The fundamental belief in the value of the individual has long held a central place in liberal religion, and finds a modern expression in our faith’s first principle, an affirmation of the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Such a conviction comes with specific meaning, serving to counter another ancient religious principle, that of original sin.

Original sin teaches us that each of us is born in a state of sinfulness, fallen and unclean. Some interpret this as the simple imperfection of humanity, while others decry an inherent wickedness in us all. As both Unitarian and Universalism were forming in America, the utter iniquity of humanity was preached widely. Calvinist Jonathan Edwards’ famous sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” serves as a prime example. He wrote:

The God that holds you over the pit of Hell, much as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire…looks upon you as worthy of nothing else but to be cast into the fire….

In many ways, Unitarianism and Universalism gained a strong foothold in American society because of their response to this horrible theology.  William Ellery Channing, considered the father of Unitarianism, delivered a powerful sermon entitled “Likeness to God” in which Channing advised:

Let the minister… hold fast… [to] a faith in the greatness of the human soul…. Let him strive to awaken in [people] a consciousness of the heavenly treasure within them.

Affirming the inherent worth of each and every person serves as our great response to one of the most damaging theologies ever spoken. As Unitarian Universalists and religious liberals, it is something we can be proud of and continue to speak loudly when the times call for it, as they sadly so often do.

Yet, sometimes, I wonder if we misunderstand the fullness of our first principle. In a very success-driven society, I think we sometimes see it as affirming not so much our unconditional worthiness as a complete goodness in ourselves, allowing us to ignore the less savory aspects of our character. Affirming our fundamental goodness has its value, but such an emphasis can also lead us to miss the most essential implication of our inherent worth—that we need not be good to be loved.

To know this truth is to be healed. It is to embrace wholeness over perfection, to honor ourselves not as we might be, but rather as we are. I think interpreting our inherent worth as our inherent goodness can lead us to be very fearful about owning up to our own mistakes, failures, and even at times, cruelty. Without a deep acknowledgement of our capacity for, to use the Christian term, sin, we lack a useful theology of accountability, forgiveness, and even love. And yes, despite our inherent worth, despite our basic goodness, we—each and every one of us—do sin. The power of our first principle is not that we do not sin, but that even in our utter failings, even in our most horrible of mistakes, we are worthy of love.

As a young man of 24, just entering seminary, I suffered deeply from an inability to embrace my failings. I resisted acknowledging all the wounds and weaknesses in myself, feeling the incredible need to be good, to be right, to be perfect in order to be loved. I went through a ministerial career assessment, a required part of the process of becoming a minister, and was very nervous. I was afraid to give the wrong answers on the psychological tests. The therapist asked me what my flaws were and I didn’t have the self awareness to answer. It was a painful three days that ended with the group facilitator telling me the therapist had placed a nickel bet with him that I wouldn’t be able to handle ministry. As hard as it was, the experience, for me, began a very painful, yet ultimately liberating, path of growing acceptance of myself not as I want to be, but as I am, even when I fail, even when I am not liked.

Life seems to test these insights. And subsequently I found myself challenged more deeply than ever before. While serving my last church in Princeton, New Jersey, I fell in love and married a woman from Bloomington, Indiana. She had two children and the three of them moved out to Princeton to live with me. Over the course of our time, I found myself consistently torn between the needs of my congregation and the needs of my family. My wife desperately wanted to return to Bloomington, but I felt a deep calling to continue to serve the Princeton congregation. My marriage suffered. My work suffered. I struggled mightily and fiercely and arrogantly to hold on to both, yet never had enough of me to do either well. After three years of struggling, at last I gave in and we moved to Bloomington to raise our family near my wife’s parents.

I learned so much about being incomplete from that experience. I was not enough. From the beginning I pressed on, hurting both my family and the church. I so badly wanted to have both, and refused to see the inevitable—that the situation was unworkable. I also had to give up something very precious to me, something that made me feel like I was a good person—not only my work as a minister but also my dream of one day being an important minister. These were humbling awakenings.

Letting go of parish ministry was perhaps the most painful experience of my life. But I surrendered to a humbler life—and I found a much deeper love inside, both for myself and for others.

In full disclosure, after four years in Bloomington, my wife and I sadly decided to divorce. Self-acceptance remains an essential aspect of this transition for me. I never thought I’d be someone whose marriage would end in divorce. Yet here I am—incomplete, imperfect… and loved.

There are a variety of things I find difficult with conservative Christianity, yet I believe the Christian story, perhaps better than any religious tradition, addresses our human capacity for failure. As the most obvious example, Jesus failed. Jesus was supposed to be the Messiah. He was supposed to take on the Romans and usher in a new kingdom of peace for the Jewish people. But instead, he died—mission not accomplished. All kinds of beliefs have evolved to turn Jesus’ death into a victory, most notably the belief that he died for our sins. But I find Jesus so much more powerful as a failure, as the man who lived and loved, struggled and hurt, succeeded and failed. Jesus, as a metaphor for God, knows us in his humanness, knows us in his weakness, knows us in his failure.

While in seminary, I had a professor, Rosemary Chinicci, who was also a Catholic nun. She told me something fascinating—she believed the resurrection came too soon, that people did not have enough time to sit in the loss, to be present to the failure. I think that’s a powerful insight.

When approaching the pain that comes with failure, we tend to find ways to pass over the experience quickly, to not allow ourselves to be present and actually feel what we’re feeling. We get busy. We criticize ourselves. We criticize others. We dive into one self-improvement project or another. We try to see “the positive side.”

When we fail, any response we make that does not invite in our simple experience of failure removes us from the wholeness of who we are. In so doing, we reject that part of ourselves that does not know success, alienating ourselves from a very real part of our humanity, damaging ourselves by withholding the love that we all deserve.

It is certainly not in our interest to use failures as a means to belittle our worth. Yet, I think it is also not in our immediate interest to take our failures and turn them into something positive—the “lemons to lemonade” approach. To attempt too soon to turn our failures into something “good” can be another way of avoiding the pain of failure, thus avoiding the healing that comes when we compassionately offer our presence to our hurt.

Twelve step programs are just one example of another way. Countless people have been transformed by openly admitting to their failures in the presence of loving community. This is why Rosemary Chinicci’s idea of more time before the resurrection makes such sense. When we fail, we need to allow ourselves the time to simply feel the pain, experience the hurt. In so doing, we allow ourselves to remain open and true to ourselves. For this is ultimately what love is all about. Compassion means to feel with. When we feel our failures, when we allow ourselves to be present to them, without trying to change them or alter them, we know compassion. We know love.

And this, I believe, is the true meaning, the greatest gift of our first principle—the inherent worth and dignity of every person. You need not be good to be loved. And I believe this extraordinary gift bequeathed to us by our ancestors compels us to continue to offer this love to each other and our larger world—beginning with ourselves. May we surrender the need to be perfect, set aside the pretense of success, and enter into the humility of our full selves. We succeed and we fail; in the midst of both, let us show love.

Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211110144453/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/20_06/01.mp3