Become a Worthy Now Prison Ministry Pen Pal

The Church of the Larger Fellowship is comprised of over 2500 individuals serving Unitarian Universalism—half of whom are currently incarcerated. As those of you reading this who are incarcerated know, most of our members in prison are new to Unitarian Universalism and learned about our church from friends or cellmates. With no access to the internet or Sunday services, people who are incarcerated can only learn about Unitarian Universalism from the mailings we send and letters exchanged with our staff and other Unitarian Universalists outside of prison.

Our Prison Ministry provides all people who participate an opportunity to live out our Unitarian Universalist values by connecting with a pen pal. At the Church of the Larger Fellowship, our message is that all of us are part of the interwoven fabric of the universe. We are deeply and undeniably connected. We acknowledge that while our behaviors can vary from loving to hate-filled acts of disruption and harm, our inherent worth remains unchanged. This is the foundation of our pen pal program.

For free-world pen pals (those who are not currently incarcerated): this relationship has the power to bring you into proximity with the issues of those people who find themselves incarcerated. In turn, your heart may be renewed by witnessing the power of Unitarian Universalism present even in the most difficult of places. For members in prison: this relationship will bring you connection, community, and a deeper understanding of how others experience Unitarian Universalism.

The experience of being a pen pal can be transformative for everyone involved. If you are in the free world, you can learn more and apply here. If you are incarcerated and are already a CLF member, you can write to Beth at our Boston office (Worthy Now Prison Ministry, 24 Farnsworth St, Boston MA 02210) to ask for a pen pal application or check where you are in the matching process. Anyone who has completed our New UU course is eligible for a pen pal, though as many of you know, we currently have a waiting list for new matches and the process may take some time. We don’t currently have enough free world pen pal applicants—so if you’re not incarcerated and are interested in being a pen pal, please do apply!

Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211110222908/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/21_02/05.m4a

Once upon a time
I rejected the concept of surrender
without hesitation or investigation Would not even risk
thinking it (surrender, indeed!)

and yet…

when I remember the exquisite shade of red my white girl farmers tan turned
the first time I began to give a speech in Mr. B’ 9th grade Communications class and how I threw up in the girls’ bathroom at the thought of having to speak publicly

when I think of how I went to the microphone at General Assembly
my first one ever
to speak in front of over a thousand delegates on behalf of those too young to vote my heart pounding so hard
that the chalice on my necklace
was bouncing on my chest

when I reflect on my ever-emerging ministry facilitating conversations with first dozens,
now thousands of folx
organizing, teaching, preaching, creating, collaborating
and always learning
about white supremacy and systemic oppression and our faithful work
on the journey of collective liberation

when I re-member of these things
I have no other word than
surrender

I surrender to the call
of love and life and liberation
of life and liberation and love
of liberation and love and life
again and again and again

Each day
we are invited to risk
holy surrender
to the call of life and love and liberation.

and

we do not have to wait to be unafraid.

Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211110223024/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/21_02/04.m4a

About eight years ago I started a meditation practice of drawing or doodling that I call “inklings” —as it gives glimpses both inward into one’s self and outward into connection with others, the earth, or the great unknown. I do this by putting ink to paper. For the first year, I focused on drawing chalices over and over again, which grounded this practice in Unitarian Universalism for me. At other times, I’ve drawn as a method of prayer or meditation, focused on other people or myself, to send energy for healing or comfort. The benefits of doing a drawing or doodling spiritual practice like this are a lot like the benefits of any spiritual practice. It calms me when I’m anxious. It focuses me when I’m scattered. It connects me to my faith and to a sense of something larger. In times when the world feels out of control, it gives me a sense of order and places something small within my ability. And in a time of change, it gives grounding.

Here are the steps for a simple inkling practice of creating a prayer for the self. There are no mistakes, no wrong decisions, and no rules—every step is adaptable to your own wishes. This is not about creating great art. I will describe what works for me, but you will know what works for you and adapt it to fit into your location and available materials. It is also flexible in that it can be done with full attention or with divided attention. (And it is more socially acceptable to doodle in a meeting than to play a game on my phone!) The basic idea is to translate a spiritual practice— a prayer or meditation or worship service or ritual—into a doodle format.

Spiritual practices often begin and end in very specific ways. In Unitarian Universalism, we often light a chalice. So I often begin the inkling process with creating a sense of the sacred around the drawing process— lighting a candle, saying some words, or just finding a special place. And then the process is about focusing thoughts on the self or another person or idea and doodling about it. I do this in a few easy steps.

First, I begin by drawing something on the page to represent the focus of the practice. This might be a circle or a written name, but in this instance I used a circle with a moon in it to represent myself. (“Cynthia” means goddess of the moon.) Then I draw a circle or spiral or petals around the circle. These will be spaces I will fill with the things I am praying for. Anything can go in these spaces, but I often focus on things like love, hope, faith, family, health, friends, and home. And re member, none of these shapes have to be perfect. This is about the process, not the product.

An Unfolding Inkling

If this were a worship service, this next step would be the sermon—it’s the heart of the practice. I fill in the spaces with words, patterns, or images, or a combination, to represent the things I want to increase in life, attract into my life, or just to contemplate more, like health or happiness or love. I like to use a combination of written words and patterns that are meaningful to me. I often draw spirals, a symbol connect ed to the Goddess, and to labyrinths, and to feminist spirituality. When thinking about hope, I draw feathers, from the line from Emily Dickinson, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul.” But what is most important here is to meditate or find a sense of peace while drawing. When I draw a pattern I like, particularly simple ones, I can get lost in the repetition of it for a while. Conversely, Celtic knotwork is beautiful, but I’ll think more about drawing the knot than about the meditation subject, and this is not about creating great art.

Every worship needs a closing, and so lastly, something I do if I’m still not feeling the energy flowing to me that I was hoping for, is to add arrows, directly linking the concepts to the symbol representing myself. The arrows represent the hoped-for flowing of energy. Or if I’m feeling full of good energy, I can direct an arrow out of the circle towards another person or the community or the world. And then, for a closing as I’m finishing the inkling, I just add things around the edge and inside the patterns that I like to draw—spirals, dots, springs, leaves. Some people enjoy doing shading, or adding color, and coloring can be its own spiritual practice. Remember, there are no rules to this!

I invite you to try this process and find ways to make it your own. And if you’ve enjoyed this process, you might find it interesting to delve into two methods that inspired me when I got started, Maria Thomas and Rick Roberts’ “Zentangle” process, and Praying in Color, by Sybil MacBeth. There are a lot of different ways to create your own artistic spiritual practice, and it can be rewarding to try out different ideas and concepts. For me, putting patterns and shapes together to make a bigger image gives me just an inkling of how our 7th principle works—each little thing I do is a part of the larger picture, and each action we take contributes to the interdependent web. Through setting pen to paper, I hope that not only am I centering myself, I’m adding peace to the world.

Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211110223045/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/21_02/03.m4a

The 8th Principle of Unitarian Universalism

The proposed 8th principle of Unitarian Universalism states: “We, the member congregations of the Unitarian Universalist Association, covenant to affirm and promote: journeying toward spiritual wholeness by working to build a diverse multicultural Beloved Community by our actions that accountability dismantle racism and other oppressions in ourselves and our institutions.”

The 8th principle was conceived by Paula Cole Jones, a lifelong UU who believes that Unitarian Universalism needs to expand beyond our current seven principles to make space for true, deeply multicultural beloved community. She discussed and workshopped this idea with Bruce Pollack Johnson and others in their region, and the 8th principle was created. It has been formally adopted by a number of UU congregations, and some people are working for it to be adopted by the whole denomination.

A common response to this proposed principle is, “Why is it even important that we ‘affirm and promote’ any of that? Don’t we already do that? It seems easily summed up in the other principles.” Some say that it feels like we are lifting up one group of people, and leaving others to think that they are less worthy, because about 400 years ago, their ancestors did something bad to the ancestors of others. In other words, some think: why can’t we just let it go and move forward?

I have heard this and more hurtful responses to the 8th principle. As a Black Unitarian Universalist, those responses mostly make me sad.

How do I even begin to be in community and talk about who I am and how I see the world when conversations about race are often so laden in shame, anger, bewilderment? We all seek to protect ourselves from feeling bad, and questioning that which causes discomfort can be a tool to shield ourselves from that feeling. Often, we (including myself) as UUs live in the ‘whys.’ We are a community of seekers. Perhaps it’s even built into our principles.

Yet only asking why allows us to disconnect our brains from our emotions—the perfect out. I am not saying that we should never ask why. Rather, we should not only ask why but also ask how, who, what, and when. Only then can we get a more holistic answer.

