold, it worked, every year.

And yet, we cannot escape the reality that many people greet the winter—and the many holidays celebrated at wintertime in order to bring cheer to this desolate season—with dread, with fear, and with a profound sadness that no amount of merry-twinkle lights can break. Our spiritual houses are too often visited at this time of year by the guests of grief and sadness, loneliness and fear.

Sometimes the role of the religious community is to inspire us to action.  Sometimes, it’s to mark the important moments in the cycles of our life. And sometimes, religious community exists just to hold us together for a little while. Sometimes, we come together in community despite the unwelcome guests knocking at our doors.  Sometimes, because of them.

We need the touchstone of community, the embrace of love, the practice of reverent stillness, in order to summon the courage to welcome in those guests. To welcome in the crowd of sorrows that persists in knocking on our door again and again, demanding a room for the night.

To welcome in those guests, though, goes against our nature.  Rumi suggests to us that such guests have something to teach us if we sit with them a while. To welcome these guests in, however, doesn’t mean we have to resign ourselves to their permanent residence in our spare room.  Listening to our pain and learning from it is not the same as letting it take us over.

We have to learn how to encourage these guests to move on when they’ve overstayed their welcome.  Nature does this automatically.  The darkness builds through the fall, and peaks at the Winter Solstice.  And then the light returns.  We can learn from nature, especially at the darkest time of the year.

But we have to do this work ourselves.  There is no tilt to our axis that leans us away from the sun—and then towards it again as we revolve around it.

Luckily, we don’t have to do it alone.

We do it together, beloved. Together, we create winter magic. We sing, we light candles, we bear sacred witness to one another. May your life be filled with magic this winter.