Read the 8th principle to yourself again. How does it feel in your body when you take in those words? Check in with yourself—what are you noticing? Track that. Now, how does it feel in your body when you read just a tiny segment of my experience living as a UU? Track that, too. Are you surprised, or does this feel familiar or expected? I know that in my body, I have often felt discombobulated as I have struggled to build an understanding of this faith that has both created a space in which I can belong, and has also disregarded me, covertly asking me to live small to fit in.

I can’t live small. I have to live authentically, and in living authentically, I know that it is my job to offer love and compassion. It’s my job to speak my truth.

If we are to create a beloved community we need to know that everyone won’t agree on everything and that’s okay. It is in those times that we circle around each other to build a better community: a community in which we are all seen and valued.

The truth is that people of color are tired. We are so tired of holding the fragility of white people to be able to be in community with white people. We are already holding so much. I am asking white people to hold what is yours.

Conversely, from speaking to my white allies, I know that some white people are tired. They are tired of getting it wrong. They are tired of trying to do the right thing and having it be the wrong thing. Some are even tired of being responsible for their siblings who are unwilling to do the work. Can you hold that, too?

Recently, a CLF member commented that they were sorry that they missed a recent worship service, and that it was probably one of the only services this year that can’t be turned into shaming old white men. Ouch.

In response, I was reminded again of our community. A community that holds the dichotomy of me, stumbling upon this racial aggression and of the person who posted it, who seems to feel so unsettled by the work of the UUA to eradicate white supremacy that they feel personally attacked. Then I thought about my kids who have been raised UU since birth. I thought of how even in their church home, they have inherited this dichotomy in the only faith they have ever known. This is a complex ity that is lived in and through our congregations every day. How do we begin to heal this divide? How do my children and this person live in the same space and both feel valued?

Some people believe that we already have that and nothing needs to be done. I hold them in compassion, too. I continue to draw the circle wide with the 8th principle, and I invite you to do the same. I invite you to do the work of understanding and account ably dismantling racism, because until we all do this work, we cannot be liberated. Until we all do this work, we cannot maintain safety in our congregations. Until we do this work, we cannot heal our denomination. No matter how difficult it is to do, we must do this work.

“Every disaster movie starts with the government ignoring a scientist” — social media meme, unknown origin

In times of collective stress in a society, people often turn to humor for relief. Social media has been full of pandemic-related memes for months, but the one above particularly hit home for me as both funny and naming a painful truth. The same meme could apply to both the COVID-19 pandemic and climate change; in both cases, so many people in the US and around the world deny a reality that mainstream scientists have confirmed over and over again. Our climate is really changing, and climate chaos is already harming marginalized communities all around the world. We know that more disaster is imminent if those in wealthy countries don’t make drastic changes to the structures of our lives and economies, but in a lot of US political discourse, there is still ‘disagreement’ about something that is factual.

The COVID-19 pandemic is very much real, and it continues to rage on throughout the US with a devastating toll on already marginalized communities, especially those held in jails and prisons. There has been evidence for a long time that wearing masks works to slow its spread, and that this fast-moving virus could have been much more contained if people in power acted quickly enough and believed what experts named.

There’s a pattern here: on the whole, the US seems to be exceptionally good at denying reality, and having widespread rejection of truth and facts resulting in dangerous consequences.

One of the most recent distressing recent examples of this pattern was the attack on our nation’s Capitol Building on January 6th, 2021. A group of armed insurrectionists, encouraged and supported by our former President, attempted to overthrow an election because of denialism. They have continued to deny that the presidential election was free and fair, despite overwhelming evidence that it was.

Our Unitarian Universalist faith continually calls us to examine what we think we know. We are called to reject denialism and embrace a free and responsible search for truth and meaning, as named in our fourth principle. I’ve always appreciated that the fourth principle particularly names that our search for truth and meaning in the world must both be free and responsible. Our faith espouses that revelation is not sealed, that the search for truth and meaning always continues. What does it mean to engage in an ongoing and responsible search for truth?

I believe in part that it means we must always keep in mind our responsibility to each other as we search for what is true. We have a responsibility to make sure our understanding of the world always takes into account the experiences of those who have been most targeted and oppressed throughout our his tory, including understanding how differently Black, brown, and white people experience this country.

Mass Moral Monday March and rally for voting rights, on the occasion of the start of the federal court’s consideration of “North Carolina NAACP v. McCrory”

After the January 6th attack, I saw many UUs express shock and anger on social media that the facts of the election were being denied by the insurrectionists. Though the magnitude of the facts being denied are particularly striking, to anyone who has experienced marginalization or listened deeply to those who have, the pattern of denialism was familiar. To white UUs in particular: I want to invite you to consider how you may have also participated in denialism at different points in your life. Has your culture taught you to listen only to one set of experiences, one set of facts? Have you ever questioned (or seen other white people question) the truths of people of color when they have named their experiences of racism and white supremacy?

Denialism is nothing new; it’s baked into the history of white supremacy and the history of the US. As Unitarian Universalists, our faith calls us to something different, something more. We must continue to search for what is true, and to center our responsibility to each other in our search.

Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211110223114/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/21_02/01.m4a

Though the COVID-19 pandemic truly started months earlier, March 2020 was the month when its life-changing realities hit many of us in the US and other Western countries. In those early weeks of stay-at-home orders and new health and safety protocols, few of us could have imagined just how long and devastating this pandemic would become. There have been over 2 million recorded deaths from COVID-19 worldwide — with over 500,000 deaths in the US alone — and, as enormous as those numbers are, they fail to capture the full scope of loss that this year and the governmental mismanagement of the pandemic have brought. COVID has highlighted and exacerbated every one of the deep inequities in our society, and as those of you who are currently incarcerated know well, it has made our already-deadly prisons into places of even more violence and pain.

As we reach this one year mark of the pandemic as its been experienced in the West, it’s hugely important for us all to acknowledge the collective and individual loss we have experienced. Acknowledging and tending to our grief expands our capacity to hold it, allowing us more room to also hold the joy, resilience, and hope that may exist alongside that grief.

Below is an outline of a simple ritual for acknowledging and honoring the grief of this year of pandemic, as well as the gifts that this year may have brought. I believe that grief and gifts are inseparable — the losses we experience shape us, and we can honor them by making meaning from all they have taught us. Feel free to adapt or expand this ritual in any way that makes sense to you.

A prayer for grief & gifts

If you are able, I invite you to begin this ritual by gathering a pen and two pieces of paper, and finding a quiet spot to sit or lie down. Take a moment to breathe deeply, in and out, until you feel settled and calm in your body. You may then choose to light a chalice if that practice is available to you, or to sing or chant — whatever allows you to mark this time as sacred.

Then, call to mind all that has brought grief in the past year. As a list or in sentences, write down whatever comes to the surface. You may be grieving loved ones lost in the past year, or the continued absence of in-person community, or the loss of the sense of security you felt before the pandemic. Try not to filter what you’re feeling or compare your losses to that of others — all grief is holy and deserves to be honored.

Whenever you feel ready, turn your attention to the gifts or lessons of the past year. Perhaps this year has taught you to slow down, and listen more closely to the needs of your body. Or maybe you have learned more about your capacity for resilience, that you’re able to survive through heartbreak. Again, try not to filter what arises when writing down the gifts of this year — no matter how short or long your list of gifts is, each one deserves your attention.

Next, turn toward the year ahead. What do you hope to leave behind you from this year of pandemic? What do you hope to bring forward with you? Write down whatever rises to the surface, whether or not it is completely within your control.

When you have answered all of the prompts fully, go back through your answers and highlight or underline words that stand out the most. On a new piece of paper, use the format below (or your own version of it) to turn your words into a prayer or spell. Once you are done, read your prayer out loud. Then, fold the paper that has this prayer written on it and place it under your bed or beside your pillow. These words will now be with you as a loving companion in the coming year, a reminder of all that has been lost and all that has been gained, and the choices you are making about what to carry forward.

After a year of pandemic, I honor the heartbreak that I am carrying for all that has been lost. I am grieving ….

By holding my heartbreak tenderly, I also make space to take in the gifts and lessons this past year has brought. In this year, I have received the gift(s) of ….

Turning toward the year ahead, I hope to leave behind ….

In this next year, I seek to carry forward ….

By naming the grief and gifts of this year, I honor all parts of my experience as sacred. With these words I set my intentions for the year ahead, knowing that I am loved and held in care. May it be so.

1. There is a unity that makes us one.
2. All souls are sacred and worthy.
3. Courageous love transforms the world.
4. Truth continues to be revealed.
5. Salvation in this life.

The five jagged rocks were created by Rev. Nancy Bowen, Rev. Mike Morran, and others within the Mountain Desert District of the Unitarian Universalist Association. They are a specifically UU understanding and expansion of what James Luther Adams called “the five smooth stones of liberal religious tradition.” In turn, Adams created the smooth stones with inspiration from the story of David and Goliath, a Biblical tale in which King David defeats the Philistine warrior Goliath by slinging five smooth stones at him. Adams believed that liberal religion just like David with his smooth stones, could have a powerful impact on the world as long as it had the right tools at its disposal. This newest adaptation, the five jagged rocks, recognizes that Unitarian Universalism is rough around the edges. We aren’t perfect, theologically or otherwise, and that’s okay.

I talk about the five jagged rocks all the time: I’ve led workshops for youth, preached sermons, taught adult spiritual development classes, and rambled on about them to anyone what is needed to make this world
and this life the best it can be for all.

I believe that Unitarian Universalism has the potential to be life changing—and many of us know that firsthand. But too often we shy away from using the tools to share it with the world, and often that is because we just don’t know where to start.

A few months ago, I had a conversation about the five jagged rocks with my friend Rose Gallogly, who serves the Church of the Larger Fellowship as Publications Coordinator. I asked her to design a tattoo for me, a reminder of what Unitarian Universalism has the who asks me “so can UUs believe anything?” They resonate with me more than any other description of our faith, stating boldly how our never ending search for truth and our deep love and connection to each other are potential to be, and a reminder that I can be a part of that potential.

Every day I look at my tattoo and am reminded of the commitment I have made to Unitarian Universalism and the commitment Unitarian Universalism has made to me: to be a place where I share my full self, to challenge myself and others to dismantle systems of oppression, and to live deeply into Beloved Community.

For thirty years I was blacksmith of my soul.
I put it in the furnace of austerity and burned
it in the fire of egotism.
I laid it upon the anvil of reproach and beat it
with the hammer of blame until I made my soul a mirror.

For thirty years I was the mirror of myself, and was forever polishing that mirror with diverse acts of stoic harshness and detachment.
I now reflect on what trappings I had embraced as my own:
On my waist, I wore a belt of insecurity; a breastplate of dishonesty; a shield of mistrust.

My campaigns have taken a turn.
I am now a prisoner stripped of my armor,
I can no longer run, no longer hide.
I have cried out for understanding, to a memory, a part of my life no longer denied.
I have reached out and found my strength.
My redemption.
Now, I look into that mirror and what do I see?

Girded around my waist is truth; integrity is my breastplate; and faith, hope, and love are
my new shield.

I have seen that the garments I once fashioned for myself were but temporary and hollow.
They would perish like chafe in the wind.

Now, I have been bestowed with the garb
that is eternal, as my prayers were
answered—for now I tread the path
lighted by knowledge: art, poetry, and music.
My Guides are Monet, Frost, and Bach

In the Fall 2020 issue of the Worthy Now newsletter, we asked for responses on a simple question: How does the CLF feed your spirit?

We’re so grateful for all of your beautiful responses — hearing from you truly feeds our spirits! Here are excerpts from just  a few of the responses we received.  

GARY

CLF member, incarcerated in NC

Growing up as a Christian in the  South meant church on Sunday,  fried chicken for lunch, and  youth group that night. We never questioned the “rightness” of it  all or ventured to think there just  may be another road available.  Doctrine, ritual, dogma rules our  lives, often crushing the very  spirit it was meant to uplift.

Enter CLF. Coming to prison has  strangely been a liberating experience. Formerly having to live a  life in secret, being gay, and worries about a reputation and name, prison opened doors for my spirit.  CLF-UU has given my spirit the  wings to see that church does not have to be a stodgy, dry experience. It can be uplifting!

As my poem [on the next page]  says, stripped of my armor, incarceration has laid me bare, and  removed the trappings I once hid behind. Replacing beliefs no longer my own, CLF-UU has provided the spiritual communion every  person seeks, whether openly or without even realizing it, as we  all ponder the mysterious and  wonderful thing called life.

AUGUST

CLF member, incarcerated in WI

Focus is often directed toward growing physically and mentally. The  problem is a person can be physically  and mentally to their capacity and  still experience a sense of emptiness.  This begins to point to bread alone not being what sustains life. CLF has helped me reframe my mindset so growth is viewed in a more holistic way. No longer do I confine growth to  the physical and mental domain. The spiritual growth CLF has produced  within me not only allowed me to  recognize my worth and dignity, but  more importantly the worth and  dignity of every person. CLF so far  has highlighted the importance of  feeding the spirit. This has forced me  to wrestle with how something so  valuable (i.e. feeding the spirit) can  ever be considered invaluable.

SCOTT

CLF member, incarcerated in CA

The CLF is one of the few windows I  have into the uplifting and inspiring  parts of the world. When surrounded  by bleakness, it is easy to forget that there is plenty of good happening all over the world. In the Worthy  Now newsletter, I am reminded that  there are strangers who care about me even if they can not comfort me  on my darkest days. Reading the Quest Monthly enlightens me with  viewpoints I wouldn’t have encountered otherwise. The free books and courses are essential tools I use in my own rehabilitation. I share them with those who attend self-help groups with me, and I even introduce some of the materials in workshops I design.

There are plenty of mainstream Christians around who simply want to save my soul. Yet, the CLF is helping save me from the hell that is life  in prison. Thank you for empowering me and being a welcoming community. Your compassion feeds my spirit in ways that help me stay resilient in the face of daily hardship.

Is it any wonder that we have a crisis  of relationality in our nation? After  diligently equipping our children to  out-perform one another in a narrow  number of ways—which becomes  the primary focus of their young  lives and formal education—it is left  to congregations, to community centers, to social groups of various kinds  to teach us how to be in complex  relationship with one another—if  that. By and large, even in relationally-oriented institutions, very few  offer classes or training in how to  engage well in the most fundamental of human needs: how to be  in healthy, mutually meaningful  relationship with one another. It is  as if, en masse, we have collectively  decided that these skills are somehow  acquired by osmosis. And, if they are  not learned by osmosis, we wait until  someone ‘screws up really bad’ (gets  into difficulty with their community,  at their workplace, or in their personal relationships) and then we enact  a disciplinary model: punitive action  must be taken and boundaries put in place.

Indeed, at times, healthy boundaries  and accountability are needed. But why do we, as a society, make almost  no effort to teach, not just the fundamentals of human relationship, but  the more advanced skills related to:  what do we do when we screw up?  How are we present to one another  across deeply held differences?  What should we do in the midst of  volatile conflict? How do we ‘show  up’ in meaningful ways for the  diversity that we claim to value and  constantly stumble over? What do  we do with our own subjectivity  and reactivity in the midst of such  critical relational needs?

This is a spiritual crisis, for ‘spirit’  (however we choose to understand  it) is ultimately about interconnectedness, interdependence, and the  connective tissue invisibly binding  everything and everyone to each  other. When we are struggling with  how to relate to one another—how  to even care about one another—in  one of the wealthiest nations in the  history of planet Earth, a nation in  which no one need ever starve or  sleep without a roof over their head,  and yet people do—there is a profound crisis of disconnection. When  it feels ‘safer’ to only be among those  who almost exclusively think like  ‘us’ —cutting off neighbors, family  members, community members,  and co-workers who hold divergent needs and experiences—we are  deepening that disconnection, not  healing it or working with it.

The frayed connective tissue of our  society must first be strengthened  locally, wherever we are, with  whichever groups of people we are  immediately connected to. Only as  tissue gets stronger, as it first heals  and then grows, can it bear the harder  and more weighty loads. Social, civic,  and communal healing requires more  than convalescence, or worse, hiding  in cliques of uniformity. It requires  building muscle, in this case a spiritual-relational muscle. This muscle,  this connective tissue, requires  challenging and transforming the  faulty assumptions that have been  shredding it; it requires practice with  relational skills that many of us were  never taught and some of us may feel  embarrassed not to have or intimidated in learning; it requires patience  and grounding in love, love, and then  even more love. We are already—each  and every one of us—siblings to one  another and to all that exists at the  level of ‘spirit,’ essence, the ontological  nature of ‘all that is.’ We just need to  start behaving like we really get that.  The good news is that intentional  practice and learning—not osmosis— can get us there.

This piece is an excerpt from a larger essay of the same title.  A link to Rev.  Manish Mishra-Marzetti’s full essay is available on our website, clfuu.org. 

Ali speaking during the February 28th online meeting in which the CLF voted to ordain xer to Unitarian Universalist ministry.

In our UU tradition, ministers are ordained by congregations. Only the vote of a congregation can give someone the title “Reverend.” Only the vote of a congregation can place that sacred bond of trust onto the shoulders of someone seen as a minister.

It is with great joy that the membership of CLF on February 28, 2021 voted to ordain Ali K.C. Bell (who was previously known as Antonia Bell-Delgado) to the Unitarian Universalist ministry. It is with deeper joy that I report that our vote included some 92 “yes” votes from our incarcerated members, able to vote because of the tear-off sheet we printed in the January Quest.

Ali will be ordained by the CLF along with the UU Congregation at Montclair, NJ (where xe is completing a ministerial internship) and the First UU Church of Wilmington, DE (xer home congregation). The ceremony will be Saturday, May 22, and we hope to feature an excerpt from the ceremony in our summer edition of Quest.

One of my favorite books is Frank Herbert’s science fiction classic Dune. The story centers on the desert planet Dune, where enormous sandworms burrow under the sands. People who attempt to mine the valuable substance known as “the spice” constantly have their machines destroyed by the sandworms. Later in the story, the main character, Paul, manages to turn the sand worms into an asset rather than a liability.

I grew up in the Bay Area of California, which is well known for being balmy and temperate. Yet, life’s slings and arrows pushed me south into the blaring hot Central Valley; it might as well have been the desert of Dune as far as I was concerned. Although I did not think of them as such at the time, l was also haunted by my own sandworms: depression that robbed me of my strength and hope, fears that devoured my courage. There is something about these unseen terrors that sabotage the best of intentions. The wounds endured early in life have the tendency to fester and become their own unmanageable monsters. For a long time, I saw no way to overcome them.

In our culture, we have a lot of platitudes related to overcoming adversity. Many have become cliches, and I have never met someone who said they were saved by a cliche, myself included. How do you make lemonade out of lemon without sugar? That is what I always wanted to know. And how exactly do you pass a “test given by God”? Professor G. never gave any lectures, and no angel ever came down to provide some tutoring. The alleged textbooks I was given second hand always left me with more questions than answers, I know people were just trying to be helpful when they told me these things, but their words became bricks in the wall I built around my heart.

That wall was there for a long time. However, no wall stands forever. There came a time when I could no longer hide my pain and was desperate enough to seek help. The healing was slow, but it did happen. My epiphany came when I realized all those problems I had helped make me the person I wanted to be: depression and fear made me sensitive to the struggles of others, making me an adept teacher — I now work as a paid tutor and I plan on becoming a professor. In the dark night of my soul, I found grace.

In Dune, Paul turns the sandworms into an asset by cooperating with the indigenous people of the desert. He learns the creatures are actually essential to the production of the sought-after spice. I have found that grace works the same way; it is a gift hidden within our struggles, within the everyday muck of life, rather than being bestowed from on high in the aftermath. So, now I make a habit of looking for sandworms, the power that burrows in the fell clutch of circumstance waiting for me to become its ally.

I know her
In times of turmoil she is unexpected respite
I cherish what she is, what I am not
Her countenance is hopeful
Her words are kind without rebuke
Hers is not charity, yet no debt is incurred
She assumes I am worthy. I am sure I am not

I know her, but I have never been her
When the turbulence passes
She departs with this wise impress
Do not wait for others to prove worthy
They are already
You are able to be Grace for them
Are you willing?

Does believing that God’s grace extends to everyone prove there’s an end to suffering? The contradiction mollifies itself because a loving, wrathful God is graceful and merciful from a Christian Universalism point of view.

When I was six or seven years old my mom read to my brother and I the Bible. I lit up! I believed all of it. She read to us for a few more years, and then we grew up. After that I rarely picked up the Bible, but I remember, one time I opened it to the book of Revelation and attempted to decipher it. I soon gave up.

Then, at twenty-two years of age, I was incarcerated because I went undiagnosed and untreated for more than a year with a major mental illness. This disorder did not allow me to refrain from thinking (and acting out) a false reality, in which my crime was necessary and sufficient to help — save — humanity from suffering, as well as my well-being, and my own recovery. This was a grandiose delusion, even though I should have known I was wrong from a black and white perspective, my mind colored every perspective in support of my delusion. Thus, I was strongly compelled to act on it contrary to the law, regardless of the real consequences which compromised my promises to society due to my insanity.

I could not understand why a loving God would allow my life to turn into, what seems like, a crash course with no end in sight. Fast forward eighteen years of incarceration with another twenty-two years remaining on this course and, in short, it seems God has let me down at every turn. I expected to finish the racecourse.

Fortunately, this is still the case because in my recurring delusions, this life is still the best, most true, and most real life I will ever have, unless the reality is far greater than the delusion. The point is that much did turn out far better for me than I had expected! I can explain every circumstance and event, because I have tasted that the Lord is good (1 Peter 2:1-3).

Moreover, I have a peace that I know I have a choice. It is human nature, and the peace I feel comes from faith in my interpretation (from my experiences). It is my truth. Can I share it with you? May I? It is this Christianity — that almost has it right! That is much better than I expected, but it was that curiosity when I attempted to do something I thought no one on earth has done — justify my life with anything less than grace.

ASHER
CLF member, incarcerated in FL

Photo by Sean Bonner via Flickr

Perhaps the very simplicity of grace is what makes it hard to describe. I’ve been in more than one meandering conversation with Unitarian Universalists about what is grace anyway. Rather than focus on the what today, I want to tell you about the who: Grace Lee Boggs.

Grace was a Chinese-American activist who lived in Detroit and worked for seventy years, connected in community for Black liberation. She was a teacher and writer who believed that freedom was possible and that people could learn how to achieve it, especially by working together to make change. In one conversation with journalist Amy Goodman, Grace Lee Boggs said:

“One of the difficulties when you’re coming out of oppression is that you get a concept of a messiah. You have to get to the point that we are the leaders we have been looking for. We are the children of Martin and Malcolm. I don’t know what the next American Revolution is going to be like, but you might be able to imagine it if your imagination were rich enough.”

Grace Lee Boggs offered the wisdom of change; as Unitarian Universalists, we find ourselves swimming in the deep end of the ocean of change. Most congregations have not been meeting in their buildings for going on more than a year now. We find the political climate and even the meteorological climate to be in the process of change. This would not have been a surprise to Grace Lee Boggs. She viewed change as a container for possibility. She also gave this encouragement:

“Keep realizing that reality is changing and that your ideas have to change. Don’t get stuck in old ideas.”

What does that mean for Unitarian Universalists in this particular moment? First, it is true that no one is coming to save us. If one of the definitions of grace is refined movement, we come to the legacy of Grace Lee Boggs as a framework that can allow refinement of our movement, or the embodiment of grace. As a movement, we will continue to change. As the risk level of COVID-19 transmission decreases, we will move into multi-platform modes of worship, or online and in-person combinations of worship that continue to keep our communities safe and move toward a goal of in-person worship. We will encounter the changing political climate with courage and the stamina that it will take to change both feelings and ideas, toward equity, toward Beloved Community.

One of the ideas that we have the opportunity to embrace as refinement of our movement is the Eighth Principle.

“We, the member congregations of the Unitarian Universalist Association, covenant to affirm and promote: journeying toward spiritual wholeness by working to build a diverse multicultural Beloved Community by our actions that accountability dismantle racism and other oppressions in ourselves and our institutions.”

It is both a new idea and a new practice to say this out loud and to plan to live into it. And we, who have now endured a season of change in which we had few choices, can use our adaptability to continue looking for the ideas that will allow us to live into who we say we are, Seven Principles, then Eight, by which we love each other, our communities, and the world, into healing, into wholeness, and into a new horizon of joy. Come. We are the ones who must lead us forward.

AFGHANISTAN — I can never go back, but it doesn’t let me leave. It latches on to you like an addiction, mentally and physically, and tears you apart like a ravenous dog. The jewel of the orient, along a highway of silk, into the graveyard of empires.

It gnaws at you, especially when you know you can’t go back, mustn’t go back. Yet you go back, like a bad habit, finish a mission started but never completed. Always passing it along to your relief/replacement. Not knowing if they will ever be as good as you see yourself.

You want to go back to finish what was started for the ones who have fallen, not wanting all of the past 20 years to have been in vain for the sacrifice by them and their families.

Every time I left I’d say I’ll never return, I’ll find a new job; but never did. Like my addiction, “I quit, and never again,” but always going back.

A bad compulsion that eventually became exposed to the truth and justice at the barrel of a gun pointed at me, and my family as they slept. I had turned into the monster just like the ones I fought in Afghanistan. Unable to return on my next mission and finish honorably, I ended in shackles with a stain I cannot get rid of. Head hanging low unable to comprehend why I let myself fail. Why I didn’t do more to help myself instead of walking down the path of destruction I made.

Failing to do my part and seek help for a habit that was getting out of control. Not letting someone, any one, help me. All the tools, weapons, and loving support were there, but I spurred them away. Saying, “I can handle this.”

This war I have been fighting; long before Afghanistan became part of my vocabulary. Fought long before the Soviets were there.

Afghanistan is the “graveyard of Empires,” but for me it is my mind. Trying everyday to stay out, and in the light,

locked up by the Commonwealth in an institute of supposed “Corrections.” Trying to resurrect something; salvage the positive from this disaster I created.

I was headed back to “The Stan,” but ended up here! Locked away from society, thrown away, seen as a worthless cause, my honor stripped away by my behavior.

Is it possible to return with honor? Salvage something of my life left, and the family I hurt so bad? Make something good out of all this?

Working day by day, one step at a time, working the steps, seeking the counseling, having faith, and soldiering on.

DERECK
CLF Member, incarcerated in VA

Dear Quest readers,

Hi, I’m Cir L’Bert, Jr., the new Prison Ministry Manager for The Church of The Larger Fellowship.

I’m 35 (which I think makes me the oldest possible millennial), a single father, and have worked as a waiter, warehouse picker, and indie theater manager.

My hobbies include combat sports, history/folklore, and podcasting about pop culture. I’m a lifelong hip hop head and lover of the blues. I’m also a lifelong native and product of Akron, Ohio, where I’m active in the local arts and organizing scene as a writer, public speaker, and racial justice advocate.

A decade ago, my place within my community was less assured. In 2009, a night out with friends resulted in my arrest, and subsequently charged with OVI, drug possession, and carrying a concealed weapon.

After lawyer fees and thanks to my demand to be treated fairly, the drug and weapons charges were dropped (the drugs were revealed by lab analysis to be postnatal multivitamins that I’d purchased for my partner at the time, and the weapon in question was a knife I’d bought at a flea market in high school).

Even so, I spent two years on probation, with six months of that under home monitoring, thirteen days in jail, and one weekend at “DUI school.” Even though I’d only dealt with a fraction of our carceral system, the experience left me frustrated, drained of energy, and depressed about the time I’d lost.

During the final phase of my probation, I’d been required to show proof of attendance at two AA meetings, though I had the option of substituting one of those with a church event.

My parents and brother had started going to a UU church so I decided to give it a try. The open dialogue on religion was refreshing to me, who’d been raised Christian. The focus on social justice was especially important, as my experience with the court system had validated so much of what my parents had taught me about systemic racism and inequality.

More than that, UU gave me a path to deepen a lifelong passion for philosophy, reconnect with my local and wider community through service and advocacy, and helped restore my own sense of worth and dignity, which had been damaged by the carceral system.

I believe that Unitarian Universalism is a liberatory religion. Our First Principle affirms “the worth and dignity of every person” (including the incarcerated), our Fourth Principle calls for a “free and responsible search for meaning,” and our Sixth Principle calls for “justice for all.”

And now, we are widely adopting the Eighth Principle in our churches, which calls us to “dismantle racism and other oppressions in ourselves and our institutions.”

Unitarian Universalism has helped me find a community where I can continue my journey of liberation and abolition. I’m glad it has led me to this moment and I look forward to serving as your Prison Ministry Manager.

In response to my November article about why we use the phrase “Black Lives Matter,” Clifford, a CLF member incarcerated in Illinois, asked me to look into the work of political philosopher Hannah Arendt, who wrote extensively about power and accountability from her vantage point as a survivor of the Holocaust in Germany.

Specifically, Clifford challenged my assertion that “I do not blame individual officers” for police violence against Black people. Drawing on Arendt’s work, Clifford wrote, “by not placing blame for particular action or inaction on the individual officers we not only strip them of the personal responsibility necessary to holding them… accountable, we undermine the importance and significance of the actions of those officers brave enough to stand up against the system.”

Hannah Arendt, in the essay Clifford asked me to read, “Personal Responsibility Under Dictatorship,” writes, “where all are guilty, none is.” Making the case that “it is better to suffer than to do wrong,” Arendt says that individuals have a moral obligation not to perpetuate systems of injustice, even when their own lives or livelihoods are at stake. Clifford, and Hannah Arendt, of course, are correct. It is vital—even in an unjust system—that the individual perpetrators of acts of injustice be held accountable for their actions.

Arendt also notes that politically, “those who chose the lesser evil forget very quickly that they chose evil.” “Acceptance of lesser evils,” she continues, “is consciously used in conditioning the…population at large to the acceptance of evil as such.” This is precisely how systems as violent and unjust as modern policing in the United States have become institutions that most white Americans support and trust—those of us acculturated to whiteness have been conditioned to accept evil.

Clifford is also right when he asserts that the notions of responsibility and accountability are not limited to extreme cases. Each of us makes moral judgments every day. Each of us makes choices for good or bad every day. Each of us has the option, again and again, to choose to participate in perpetuating wrong or to oppose it. And each of us should be held accountable when our actions cause harm to others.

It is here that we find tensions inherent in the principles that Unitarian Universalist congregations covenant to affirm and promote. One example is the tension between freedom and responsibility. Our fourth principle says we affirm “a free and responsible search for truth and meaning.” Freedom has limits. Elsewhere, the “right of conscience” promised in the fifth principle is not always compatible with the “justice for all” we seek in our sixth. Conscience has limits, too.

As a covenantal faith, we rely on how we agree to be together to help us decide what to do. And we rely on processes that help bring us back to covenant when we cause harm—processes of accountability in which we are asked to stop the harm that we are doing, to understand the harm we have done, to make amends for the harm, and finally, to agree not to do it again. Within our faith, just as in our society at large, these processes are imperfect. And yet, they are how we move forward towards creating better systems.

Dearest Beloveds,

We come to you once again following the state-sanctioned murder of yet another Black man, Daunte Wright. We write to you with anger, grief, rage, and hearts torn asunder. We know many of you will feel similarly. We also feel fear, afraid for the next Black person whom police will murder. Will it be our sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, siblings, parents? When will it touch us even closer, as it is bound to do?

We know this to be true because the system is working as designed. The policing system of the United States is working exactly as designed. There is no reforming a system that is predicated on the belief that Black and brown lives are worth less than white ones. That Black and brown people are to be over-policed, feared, caged, and their lives are worthless. This belief has been part of the national consciousness since the arrival of colonizers. It is easy to deny Black and brown people their rights to humanity. Rights that include democratic representation via voting, housing, health care, food, and education. And also the right to simply exist — to walk down the street eating candy, to play in a park, to sleep in one’s own bed, to drive home to one’s child — without being killed by the police.

As the Church of the Larger Fellowship moves to center the lived experiences of those from historically marginalized communities, there will be disagreement over how to live out our Unitarian Universalist theology. As your Lead Ministry Team, we can make clear that there is no police reform but only abolition. There is no freedom without justice. No divine peace without holy struggle.

A Prayer for us all: Spirit of life and love, give me the will to notice and say the things that need to be said. To gain resolve and respite in the shadows and then move into the light with renewed courage to speak and fight for the truth. To remember that I am not free until we are all free.

In Unitarian Universalist Service,
Christina Rivera
Aisha Hauser, MSW, CRE-ML
Rev. Dr. Michael Tino

May 2021

There is no freedom with out justice. No divine peace without holy struggle. —CLF Lead Ministry Team

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“I loved my grandmother every moment of my life. I still do.

I know she did not invent the racialized trauma that both white and Black people blew threw her. None of these people, or their parents, or their grandparents, or many generations of their ancestors, invented this trauma. It was passed down and passed down and passed down and passed down. It is now up to us — to you and to me and to everyone else who cares about human beings — to put a stop to this cycle of trauma. This means metabolizing trauma in our bodies.” —Resmaa Menakem

When I first came to somatics practice, I had been in talk therapy for most of my life. I could tell you, at great length, all of the things that I was working on. I knew myself very well. Changing my behaviors was still a big struggle. My trauma responses to triggers were so hard to shift. My body had absorbed so much and given me coping mechanisms for survival.

Healing is a physical act. It happens in our soma, our body. Our bodies are incredible at carrying so much pain and trauma and memory for us – until we are ready to release them by moving through them. Research shows that our bodies carry more than even what is ours, though. They carry the pains and joys of our ancestors.

In his book, My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathways to Mending our Hearts and Bodies, therapist, teacher and somatics practitioner Resmaa Menakem lays out a theory of how generational trauma must be healed in order to overcome racism in the United States. He ties the brutalism of early colonizers of what would become the United States to the terror and torture of the Middle Ages, explaining how a whole people could inflict such trauma on another. Deeply hurt people hurt people. He describes the different ways in which white body supremacy impacts BIPOC bodies and white bodies today that must be healed.

Healing the trauma in our bodies is particularly fraught for those of us who have our own trauma history. If you have a history of trauma in your life, take it slow. Give yourself a lot of grace. Do not go it alone, ask a trusted friend or therapist to support you. Take breaks whenever you need to. Embodiment can be risky and scary for those of us who have stored painful memories within ourselves. It is an amazing gift that our bodies have taken this in for us. The process of feeling and releasing it needs to go at the pace that feels right for you.

Central to the practice of somatics in the practice of centering. It is how every somatics class or gathering begins. We can do this practice standing, sitting or lying down.

First, we find our core, just above the belly button. We can place a hand there if it helps us connect. We center from this place.

Next, we center in length or in our dignity. We can lift one arm up and one arm down. We allow our lower body to settle into gravity and our upper body to lift in our full height.

Then, we center in our width or in our connection. Perhaps we reach our arms wide to feel our wideness and our interdependence.

And finally, we center in our depth or in our place in history. We feel the space between our back body and our front body. We feel our ancestry behind us and our future before us.

If you take up this process of healing, it will be uncomfortable. Remember, refusing to heal is always more painful over time than the pain of healing. And remember these words from Resmaa Menakem: “When we heal our own trauma, individually and collectively, we don’t just heal our bodies. By refusing to pass on the trauma we inherited, we help heal the world.”

It is our job to do what we can while we are here. To pass on just a little less to the next generation. To heal as much as we can. We are not either traumatized or healed — it is an ongoing process of healing that we all must engage in to stop the cycle of racial violence from continuing to pass from generation to generation.

Healing is hard work. Embodiment can feel dangerous. And it can awaken within us more joy, more compassion, more resilience. It can build a stronger connection between our mind and our body. It can help us more easily access the power and wonder that lives inside of us. It can bring our actions into alignment with our values. And it heals the world.

The CLF held its Annual Congregational Meeting on Sunday June 6, 2021. Anyone who could not attend the meeting was invited to vote by mail ahead of the meeting. To date we have received 440 votes via mail, with over 400 coming from our incarcerated members. 33 members voted in person at the meeting. We are still receiving ballots that were postmarked prior to the meeting and will have final tallies in next month’s Quest.

CLF members voted for the slate of nominations presented by the nominating committee (preliminary vote 445 yes, 1 no, 21 abstain). Annalee Durland-Jones, Aisha Ansano, and Julica Hermann de la Fuente were all voted onto the board. Danielle Di Bona was voted as clerk. John Hooper was voted as treasurer. And Debra Gray Boyd was voted onto the nominating committee.

CLF members voted to affirm the 8th principle, which states that “We, the member congregations of the Unitarian Universalist Association, covenant to affirm and promote: Journeying toward spiritual wholeness by working to build a diverse multicultural Beloved Community by our actions that accountably dismantle racism and other oppressions in ourselves and our institutions.” (preliminary vote 420 yes, 34 no, 19 abstain)

CLF members also vote for the new revised bylaws developed by the board (preliminary vote 427 yes, 8 no, 24 ab stain). For those with internet access, the new bylaws can be found on the CLF website by choosing About on the main menu and then About again.

Thank you to Rachel for your above piece, “Loss as a Gateway to Compassion” — this reflection is prompted by and written in response to your words.

As I write this, I’m about two months into the most significant and all encompassing grief journey of my life. My beloved mother passed away at the beginning of April — a fact that still feels completely impossible, no matter how many times I share it.

I’m new to the experience of this level of grief, so I won’t pretend to have particular wisdom on it. But I can say that so far, this has been the most embodied experience of my life. I’ve never felt more completely in my body than in the moment I learned my mother would soon be leaving hers, and every day since is teaching me more and more about how to care for and love my full, embodied self.

My family had a precious almost week between my mom’s stroke and her death, during which we knew that she was dying and that the most we could do for her was to sit by her bedside and surround her with our presence and love. Every inch of my body hurt that week, and I found myself uninterested in numbing the pain — feeling it made this unfathomable thing that was happening more real, somehow. The pain was as appropriate and warranted as my sobs and panic attack I had by her bedside, each one a physical expression of my complete love for her, and how very much I wanted things to be different.

I could barely eat for that entire week, as if my love for her was taking up too much of my being for there to be room for anything else. I’ve regained my appetite in the time since, but it often feels like my body chemistry has been changed by this loss. My mom loved cooking nourishing, vegetarian meals, and these days, any food that’s even slightly less healthy than what she would make doesn’t sit well anymore (and food that does remind me of her feels even better than it did before).

As I’ve waded into grief, I’ve found that it’s impossible to describe without some level of contradiction. I never experience it as just one feeling: for me, pain and sadness have been woven so tightly together with love and gratitude, there is no

separating them out. Noticing and naming where I’m experiencing each of these feelings physically, in my body, has become a necessary and almost constant practice for me just to move through the overwhelm.

The pain and heaviness usually shows up in my back and my limbs, building up as tension in moments when I feel the wrongness of a world without my mother’s physical presence. But that pain is always coupled with a feeling of warmth and protection wrapping around my heart: what I understand as her presence and love as it’s with me now.

I do feel that warmth around my heart as my mother’s spirit, with me now as she is with all that she loved in life — and I try to simply rest in that feeling as much as I can, and to ignore the nagging pull of my mind when it doubts the ‘realness’ of what I’m feeling. It is easy to doubt, because our minds can’t ever fully make sense of even our deepest spiritual truths; they can simply be experienced, known at the level of the body, and disembodied Western culture has taught so many of us to mistrust what is felt.

Through the heartbreak and exhaustion of feeling so much all of the time, in grief, I’ve also found myself more able to appreciate the everyday pleasures of simply being in a body. When I feel the sun on my skin and smell the spring flowers coming alive in my mother’s garden, each of those sensations feels like a huge gift, anchoring me to my love of this life. There’s no more room for me to take for granted the miracle of physical presence on earth while I’m this close to the otherworld of death.

Loving my physical body, caring for it through its overwhelm and pain, also feels like the most important, everyday way to honor my mother. She cared for me, for my body, so completely in life — caring for myself with that level of love is perhaps the most simple and most significant way for me to carry on her legacy.

If you are on your own grief journey — whether from a recent loss or one still carried close from many years ago — I hope that some of these words have landed gently in your body, either as a mirror or comparison point for your embodied experience. There is no one right way to feel or live with grief; each of our experiences plays out within our unique, messy, infinitely complex bodies, and I think the most important thing may be to simply be with what our bodies are feeling. I hope that’s true, anyway — being with all my body is feeling has been my way of making it through so far, so I’m holding on to it and trying hard to understand it as sacred. Our bodies are sacred, without a doubt, so all their experiences of love and grief must also surely be so.

This might sound strange, but I have felt the most present, the most interconnected mentally, spiritually, and physically when I have experienced loss. It’s easy to see life and acquiring good things as blessings, but loss is a pretty powerful catalyst for change that a lot of people don’t recognize because, let’s face it, who wants to focus on things that make us suffer, give us pain, and can sometimes be traumatizing?

Everyone wants to reach for the light (carpe diem!), but few want to give themselves over to the dark night of the soul, to look at your own shadows, face them, and be thankful for the opportunity to embrace that pain and hardship and grow from your past (carpe noctem?).

Life and creation are just as sacred as death and destruction — both are needed for existence to even be possible in the first place. Some trees can’t grow without the occasional forest fire. Mothers sacrifice their life force just to bring in new life. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Loss has been a gateway to com passion. It shifted my perspective, forcefully and not too gently, but sometimes we need to be shoved out of our comfort zones to get to where exactly you need to be, whether it’s to learn something yourself or to be there to help someone else.

RACHEL
CLF member, incarcerated in MO

The body is the slowest part of ourselves. Our thoughts, emotions, spirits — these can move at lightning speed, switching from one state to another in an instant. The body, though, takes time to learn. The metaphor shifts from lightning to ocean liner, changing direction in the vast sea: slow, laborious, needing time before it can complete the turn.

The other side of that, though, is that once the body gets it, it knows how to keep moving steadily in the direction of healing. It demonstrates what a loyal and powerful ally it can be.

Everything we do in our lives is mediated by the body. Ultimately, our deepest thoughts are transmitted by electrical pulses along neurons. A parent’s profound love for a child involves a massive dump of hormones into the endocrine system. Peak spiritual experiences may expand the chest or cause tears to stream down cheeks.

We are in this world, embedded in this physical reality for however long we’re alive. What’s more, we need not delay finding paradise until after death — it’s available to us in the here and now. This is known as a radically realized eschatology. (Eschatology is the theological term for how we understand final things.)

Rev. Dr. Rebecca Parker notes that radically realized eschatology “begins with affirming that we are already standing on holy ground. … Instead of striving to get somewhere else, our goal can be to fully arrive here and greet each day of life with gratitude.” This applies as much to arriving fully in our bodies as in the world.

For years, due to my own trauma history, I spent most of my time away from my body. With time and practice, I started recognizing the signs that I was dissociating: the edges of my vision would grow a little hazy. I’d lose track of what I was saying. My sense of presence turned into a notable absence.

I also learned techniques to come back to myself. I’d wiggle my toes within my shoes, or I’d go around the room noticing objects and their colors: brown table, blue shirt, yellow book. By grounding myself in the here and now, my body became an anchor in my current reality rather than my traumatic past. I came alive rather than merely existing.

I know that this can get tricky when the trauma is still ongoing. But I also know — after decades of hating my body and believing that it had betrayed me — that our bodies are always on our side. They alone remain with us from birth until death. They consistently lean towards healing as best they can, even if they can’t make it to wellness.

Whether or not the spirit is willing, the flesh is not weak. It is the magical machine that makes the human experience possible. We find paradise, Dr. Parker reminds us, through “a profound embrace of this world” — including our own embodiment.

If we can feel at home in this world — truly at home, without any asterisk about our size or disability or anything else — we won’t just benefit from the steadfast gifts of the body. We’ll also have better access to the gratitude, compassion, and peace that keep us connected to all the beauty of this sacred world. May we always remember that we, too, are holy ground.

PHOTO BY MELISSA ASKEW ON UNSPLASH

After the close of Summer,
before the land lies ‘neath snow,
there comes the Magic of Autumn,
when all nature is aglow.

Days grow ever shorter,
harvest time is nigh,
‘tis Mabon now my love,
as the earth breathes a sigh

The Moon doth shine her glory,
reflecting Maiden, Mother, Crone,
the Wiccan Year comes full circle,
like our love which we have shown

So arise my love and come away,
let us sing, feast, and make love,
for Wiccan Mabon is a celebration,
of the Goddess’ bounty from above.

Hello beloveds,

I’m Rev. Aisha Ansano, and I am thrilled to be serving as the new Chair of the Board of The Church of the Larger Fellowship!

You may recognize my name from the last few years. I just completed my first 3-year term on the Board, and I’ve served as the Board liaison to the Nominating Committee during this time. I was also a member of the search team that called our amazing lead ministry team, which was a complete joy.

When I joined the CLF Board 3 years ago, I didn’t know much about the CLF besides a general familiarity. When I got the email from the Nominating Committee, I wasn’t sure if I would say yes—but during the conversation, I got excited for the work that the CLF was doing, and the potential work that could be done. And so I said yes, decided to make a commitment to this congregation, to give my time, energy, and resources to help make it thrive. And I said yes again to serving on the Nominating Committee, because I knew firsthand just how much the conversations had by the nominating committee have a huge impact.

And when the Board was putting together a search team for the new lead ministry of the CLF, even though the task felt daunting, I said yes, again. I said yes because I was excited to be part of the visioning for the next phase of the CLF. I said yes because even though I knew it would be a lot of hard work, I wanted to be part of the conversation to help shape the next chapter of the CLF.

I have not said yes because I think I’m the perfect person for any of these jobs. I’ve said yes because the CLF is important to me, and important to Unitarian Universalism. Even when I’m nervous about taking on a new role, or not sure what to expect, I say yes to service to the CLF over and over again, because the CLF gives me hope for our faith and how it can live into our dreams of what it can be.

A little bit about me: I’m an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister living in Malden, MA, a city north of Boston. I am the affiliated community minister at First Parish in Malden, which means that, while I am not on staff, I serve and support the congregation in other ways. My dream is to plant a dinner church, to create a community where people gather together around the table for worship and a meal, where all are welcomed exactly as they are. The pandemic has put those plans on hold for the moment, but I’ve been lucky to create Nourish UU Dinner Church Consultants with my friend and colleague Rev. Emily Conger. Through Nourish, we help Unitarian Universalist communities create communal, embodied worship experiences through the model of dinner church.

I’m excited to continue to serve the CLF in my new role as Board Chair, and can’t wait to experience what comes next for the CLF,  together.

Yours in faith,
Rev. Aisha

Where in your life have you felt most at home?

We posed the above question in the most recent issue of the Worthy Now newsletter (a biannual newsletter sent to all incarcerated CLF members), and received the responses on the next two pages in response. Thank you all for offering us this window into yourselves and the experiences of your lives through your reflections — we are so grateful.

ROBERT

CLF Member, incarcerated in MA

Home. A small word with big meanings.  They say that, “home is where the heart is,” and I couldn’t agree more. It’s been nine years since I’ve been home, and I feel every day that yearning to return.

Growing up, I never thought I’d have a home to call my own. I had loving parents who provided for me, so there was always a place I could call home, but the fullest meaning of home never fully resonated within me. Since I have autism, I thought that I’d never find someone to love, who could love me. I thought I’d never have kids, be a father, a teacher, a protector.

Then I found her, and it all clicked. It just made sense, felt right, all the way to my core. We had a little one, we got our own place, and another little one was on the way. All was right in the world.

Until it wasn’t. I was torn away from my home. I fought to have the opportunity to go back, but was denied. Separated from them, I was emotionally torn to shreds. The pain is still so great. Now, they are still torn apart, neither of our kids under her care, or even cared for by the same person. Our family of four now lives in four different places.

So I end with this: home is a precious thing. It’s delicate, fragile, nearly ethereal. It is perfect in its imperfections. Never take it for granted, for you never know when your world will be upended, and it will be gone.

KEVIN

CLF member, incarcerated in VA

I feel most at home where I both give and receive respect from those around me. Respect leads to a great deal of appreciation in which accountability is held. This appreciation and accountability from respect can and should lead to honor and loyalty, which combined, should lead to trust. Trust leads to love. With love comes a place that we feel comfortable and safe — an environment we can call home.

This can be anywhere as long as we hold all these things together. We must have courage to make that first step, and hope and faith that it will all lead to a place one can call home — not necessarily a house or a building, but a place of real peace, a sanctuary called home.

In my life, I find this sanctuary with my girlfriend of 37 years, along with my son, mom, sister, and those who have the qualities I’ve described above.

EDWARD

CLF Member, incarcerated in OH

PHOTO BY FLICKR USER ANTHONY VIA FLICKR

This is an easy one to tell. Every year I would make the journey down I-75 to a town called Middlesboro, Kentucky. My travel was always around the fourth of July. It is a tri-state town with neighbors called Tennessee and Virginia. There is a spot that I would go to that is located at the top of a small mountain. The spot is called “the Pinnacle.” It is located about 2,200 or 2,400 feet up the mountain. To get there you drive up a winding road with hairpin turns. Once there, you walk a path that is maybe a hundred yards to my favorite spot, the pinnacle. It is a man-made ledge that stretches about ten feet over the edge of the mountain. Up there you can see all three states. On a very clear day you can even see North Carolina from there. An airport sits off to the right. A man-made lake is in the middle. To the right is the town of Cumberland Gap, Tennessee.

While there, I feel Gaia’s strength flowing through the spot. The view is spectacular. It is a calm and peaceful place where you can talk to God or the Goddess and God, whatever your preference. There is where I feel at home.

TALON

CLF Member, incarcerated in CA

​​Home is such a strong word. For most of my life, I have never really felt at home anywhere. From living with my family, to foster housing, to juvenile hall, to prison, home has been seemingly unattainable for me.

The closest concept of home that I have is when I was 13, in a court-appointed group home for a bad decision I chose to make. It was the first time that I felt truly safe. There was no more violence, abuse, and expectations to be someone that I never really was. I was happy.

My current incarceration is due to another bad string of choices I made. I have spent the last eight years working on myself to create a new me dedicated to helping others and living a productive life. During this process of self-improvement, I have learned that happiness comes from within.

So, I realized that as long as I am happy, home is where you make it. Home is within oneself, and family is who we choose. Despite my incarceration, I am at home, and the CLF is my family.

ERIC

CLF member, incarcerated in TX

PHOTO BY DAVID GAVI ON UNSPLASH

For me, home was never really a place. It has always been more about the people I’ve surrounded myself with. I’ve never had a place to call home, but I’ve felt at home with people who loved me, and in nature, with the full cycle of life. We come from earth, are placed in the bosom of earth, to be reborn again.

I think there is no better place to call home as the place where life begins: in the wild, like our ancestors once had. Not in a building, but a place you can go to rest. One day I’ll have that again.

Some prefer a house or apartment, but for me, home is outside where the wild things roam.

Last semester, in a class on global Christianity at Meadville Lombard, I was reading examples of the early Christians in the Roman Empire taking a stand and becoming martyrs. I was inspired by their resilience and sacrifice as they were being persecuted for their conversion to a new faith. Those who became martyrs could have possibly saved themselves by denying who they were and who they served but decided that it was better to die in faith and in truth than to live in denial and a lie. They were followers of Jesus Christ and followed his example of faith and commitment unto death— his Crucifixion—for they believed that the ultimate sacrifice would yield the ultimate reward—for them, it was everlasting life.

The early Christian martyrs’ sacrifice of their lives made me reflect and think: For what cause would I be willing to risk my life? For what cause would I give up my security, my comfort, my safety? For what are we called to martyrdom now, in this time, and in this place? In my practice, I call upon my ancestors for guidance.

When I do, the spiritual Wade in the Water comes to my mind almost instantly. “Wade in the Water, God’s Gonna Trouble the Water.” But then the Civil Rights Movement comes to mind, and the risks it took to bring about change that was felt globally. By the later years of the Civil Rights Movement, activists began to realize that water had already been troubled. It was no longer about, “God’s Gonna Trouble the Waters,” but that the waters were already troubled, as activists through the years had been rocking the boat of white supremacy and racism through their own successes, through boycotts, through protests, through massive voter registrations, through sit-ins, and through marches, and we saw backlash of against all of them by segregationists and racists, peoples and institutions that did not want to see them succeed.

PHOTO BY JASON LEUNG ON UNSPLASH

As a professor of African American history, I remember lecturing about the Freedom Singers leading those gathered in Black churches, mostly in Alabama and Georgia, with rousing songs to lift up their spirits and get them ready for what they were about to face. These resistance fighters staged many peaceful, nonviolent protests met with fury, violence, and incarceration—like the early Chris tian martyrs. Their songs went from “Wade in the Water” to “Keep Your Eyes on the Prize” to “This May Be the Last Time.” It was the last time for some of them, but the looming threat made them prepare for the inevitable. They may have to give up their lives like the early Christian martyrs.

What about now? In this time and in this place? What kind of lives are we living, bowing down to fear and oppression? For what cause would YOU willingly risk your life? For what cause would you give up your security, your comfort, your safety? For what are we called to martyrdom now, in this time, and in this place?

September 2021

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. –Maya Angelou

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Download this entire Quest Monthly issue as a PDF

GARY
CLF member, incarcerated in NC 

Farlow, Gary 2020-10-16 Artwork – October Walk.

DALE
CLF members, incarcerated in TX

PHOTO BY DENIS DEGIOANNI ON UNSPLASH

Looking at the night sky,
Staring at the galaxy,
Watching the Milky Way swirl.

Pondering things like,
“What is my purpose in life?”
While I’m watching the stars
Coalesces into a ball of fire
Brighter than the sun.

As I watch it forms
the face of God.

Burning white hot,
Igniting my world,
causing my fears and doubts
to flee, clearing my mind
and chasing away the shadows.

Enlightening.
Searing through me from the ashes
A phoenix arises,
stronger than before.

And as I look at the face of God,
I see me.

VYLET
CLF member, incarcerated in FL

Quiet as kept, be slow to speak
The tongue of death is death indeed
Let temperance and virtue be thy speech
Consider silence and still thy feet

Be thou fearless, feel not dismay
For thou art spirit to what is pain
Deep meditation shall make things clear
The weapons of war that thou should fear

Speak no lies, be not the fool
Boomerangs of deception bareth dark rile
If a word be uttered, let freedom reign
Sever the yoke and break every chain

If I be bound, may they be free
If I face danger, let them have peace
If I must die, let them live
Return I shall and with them sing

Divine decrees establish the link
Of things unseen, oh what of faith
This body clad of clay and dust
But I am greater, the creator’s touch

Infused in soil, the morning star
A living soul, the lawful heart
Ponder the path thy foot is upon
Consider the workings thy hands have wrought

Be thou calm in every endeavor
And radiant as the sun
Forever-ever, forever and ever
I and my father are one

What does prayer look/feel/sound like to you?

ROBERT
CLF Member, incarcerated in MA

Little things, big things, anything; people pray for them. From the mundane, like to perhaps hit the lottery, to the serious, like for someone’s life. (Though perhaps, for some, winning the lottery isn’t mundane at all, but a serious need.)

It all cycles around to prayer. A want, a need, a desire, leading to hoping, wishing, possibly even begging, some greater power to hear you, to help you.

Do I pray? Probably not enough. I attend services, I meditate, I take part in my faith, and take it seriously. But praying? In here, it can be hard to do.

PHOTO BY PEDRO LIMA ON UNSPLASH

There’s a mentality that pervades all here: avoid weakness, lest you be preyed upon. To pray, is, in a way, a surrendering yourself to another, to ask for help to do something.

Is that weakness? No, but in here, it can be viewed as such. So that energy hangs in the air, sapping you, putting you on edge.

But when I pray, it, in its way, helps and hurts. That surrendering lifts a weight off of you, it can be an emotional release, a reset of one’s self, an acknowledgment that you can’t do it all on your own, and that everything will, in its time, be okay.

So pray. Not for me (though admittedly I wouldn’t mind), but for you. For your world, big, little, whatever size it is. May it help you.

That is my prayer.

KEVIN
CLF member, incarcerated in VA

We all should know that though the look of prayer could be one on their knees with hands held upright, fingers straight up, palms together, prayer can look many different ways. For me it is often sitting down anywhere — on the ground, in a chair, at a desk or table, with my hands held together. Of course it might be alone, or it could be with someone who needs a prayer more than me, as I say a prayer for them. I pray anywhere, anytime, needed or not, as a way to think about what the situation needs.

If I see a death happened in the news,  I say a prayer for the family for strength, a prayer for the deceased. A flood — I say a prayer for support, goods, rescue. A fire — the same and more, to have shelter along with healing. A nice day with no huge troubles — a prayer of thanks and gratitude, with a prayer for more of these days.

The sound of prayer: it could be noisy, mildly busy with the hum of every day life all around, or it could be complete silence, a prayer said or thought.

The feel: if nervous, anxious, or feeling the weight of the world on one’s shoulders, then a prayer feels like relief. A great feeling of no burdens.

I’ll end with a prayer of thanks and acknowledgment, for the gift of all that prayer is for me.

I love the phrase “praying with our feet.” It often comes to mind for me in protests at the Texas Capitol, when I wait in line to vote, and perhaps most especially every Friday, when I lead my Zumba class, where we pray with our arms, our hips, our everything.

“What is your intention for this hour?” I ask folks Zooming in from around the world. “What are you dancing for today?”

On a recent morning, the answers included, “my 18-year wedding anniversary!” “another job interview,” and “seeing my grandkids again for the first time in COVID.” A woman in College Station, Texas, showed us her wrapped wrist and asked for healing prayers after surgery. A dancer in Canada requested the song “Best Friend” by Saweetie and shared sadness about a friend in hospice care.

We took deep breaths and held each other across the miles. Then we danced — for joy, hope, and grief. For the chance to move together as one, even in a time of isolation.

Happiness ain’t something you sit back and you wait for
Feels so good to dance again”
—Selena Gomez, “Dance Again

Since finding dance nine years ago, it has become my joy practice and a form of embodied prayer. I choose music and choreography to reflect Unitarian Universalist principles like interconnectedness, equity, and acceptance. Moving to the music of Lizzo, Kesha, and Gente de Zona, I am praying to the Spirit of Life — to summon the energy for another day of pandemic parenting, to feel in my hips and heart that I am enough. We are all enough.

Uruguayan journalist and novelist Eduardo Galeano wrote, “The church says: The body is a sin. Science says: The body is a machine. Advertising says: The body is a business. The body says: I am a fiesta.”

As UUs, I hope we can bring church and science into the body’s celebration (and do our best to ignore advertising altogether).

Lately, my own body and spirit have been telling me to slow down. I am feeling the impact of pandemic trauma, plus the natural effects of aging (and a decade of jumping up and down to Pitbull songs).

Thankfully, Zumba can be medium-impact or low, on your feet or in a chair or swimming pool. Sometimes just listening to the playlist is enough. When I forego a high-impact jump in favor of a grounded shimmy to protect my back, I am not failing my class — whose members range in age from elementary school to their 80s — but honoring the sacredness of all bodies.

PHOTO BY DYLAN NOLTE ON UNSPLASH

Similarly, when my brain is tired and I forget a move, I try not to apologize (as I have been conditioned to do for the most human of mistakes). Even though I feel embarrassed on the inside, I throw my head back and laugh, improvising through the moments Richard Simmons used to call “accidental solos.” I remember that we are called to let go of perfectionism — a piece of dismantling white supremacy culture in ourselves and our institutions. I remind myself that we need these moments, to dance through discomfort and even embrace mistakes, having faith we will learn from them.

I remember the wise words of Cynthia Winton-Henry in her book, Dance – The Sacred Art: “As much as you might want a ‘perfect’ spot in which to dance, it is really the other way around: You make the space around you holy when you dance.”